first step

when he looks at a woman he searches for qualities that attract him because he wants to desire her yet this tendency creates an imbalance or disadvantage he is rendered weak to a woman’s beauty or whatever traits he idealizes self-realizing this propensity he looks away from women years of disappointment neglect change him he becomes afraid of women gynophobic

2

when she looks at a man she searches for qualities she is critical of because she wants to be impervious to his power she is suspicious of all men their upper body strength penchant to be in control misperception of women as property misogyny emotional immaturity neediness to be mommyed selfishness insensitivity or over-sensitivity depending she wants to be treated with equal respect a loving nurturing relationship she is suspicious of all people their alternate realities passive aggressive behavior co-dependence craziness

3

he sees her then looks away she suspiciously notices nothing happens they go back to their separate homes alone always home alone grown calm in resignation yet disbelieving of this destiny saddened by this fate both worry about future she looks at her face naked body in mirror her stomach churns feels sad sickening remembers time when she was more carefree he puts one foot in front of other then walks tries to remember who taught him to walk how many times did he fall who taught him to laugh where did his sense of humor go

4

he sees her thinks she is lovely resists the urge to turn away he smiles says hello she notices nervously smiles her shaky voice articulates louder than a whisper hi

Tucson 2-step

they are standing in line at a café on 4th avenue he is directly behind her she is lanky wearing white background faded colors patterned summer dress thin straps over bare shoulders long brown hair few gray strands small unfinished tattoo on left calf leather slip-ons 1 inch heals he is at a complete loss for words thinks to make remark about the weather decides not to overhead fan stirs hot humid July air barista girl asks what she would like her eyes scan blackboard menu behind counter she hesitates remarks help him i need an extra moment to decide he steps up to counter money in hand orders small to go Arnold Palmer half black current lays $3 on counter mentions change goes in tip jar thank you barista girl moves fast he lifts cup from counter glances at woman still deciding then at barista girl says have a wonderful day turns walks out door dawns on him woman grows hair under her arms his 2nd most compelling female physique adornment fetish oh god he thinks to himself should i wait for her to make up her mind then approach try to craft conversation at least find out her name no i’m too weak in this moment she is so lovely let her go

2

she orders double Americana in small cup to go room for soy milk thinks to herself he did greet her perhaps their paths will cross on street why did he run off so fast she glances toward front of café notices window seat changes her mind instructs barista ******* 2nd thought make it for here digs through purse realizes she left wallet in truck explains to barista girl she needs to run out to her vehicle to retrieve wallet forgotten under front seat the air on the street is heavy dense she smells her own perspiration looks north then south does not see him walks to truck feels exhausted appetiteless almost nauseous wishes she did not order a drink thinks to get behind wheel drive home go to sleep

Tucson 3-step tango

she feels disappointment by her recent writings as if she is reaching a more sophisticated audience and setting a higher standard for her work yet she is not living up to her ambitions her recent writings smell of her past writings too emotional the damaged woman wounded child she wants to write more introspectively with detached humor that only comes from keener intelligence she slams her laptop shut decides to go to Club Congress for a ****** mary or margarita but Club Congress is haunted with small town cretins losers wannabes she considers Maynard’s decides Maynard’s is too safe suburban yuppyish finally gives in to thought of glass of pinot noir at Plush next comes what to wear jeans in mid-July desert heat is unacceptable perhaps loose fitting thin cotton white summer dress thin leather belt ankle high indian moccasins hair in ponytail no pigtail braids no ponytail no makeup maybe little ylang ylang oil no she thinks about her recent writings

2

i am one breath away from crying in every moment one breath away from flying m.i.a. in every moment one breath away from destroying everything there is beauty in ugliness beauty in decrepitude disease beauty in harm hurt suffering beauty in greed injustice betrayal beauty in corruption contamination pollution beauty in hate cruelty ignorance beauty in death we spend our whole lives searching for a good death we spend our whole lives searching for eternal love this modern world is too much for me over my head the horrors of this place are beyond words unspeakable voice inside maybe mom yells quit your whining or dad hollers stop complaining i am trying to smile through tears one breath away from giving in one breath away from becoming stranger to myself winter spring winter spring there is beauty in nothingness we spend our whole lives searching for ourselves learning who we are not finding grasping secrets from dark paths light trails winter spring winter spring i am one breath away

3

she sits alone at bar at Plush glass of pinot noir glass of ice water in front of her 2 bearded older men eye her from other end of bar she ignores them glances at her wristwatch tries to look like she is waiting for someone music from speakers antiquated rock standard it is early friday hours from dusk moderate middle aged crowd mingle wait for local jazz trio to begin she thinks about her recent writings wonders is it too late for love considers lesbian affair from 5 different perspectives 5 woman’s voices each describing same lesbian affair in 5 opposing accounts hmmm she sips dark red wine from glass chases it with ice water she considers a story about a gang of female bikers who ride south to Mexico

4

the Americans came through here last night crossing border illegally climbing over our fences digging tunnels beneath our barrier walls littering along their trail they travel in packs of every skin color carry guns knives explosives wear leather boots some are shirtless tattoos dyed hair mischievously smiling conceitedly stealing when in question murdering they rob our homes slaughter our chickens ransack gardens loot our harvest you can still smell the stink of their fast food breaths

5

she swallows the last dark red wine from glass chases it with ice water local jazz trio begins to play as bar fills with more people she decides to walk home one foot in front of other wonders who taught her how to walk how many times did she fall she laughs to herself

Tucson square dance

TPD 10-18 unconfirmed data report

7 post-University of Arizona female graduates go to Cactus Moon for several drinks and dancing then drive to Bashful Bandit for more drinks and dancing 2 women get into scuffle victim Brittany Garner female 23 years of age race #5 (Native American, Eskimo, Middle -Eastern, Other) 5’ 2” long black hair cut-off blue jean shorts clingy light blue top falls hits head on side of bar dies of fatal blow to skull forensics report crushed occipital lobe assailant Stacy Won female 31 years of age race #4 (Asian) 5’6” black jeans black leather jacket red helmet Honda motorcycle still at large

witness accounts

Jess Delaney female 33 years of age race #2 (White) 6’ tight black pencil skirt white sleeveless undershirt no bra 3” heels blond ponytail “that squirting little **** deserves everything she got she lied told Stacy i’m a ***** i never cheated on Brittany i don’t understand we were all having a good time getting buzzed and dancing we should never have left Cactus Moon **** Kerrie thought some biker dude might be hanging around the Bandit hell maybe the Bandit was a biker bar once but now it’s just a college sink hole full of drunken frat boys when Monique flashed a little *** they went crazy cheering and buying us shots it just got out of hand never should have happened the way it happened Stacy didn’t mean to **** Brittany it’s ****** up i want to go home please let me go home”

Sabrina Starn female 29 years of age race #2 (White) 5’8” trendy corporate gray suit black pumps red shoulder length hair “i have to be at work at 8 AM Stacy was drunk out of control she gets crazy when she drinks Brittany was trash talking pushing all Stacy’s buttons then Stacy accused Brittany of sleeping with Monique and all hell broke loose i didn’t see what happened i was in the powder room it’s a terrible tragedy unfortunate accident can i please be released i need to sleep this is madness”

Kerrie Angeles female 27 years of age race #1 (Hispanic) 5’ 6” black pants white shirt black hair cut stylishly short silver crucifix around neck red fingernails “when we got to the Bashful Bandit i was ***** soaking between my legs thinking about a cowgirl at Cactus Moon ready to **** anyone i saw fantasized pulling a train with those frat boys Monique had been kind of quiet at Cactus Moon but when we got to the Bashful Bandit she lit up dancing wild unbuttoning her top jacket Sabrina went to the ladies room to snort coke with biker dude Kerrie wanted but he wasn’t into her then Brittany started saying crazy stuff accusing Stacy of stealing Monique from Jess Jessie goes through women heartlessly she doesn’t give a **** about Monique Jessie knows if she wants Monique back she can simply fiddle a finger my guess is Stacy is half way to Argentina she never meant to **** Brittany i’m going to miss her real bad she was a good kid”

Ann Skyler female 28 years of age race  #2 (White) 4’ 11’’ green white red Mexican peasant skirt black t-shirt black high-tops hair in messy bun “i’m confused i saw them dancing laughing grinding up against each other Rage Against the Machine came on then Nine Inch Nails the room felt quaking dizzy claustrophobic then they were pushing each other shoving yelling frat boys cheering the next thing i knew Brittany was supine on the floor blood pouring out maybe she just slipped hit her head i don’t know what to think i feel real sad confused sick to my stomach scared”

Monique Smithson female 24 years of age race # 3 (Black) 5’ 9” blue jeans jean jacket cowboy boots nose ring braided pigtails “Stacy had it in for Brittany from the start i saw it in her eyes at Cactus Moon she made several clever toxic remarks they snapped at each other i never thought it would escalate to ****** poor sweet Brittany was always so susceptible i was looking down adjusting my jeans over my boots when it happened i heard felt a big thump glanced up Brittany was lying there lifeless blood spilling everywhere Stacy ran out fast i heard her bike engine take off in a hurry”

Rodeo Drive Tucson

matt’s hats tom’s tools & tobacco lou’s liquors fred’s beds frank’s planks bill’s drills jane’s drains & panes chuck’s check cashing cheryl’s barrels hank’s tanks tina’s trucks & tractors walt’s asphalt sean’s pawn rick’s rifles mom’s guns terry’s tires charlie’s harleys rhonda’s hondas jim’s rims art’s parts gus’s gasoline mike’s bikes frank’s feed gwen’s pens ann’s cans nancy’s nursery joes‘s clothes jess’s dresses bert’s skirts steve’s sleeves paul’s shawls michelle’s shells & bells al’s pails & snails sam’s hams & jams patty’s pancakes phil’s chili don’s donuts betty’s spaghetti bob’s burgers alycia’s quiches jean’s beans jerry’s berries anna’s bananas andy’s candies cathy’s taffies tony’s ponies roy’s toys kim’s whims marty’s parties jill’s pills rick’s tricks alice’s palace debbie’s disposal dave’s graves

Quinta Waltz de Tucson

she is definitely displeased profoundly disappointed in her latest literary efforts she dreams aches to create deeper discourse higher insight more thoughtful philosophical inquiries about life’s challenges beauty a better world overpowering love inspiration instead she writes paperback television trash stupid inadequate answers to solemn questions she wonders if she is too scratched dented to find love her ******* are definitely changing she is deeply disturbed not ready for menopause too young for menopause she wants to remain a fertile woman with smooth skin wet ******

2

her neighbor Leslie awoke to horrible morning Leslie’s 6 chickens were assaulted overnight precious Mabel dragged off feathers everywhere trail down the street other hens cowering slumped together with wilted necks 3 of them with puncture wounds Leslie carried them one by one inside washed their wounds hugged them cried who did this terrible act a neglected abusive neighborhood cat or some desert predator why didn’t Leslie wake to sounds of savage marauding now this creature knows hen’s whereabouts when will it return for more massacre what modifications need to be enforced to ensure their coup before nightfall

3

she wants to remain a hen keep producing eggs does not want is not ready to enter the next **** stage of this **** existence it was fun being pretty for men inspiring them to say do whacky things she wants to remain a hen she is definitely displeased profoundly disappointed in her latest literary attempts “Tucson square dance” (self-referential) ****** bit about Americans came through here last night in “Tucson 3-step” ****** "Rodeo Drive" tepid perhaps the pinot noir lowered her standards everything is becoming nothing she cannot sleep tosses turns thrashes sheets in humid heat of her lonesome bed is she is too scratched dented to find love she worries for Leslie

4

tomorrow is another day they say the rain will come last year’s monsoon never came the baking sun smothered her garden died one by one sleepless she will miss tomorrow’s pilates class the infrequent delightful chatty breakfast afterwards she dreams aches of deeper discourse higher insight with detached humor that only comes from keener intelligence more thoughtful philosophical inquiries about life’s challenges beauty a better world overpowering love inspiration she crossed the line tonight her ******* are definitely changing

Tucson 666

he decides to shave eighth to quarter inch length salt and pepper beard a.k.a. unshaven look he has worn for years and grow full mustache the whiskers on his upper lip are darker with sparse gray at first no one notices after weeks the mustache gradually fills evoking many contrasting remarks several women loath it several men admire it girl at grocery store suggests he grow Fu Manchu so she can tug on it shopgirl says he looks like Charlie Chaplin downstairs neighbor from Turkey explains most Turkish men traditionally wear mustaches he read mustaches masculinize and empower men especially men in authoritative positions he thinks back to the 1960’s when many hippie males grew mustaches then in the 70’s gay men fashioned mustaches then in the 80’s cops adopted mustaches he wonders why a swatch of hair beneath nose is so provoking examines his visage in mirror discerns the mustache confers a Pepé le Pew quality or European accent to his appearance he remembers when he was young hippie with many amorous episodes how his mustache preserved the scent of a woman but there are no women in his life for many years do post-menopausal women possess scent? he feels indecisive whether to retain it or be rid of it

2

she observes her figure in mirror thinks to herself maybe her ******* are not changing perhaps it’s all in her head she inspects the little lines forming near her eyelids studies her features for signs of aging hardly any silver strands in long brown hair she examines neck ******* arms elbows fingers tummy hips pelvic region thighs knees shins calves ankles feet detects subtle changes thinks to herself my ******* are possibly slightly changing turned 40 in March married briefly in late teens no children a 15 year old dog beginning to suffer veterinarian promises to warn her when the time comes she wonders why it is so difficult finding fitting mate men sleep with her several times then move on maybe she is not such a great lover perhaps she would be better if one of them stuck around perhaps she is a lesbian the whole ide

For this years Thanksgiving, I have decided to focus on developing a sense of gratitude. The world is full of real bad stuff happening to too many people and its easy to let the darkness of our times cast long shadows of resentment, anger and ill will over our outlook on life. So today as I travel to a relatives home to gather for our national day of thankfulness I choose to leave resentments at home and cultivate a sense of gratitude.

I’m grateful for my eyes. My sight allows me to perceive the million graces The Almighty abundantly confers upon the inhabitants of the good earth each and every day. My eyes help me to discover the pressing needs of others and respond to it. My eyes help me to discern light from darkness, distinguish the forest from the trees and eschew pedestrian views to behold a beautiful vista. My eyes are a pathway to my soul moving me to contemplate the good, forsake the bad and move against evil in service to truth.

I’m grateful for my ears. The grace of hearing permits me to listen. My ears alert me to the cries of my brothers and sisters and enables me to understand our shared human condition. My ears tune my spirit to the chords of exquisite music and the natural symphonies of Mother Earth’s angelic chorus of singing birds, heaving oceans, the majestic pause of silent mountains and the fleeting rush of the swelling wind are all divine voices singing the joyful hymns of life.

I’m thankful for my sense of smell. Graciously my nose breathes in the inviting aroma of a lovingly prepared home cooked meal, the wholesome scent of baking bread wafting from the door of the corner bakery, a briny snort from the boundless sea, the rich compost of the deep woods after a soft summer rain, the bouquet of an infants hair and the perfume of a lovers embrace.

I give thanks for my ability to touch. Hands engaged in productive work and gainful employment is a blessing absent from too many Thanksgiving Day tables this year. We yearn to connect and the sense of touch invites our ability to feel. Feeling is the father of empathy and the mother of compassion. Caring for our animal friends we live in communion with all sentient beings.  As we touch one another and allow others to touch us; the hardest of hearts is softened, the most grievous wounds are healed to liberate the sensual yearnings dwelling in the deepest recesses of ourselves. Feeling allows us to become fully present, fully aware and fully alive in the celebration of what it means to be fully human.

I’m thankful for my sense of taste. As Sinatra croons “from the brim to the dregs” the wine of our lives may not all taste good but it all flows clear and true. Sample, savor and learn. Taste and see the glories of the Lord’s banquet so abundantly placed before us. The bitter herbs, the sweet cakes, the leisure repast, the fortifying meal and unrequited hunger is the daily bread of being human.  Pause to consider those that are lining up for the tenth Thanksgiving Day meal in Afghanistan and Iraq and pray that the awful rations of war fed to our young soldiers be supplanted with the good manna of peace.

Perhaps we loose our sense of gratitude because expectations of ourselves and others always seems to come up short of the mark. Imperfection is our most endearing quality. It informs our ability to forgive transgressions, form bonds of friendship and unconditionally love each other. I remain grateful for the sense of my imperfection as I overlook your imperfections and remain ever hopeful that you  will extend your hand to help me overcome mine.

Happy Thanksgiving.

You Tube Video: Jean Ritchie, Shady Grove

he decides to shave eighth to quarter inch length salt and pepper beard a.k.a. unshaven look he has worn for years and grow full mustache the whiskers on his upper lip are darker with sparse gray at first no one notices after weeks the mustache gradually fills evoking many contrasting remarks several women loath it several men admire it girl at grocery store suggests he grow Fu Manchu so she can tug on it shopgirl said he looked like Charlie Chaplin his downstairs neighbor from Turkey explains most Turkish men traditionally wear mustaches he read mustaches masculinize and empower men especially men in authoritative positions he thinks back to the 1960’s when many hippie males grew mustaches then in the 70’s gay men fashioned mustaches then in the 80’s cops adopted mustaches he wonders why a swatch of hair beneath nose is so provoking examines his visage in mirror discerns the mustache confers a Pepé le Pew quality or European accent to his appearance  he remembers when he was young hippie with many amorous episodes how his mustache preserved the scent of a woman but there are no women in his life for many years do post-menopausal women possess scent? he feels indecisive whether to retain it or be rid of it

2

she observes her figure in the mirror thinks to herself maybe her ******* are not changing perhaps it’s all in her head she inspects the little lines forming near her eyelids studies her features for signs of aging hardly any silver strands in brown hair cut to shoulders she examines neck ******* arms elbows fingers tummy hips pelvic region thighs knees shins calves ankles feet detects subtle changes thinks to herself my ******* are possibly slightly changing turned 40 in March married briefly in late teens no children a 15 year old dog beginning to suffer veterinarian promises to warn her when the time comes she wonders why it is so difficult finding fitting mate men sleep with her several times then move on maybe she is not such a great lover perhaps she would be better if one of them stuck around perhaps she is a lesbian the whole idea of finding someone is absolutely draining

3

they do not see each other walk right passed she in a hurry late to yoga matt slung across back handbag slung on shoulder wallet forgotten under front seat in truck he is distracted in thought wondering is he afraid of women gynophobic the air on the street is heavy dense he smells his own perspiration feels exhausted appetiteless almost nauseous they each simultaneously consider what if i lived in New York City or Chicago what is it about Tucson its small town politics gooniness poverty criminality amateurish dramas hour to Mexican border both wonder is Tucson the problem would i find a fitting lover more freely with less difficulty in some other place

We give thanks for all who have
enriched our lives with their presence;
may we honor them
by always being present for others.

We give thanks for those who
selflessly serve in our armed forces,
for the quiet sacrifices
of their family and friends
and for those who witness for peace
and work to end the conflicts of war.

We are thankful for the tears of the poor
and their example of fortitude
in the daily struggle to live
and for those that extend a hand
and offer a vision of hope
and a pathway to advancement.

We are thankful for our rich abundance
and the blessed spirit that leads us
to generously share it with others.

We are thankful for wise thoughtful teachers
and students that are eager
to use that wisdom to better the world.

We are thankful for courageous truth tellers
and the hard truths they speak
and to people of good will that are open
and willing to listen and act on those truths.

We are thankful for the care givers
and their veneration of life
and to those who receive care
and fill the heart of the giver
with fathomless gratitude.

We are thankful for people
of humility and good will
and their blessed example
of quiet service and grace.

We are thankful for children
as an embodiment of our hopes
and the future flowering
of our greatest aspirations.

We are thankful for
our animal friends
and their example
of trusted companionship
and unconditional love.

We are thankful for sobriety
and our ability to discern,
see, discover and experience
the daily grace life confers upon us.

We are thankful for those
who are no longer with us,
may our time on earth be
a blessing to others
as they were to us.

We are thankful to
a higher power
that keeps us right sized,
humble and grateful for
one more day on life's path.

Selah

Wishing All the Beloved
a Happy Thanksgiving

Peace and Prayers

Music Selection:
Shirley Horn, Here's To Life

Oakland
11/25/09
jbm

i am a poet and still
i can’t comprehend these symbols
these missing heartbeats
and hours spent counting thimbles
i am perplexed by love
shall we seek herbs and remedies
lose ourselves in cures and compounds
must our inner territories be colonized
while we remain captivated by inconvenient theories
struck down by doubt and insecurity
the mind wields no ammunition
and yet its cavalry has desecrated the land
without the slightest sign of inhibition
or a trace of empathy, justice or compassion
will we make a new peace treaty
will the blessed earth be forgiven
and can the sweet essence of her children
comprehend the innocence of spring
oh how our hearts yearn for dancing
still you spend your dollars and your pennies
but give your emptiness to the king
i eat oats and honey cooked upon the fire
while you distill golden nectar from the garden of desire
in the ancient inside-out alembic of your will
and imbibe spagyric liquid that eradicates all pride
and confers wisdom, truth, beauty and longevity
upon the already immortal nature of your mind

We give thanks for all who have
enriched our lives with their presence;
may we honor them
by always being present for others.

We give thanks for those who
selflessly serve in our armed forces,
for the quiet sacrifices
of their family and friends
and for those who witness for peace
and work to end the conflicts of war.

We are thankful for the tears of the poor
and their example of fortitude
in the daily struggle to live
and for those that extend a hand
and offer a vision of hope
and a pathway to advancement.

We are thankful for our rich abundance
and the blessed spirit that leads us
to generously share it with others.

We are thankful for wise thoughtful teachers
and students that are eager
to use that wisdom to better the world.

We are thankful for courageous truth tellers
and the hard truths they speak
and to people of good will that are open
and willing to listen and act on those truths.

We are thankful for the care givers
and their veneration of life
and to those who receive care
and fill the heart of the giver
with fathomless gratitude.

We are thankful for people
of humility and good will
and their blessed example
of quiet service and grace.

We are thankful for children
as an embodiment of our hopes
and the future flowering
of our greatest aspirations.

We are thankful for
our animal friends
and their example
of trusted companionship
and unconditional love.

We are thankful for sobriety
and our ability to discern,
see, discover and experience
the daily grace life confers upon us.

We are thankful for those
who are no longer with us,
may our time on earth be
a blessing to others
as they were to us.

We are thankful to
a higher power
that keeps us right sized,
humble and grateful for
one more day on life's path.

Selah

Wishing All the Beloved
a Happy Thanksgiving

Peace and Prayers

Music Selection:
Shirley Horn, Here's To Life

Oakland
11/25/09
jbm

Speak of the arrows which collapse unfaded through the gates of gated gratuities
Expansive perpetuity
Leading to the loose leaf paper falling from empty trees in the dead of an autumnal night
Moonlight,
Clouded contact lenses

Mills billowing, malls bellowing
"Open for busy-ness! Open for busy-ness!"

Unzipping jackets with a smile that says
"From the ends of endings, I have always begun with an eternal grin while you slept on my knees and I dreamed of things smaller than the precipice of the period at the end of this sentence."

This never loved that
And that never loved this
Because they soon discovered 'This' was not this, and 'That' was not that
They were all There together, and discovered an 8 kicked sideways was an honesty beyond promises
And angrily, I remember wondering what had ever come over the all of us that wanted nothing more to do with anger

Had we stormed off in all directions, reading to seek in veins for a blood that was unfounded in the deadly hallows of happy mathematics?
Or were we simply throwing words together in the hopes of sounding surreal?

Sometimes I feel psuedo when I write, when I know I'm quite as real as anyone else.
I just need to struggle with the words more honestly, I suppose.

Perhaps I need to struggle more honestly with myself.
As Kerouac said,
“My whole wretched life swam before my weary eyes, and I realized no matter what you do it's bound to be a waste of time in the end so you might as well go mad.”

I need to go mad.

I need to quit my job and be here and all over here without a worry for the ideas
Yesterday, tomorrow
It is only ever today.

It doesn't need to make sense. It doesn't need to oblige my mother and father with a proper philosophical argument as to why I want to be here, because all they've ever been is 'there,' with the best intentions at heart I know, but without ever coming back down to Earth and letting their worries waft away like the smell of fresh, metallic rain during the Ides of March.

They failed the exam of the lilies which did not accept the parental "this is the way it is."
It is only the way it is because we are too cowardly to endorse our wildest dreams.

We do not wish upon stars, and if we do, it is because we wish upon those stars to help us get out of there, when all we have to do to escape there is to be here like a sudden clash of thunder upon a bobby-pin that has been pricked into the arm out of an innocent curiosity which all the There-Afters would call strange, while the Here-Nows would smile and nod at such beautiful sincerity.

At such pristine reality.

All the logical arguments my father confers upon me during our Grand Cosmic Debates always feel gently serious. He does not wish to convert me, nor to convince me.

He simply tries to pull me gently back into his reality, which sits reinforced by the rest of the global nay-sayers and There-Afters.

Why is it that my parents never had the courage to go mad?

Why was it nothing but a literary curiosity to them?

Why do they still continue to believe that one cannot simply run off into the sunset with a cosmic sense of reckless abandon?


The human race is nothing but a grand conviction.
The words themselves look to say, "Now, here here young one! You are a part of our great label. You owe us. We have been measuring since the day of your birth."
It's like we are born, and hopped through hoops until satisfaction meets the empty stomach to tell it that it must be full. So we struggle to fill, but it always becomes empty again. We seek to devour and consume and listen to the creased minds of our parents as they confer to us their common notion of sense which truly senses nothing beyond nonsense.

All of this makes me feel like I'm jogging on a sidewalk of soap.

And I'm sleepy.

We all work too hard, even when we're not at work.

We feel the affluenzic pull of occupation.

Not because we occupy our occupations,
but because our occupations occupy us.

I am a Cosmic Hobbyist

For the infinite round of nowever and always again.

A gift confers no rights.
Is it not to be given freely?
How does one love anything
without seeing it clearly?
Those rosey lenses you wear
while looking my way,
will break when the morning comes
and I have nothing left to say.
It isn't the lenses' fault
or the the changing view.
The fault of displeasure
lies solely on you.

This year I have decided to focus on developing a sense of gratitude. The world is full of real bad stuff happening to too many people and its easy to let the darkness of our times cast long shadows of resentment, anger and ill will over our outlook on life. So today as I travel to a relatives home to gather for our national day of thankfulness I choose to leave resentments at home and cultivate a sense of gratitude.

I'm grateful for my eyes. My sight allows me to perceive the million graces The Almighty abundantly confers upon the inhabitants of the good earth each and every day. My eyes help me to discover the pressing needs of others and respond to it. My eyes help me to discern light from darkness, distinguish the forest from the trees and eschew pedestrian views to behold a beautiful vista. My eyes are a pathway to my soul moving me to contemplate the good, forsake the bad and move against evil in service to truth.

I'm grateful for my ears. The grace of hearing permits me to listen. My ears alert me to the cries of my brothers and sisters and enables me to understand our shared human condition. My ears tune my spirit to the chords of exquisite music and the natural symphonies of Mother Earth's angelic chorus of singing birds, heaving oceans, the majestic pause of silent mountains and the fleeting rush of the swelling wind are all divine voices singing the joyful hymns of life.

I'm thankful for my sense of smell. Graciously my nose breathes in the inviting aroma of a lovingly prepared home cooked meal, the wholesome scent of baking bread wafting from the door of the corner bakery, a briny snort from the boundless sea, the rich compost of the deep woods after a soft summer rain, the bouquet of an infants hair and the perfume of a lovers embrace.

I give thanks for my ability to touch. Hands engaged in productive work and gainful employment is a blessing absent from too many Thanksgiving Day tables this year. We yearn to connect and the sense of touch invites our ability to feel. Feeling is the father of empathy and the mother of compassion. Caring for our animal friends we live in communion with all sentient beings. As we touch one another and allow others to touch us; the hardest of hearts is softened, the most grievous wounds are healed to liberate the sensual yearnings dwelling in the deepest recesses of ourselves. Feeling allows us to become fully present, fully aware and fully alive in the celebration of what it means to be fully human.

I'm thankful for my sense of taste. As Sinatra croons "from the brim to the dregs" the wine of our lives may not all taste good but it all flows clear and true. Sample, savor and learn. Taste and see the glories of the Lord's banquet so abundantly placed before us. The bitter herbs, the sweet cakes, the leisure repast, the fortifying meal and unrequited hunger is the daily bread of being human. Pause to consider those that are lining up for the tenth Thanksgiving Day meal in Afghanistan and Iraq and pray that the awful rations of war fed to our young soldiers be supplanted with the good manna of peace.

Perhaps we loose our sense of gratitude because expectations of ourselves and others always seems to come up short of the mark. Imperfection is our most endearing quality. It informs our ability to forgive transgressions, form bonds of friendship and unconditionally love each other. I remain grateful for the sense of my imperfection as I overlook your imperfections and remain ever hopeful that you will learn to love me for mine.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Music Selection: Jean Ritchie, Shady Grove

Oakland
11/25/10
jbm

The normal way of life is such:
          the old give way to young.
To understand does not take much,
          explained in simple tongue:
Adults that love do procreate.
Their selves they form and replicate,
          continuing the song which they have sung.

The first into the world are first
          to leave the world behind.
They dry and shrivel in their thirst,
          are ground to dust and rind.
They find their solace in their spawn,
inside whose flesh they carry on
          their signatures, in place of their old mind.

The next await their counted turn,
          with shovel at the hand;
enjoy the lives which must adjourn
          into the unseen land.
Then find a mate to spawn their own,
before their own flesh from the bone
          departs into the dryness of the sand.

Yet once upon a blood red moon,
          the normalcy defers.
The next in line depart too soon,
          in snares of life's dark lures.
The first must intern on the shelves
of crypts the flesh that holds their selves,
          and taste what to the next this life confers.


(C)2014, Christos Rigakos

During the day and all night long
I am hearing a very peculiar song.

There's unstruck music much like an infinite melody
resonating inside my head; an enchanting symphony.

It has no real tune or beat which one can recognise
only by hearing it then as all else is a compromise.

In silence and solitude it's usually heard without end
an invisible companion and sweetly sounding friend.

If one is listening intently and endeavours to get to its source,
can hear one finer sound inside another, which is not by force.

Who can rightly say from where it comes and where it does go?  
perhaps only a true mystic has the knowledge or ability to show.

With practical wisdom and a clear spiritual insight
by his grace and advice can lead one into the light.

Until, at last, reaching that inclusive shore of infinite silence
which the experience of there being is a permanent abidance.

Could this be the long lost legendary music of the spheres?
that few people of times past underwent the trouble to hear.

And when it’s continually heard confers many an untold blessing
the likes of which most people now would not even be guessing.

Absorbed by the dreary remains
Of a web of circumstance,
You fumbled in the dark for a door,
An exit strategy.

Whether "can't" or "won't", it's clear you don't understand these tears -
Well, each tells a story of its own:
This one's for best, but never enough -
That one's for brightest, but never on show.

It's a sorry series of unfortunate events,
A spidery path of ups and downs.
Reflective to sensitive others,
They remain opaque to you.

Then the world collaborates,
Confers and corroborates.
The domino network forms a chain,
A bridge to distant decisions.

So long a life donated to the service of man,
Thinking the weight of the world
Rests on two shoulders.
Now, finally. A man. Donated to life.

Although I too have forgotten my lines
today's celluloid seems to be shedding its script
the raw talent confers a lack of oomph.
Only my projection screen follows perfection.
I'm caught in a nitrate web,
with partaken beauty firing
my basement dreams,
onward choices amongst Colleen Moore
and Blanche Sweet
testifies professionalism spoke eloquently without words

Enter the Dragon

Black trouble enters your world and circumstances in whatever form it primary purpose is to assail to
Become this worse than dark energy that forms a cloud and in its throes you are caused to walk in
Confusion clarity and true vision are suspended in the moment the light of possibility the power of
Consideration is demoralized all that you thought before with insight and wisdom has been driven to
The far borders of the mind try as you might they remain distant the sharp keenness that cut through
Messy and tangled thoughts fell from your hand into the darkness try as you may feeling around your
Feet nothing but empty will be found stop falling further into the trap your help and deliverance is in
your ability to Cast you mind backwards has the dragon gone no but he is in a definable dimension one
important thing
Has happened before I tell you I could say tell jokes cry run even those work but they still have you on
Defense casting your mind backwards breaks the grip gives you the upper hand while writing about
Hands do this literally or in your mind reach out and take the hand of a small child instant peace
Innocence passes to your mind a sea change big steel machines large cold buildings are now wagons
Cuddly toes a child picks one up and seems to automatically brighten and smile and giggle buildings
Are fair castles with fun loving kings and knights that are shiny and bright they do the bidding of the king
And they have slain their fair amount of dragons you are now too in a land without peril no weapon has
Been formed that can long battle truth and stalwartness and too you have entered through times
Portal when you again were at odds with life but in that instance you struggled and prevailed the dark
Dragon depends on the suspected the illusion that he has tossed into your mind you are supposed to be
helpless why fight its hopeless when he sees the light coming to your eyes as you are back there where you stepped from poverty to the rich
Knowledge you were made to be a winner your kingdom holds forth truths and facts that are common
With children your hard edge blocked out the very thoughts that were racing to your rescue we fret
Unduly in the brightest sun light its invigorating rays make us strong the enemy confers us to look at the
Dark where subtle twists and turns speak with meanings that are to be subterfuge while all the while his
Superiority is to be believed as strong and unbreakable what victory rules when adults deny the
Strongholds where faith and truth and love were not expedients in life but the power source unalterable
Unerring they dislodged the erroneous the audacity that someone less than He that is Holy could come
and long rule over the very children of God what lunacy step up march you have a birthright that gleams
to the end of time and then only grows brighter never kneel before trouble stand up march toward it
the coward behind it will flee

Come, we have a guest room
where you can recline with your servant king.
He will bathe your sore, dusty feet;
and you can rest.

Come, commune; join his other friends
and together break bread,
give thanks, sing hymns
and toast the coming Kingdom.

Come to the table with honest hearts.
Come, and in his presence find mercy,
find forgiveness and new purpose.

Come, celebrate the covenant
that confers on us a Kingdom,
bought by the blood
of the one who came to serve.

Do this in remembrance.
Do this with eagerness.
And when you pray say,
'Thy Kingdom Come'.

Losing
is better than winning
you acquire humility

Losing
your egoism
sets you free

Losing your pride
lends you
acceptability

Letting go
of your temper
gives you tranquillity

Losing
your selfishness
confers charity

Losing
your greed
your prize is being content and happy

Ridding yourself
of bad habits
you gain mastery

Losing
is a word to be watched
it will save you from a lot of misery

"...if a way to the Better there be, it lies in taking a full look at the Worst." — Thomas Hardy

Union desires the ideal.
The ideal, being untenable, victimizes the real.
The real as victim is melancholia.
Melancholia, then, is the loss of the ideal.
The ideal, never being real, is the phantom,
The phantom that confers melancholia.
Lay the phantom? O, Buddhahood
In The Land of Ubiquitous Technology and Reason,
You yourself are now the phantom —
Laying the phantom becomes the phantom.

The way we describe love-pain – it’s all wrong. An injured heart doesn’t shatter, like volcanic obsidian. It grows, like lava. Under pressure, it becomes heavy and dense and hot.

The weight of an injured heart anchors us to the earth. The mass confers upon us visibility to others. The heat draws creatures to our side. Love-pain connects us, even as we feel we must hide. Love-pain is lava; it changes the landscape as it burns. An injured heart is not weak and brittle. It is the rawest Earth; it is furious creation.

A human heart becomes obsidian only upon death, when the body cools and stills. All we leave behind, in the tumbling soil, is the black mirror, through which those that follow us divine their future love.

The white banks have risen high.
The smoky powder fills the sky.

Blooms of consciousness are frozen still.
Consequences of dying on that hill.

Time slips, blurs, no longer stirs.
As thoughts dim, and pain confers.

Darkness consumes the glistening tomb.
Life gives in to the doom and gloom.

I rinse from my tears, when I got home
Don a black fur, coffee streaked on it, hours back
When we isolated from apiece, weeping
Reminiscences drizzling, cold and warm.

You came into vision, gloomed
My eyes were sealed
Whispering, the lot has altered
You and me, terminated.

In the vein of a tree
Whirling you and me
Slowly, sailing into the deep sea
Where float countless mystery.

Unsurpassed things are memories
Blissful among the alluring winds
Afraid among the moaning waves
Lashing and hammering through my wits.

Hope confers my heart
That mending is no less than an art
Love is the cure that slumps hate apart
Time and again, I wish I could go back to the start.

Icy clusters of rocks and dust, leftovers
Of extra matter scattered around a star.
Following the orbit guiding a perpetual run,
For seeing creatures to gaze at midnight skies
In search of glistening shooting lights.

Comets, so named by the ancient man,
Enchant humans to strive and understand,
Beholding their subliming approach to the Sun,
Where radiations and winds melt solids to sparkle
Spews of gas. An aura, a coma and a tail.

Nebulosity inclosing the nucleus confers
On the object a misty glow, distinguishing it
Form a star, hiding water in volatile form.
Tails extending to astronomical units lose
Trails of debris at times, visible to the naked eye.

When finally orbital highways cross,
Meteor showers arise. Debris igniting
As falling stars, enter the atmosphere.
Perseids in August begot by Swift-Tuttle
Comet, Orionids in October by Halley's.

Games of splendour to remind us where
We come from and how it all began.
When antediluvian comets did not shy away
From colliding unswervingly with Earth,
Reach its crust. Inundating the planet with H2O,

For us to be here, witness the show.

Loquacious people love to spill
Plump secrets they’re too vain to keep.  
To tell tremendous news can reap
Friends whom novelty alone can thrill.  
The truth is common property,
And independently abides,
While forgettings are all pseudocides,
And neglectful parents can’t agree.  
Whoever lies confers a gift
Devising falsehoods just for you.  
Facts thrive where thistles never grew.  
Don’t give what anyone can lift.  
In legend consumed bread regrows
To feed a nation from one loaf.  
Truths regenerate, so any oaf
Can pluck a common, banal rose.  
Truth-tellers safely can forget,
Because some checking resupplies.
Not so with lonely, fragile lies,
Whoever lies must ever fret.  
Glib, easy tongues who scatter facts
Have given every anyone
A tale regifted they’ve not spun.  
Lies are what imagining enacts.  
The stringent claim that facts are few
While falsehoods sprout in multitudes
But where the robust truth intrudes
Mendacity’s scorched residue.  
The truth is a replenished ore
Dug from an open, shallow mine.  
Lies are a moon-grown eglantine
Or stories from a private lore.  
Facts are devalued minted lead,
Coins of a debased currency,
But lies are golden filigree
Which melts wherever sunlight’s spread.

I know what I say
Resonates
It bounces around the coffers of your mind
And confers a great peace upon your soul
I know what I say
You hear it
I just want to say something beautiful
I'll just say I don't want to let you down

Simple in the complicated
Reverberates
And dances as an image in your heart
Living in your veins a light in darkness
I know what I say
You hear it
I only want to say something beautiful
I'll just say that I love you

More today than I knew I could yesterday
More tomorrow than I can even imagine
You hear it
And that means everything
You feel it
And that means even more

Questions be Torture for this Starving Verse
As to why your Influence fails to recede
Like Volcanoes snuffed its Syrup disperse
And Imprint your Brand on such Sterling Deed
Faith until when you by Define announce
That your Flavours dissolve by Age or Kind
Even the Samples - such your Verbs pronounce
What truly confers your Fast-Inflaming Mind
Still those Virtues in you always Preserve
Though be a Member of the Russian's Skin
Pursued by his Trade; Though Funds you deserve
To place your Bounty on Prudence so thin.
You know your Hands; And by Hands will Mature
To scrape off your Soot; Thus your Blade be Pure.

Walking like a dead men alive.
Jumping the gun while no one shoot.
Feeling depressed like mental disturbed.

Everyone look me like a monster.
Looking in the world like I don't belong there, like a fish taken out of water and willing to return back .

Everyone were putting shame on me.
Tears fall several times and questions with no answer's were internally asked.

Sleeping with nightmare and scream in the middle of the night.
Beginning to stand in my feet.
Asking God if my blood is black than others,or anything I did roughly.

cryed and confers to him who created me,set me free  and make me
My life out of nuisance and make it nonsense to the one who made it in my life

gold confers power
power comes to any man
who has The Color

Love knows no true boundary,
Nor does it need a name,
It has no care for history,
Nor will it suffer blame.

Love gives all for honesty,
All secrets must be known,
For those that have integrity,
May reap the bounty sown.

Love calls for no property,
Nor gifts to play its game,
It has no god or reliquary,
Nor has it need for fame.

Love provides a sanctuary,
A home away from home,
Regardless of geography,
It follows where we roam.

Love asks no eternity,
Nor offers up the same,
It has no immorality,
Nor does it make such claim.

Love confers indemnity,
Acceptance of past sins,
For truth and self in synergy,
Is where true love begins.

We listen to the news.
Oh, boy don't we ever.
And they have one thing in common.
Which to them isn't so alarming.

A source told me.
My source confirm to me.
The same source just speaking about a little.
But not a lot.
All because their information is mostly made up.

Strange, as it seems, most conflicts never make the screen.

Terminology confers a lot.
Some of mixed definition.
Source to one.
Is a gossiper to another.

Where things get twisted?
And the truth barely told.
And then they want you to confirm the real truth.

But why should you?
If it's about you.

Gasping in your western shadow, sweet one,
I scribble to you a testimony
for catacombs unfurling at your feet,
where bodies dream of you—my only.

One fallen egg, swept up by the wind,
upon you now confers a splattered pearl,
once nestled kindly ‘fore the setting sun
‘**** your arms, my fast n’ skyward girl.

One cherry hornet, stripped of prideful airs
by such unyielding singularity,
begs his broken limbs and shattered wings
to snap an unrequited symphony.

Calm in clay but shake-n spirit, one boy
wilts in waiting for your leaden lips
to part and welcome ‘nother fool’s parade,
to swoon lovelorn with every breath you strip.

They’re mad, those fools! Oh, to imagine you would!
But you might temper the thought—won’t you?

The date of the celebration
(the second day of February) coincides
with medieval feast of Candlemas,
and its pre-Christian predecessor,
Imbolc, a day also rich in folklore.

An old Scottish prophecy foretells
sunny weather on Candlemas
means a long winter.

The tradition is recounted in this poem:
As the light grows longer
The cold grows stronger
If Candlemas be fair and bright
Winter will have another flight
If Candlemas be cloud and snow
Winter will be gone and not come again
A farmer should on Candlemas day
Have half his corn and half his hay
On Candlemas day if thorns hang a drop
You can be sure of a good pea crop.

Punxsutawney Phil is the focal point
of oldest and largest annual
Groundhog Day celebration,
held in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania,
every year since 1886.

Members of Phil’s “Inner Circle”
claim he is now 137 years old,
(rumor circulates this one groundhog lived
to make weather prognostications
since 1886, sustained by drinks
of "groundhog punch"
or "elixir of life" administered
at annual Groundhog
Picnic in the fall),
hence thanks to said magical
life-extending serum
they feed him each year—
and his predictions
one hundred percent accurate.

Coincides with astronomy's
first cross-quarter day,
marking the midpoint between
winter solstice and
spring (vernal) equinox,
which will occur at 5:24 PM on
in Northern Hemisphere
Eastern Standard Time
Monday, March 20, 2023

Small consolation old man winter
spans fewest days
of all four seasons,
especially when

A powerful nor'easter
will develop in western Atlantic
beginning late Friday,
(February third two thousand
and twenty three)
bringing heavy snow,
strong winds and
coastal flooding to parts
of the East Coast,
but there remains
a larger than usual amount
of uncertainty in forecast
for this storm.

Yours truly remembers
when spry Jack (****) Frost
(just yea high -
both arms stretched to sky)
came early, left late and bossed
zealous vernal equinox
rattling barenaked lady branches
obviously inapropos
to budding friendship.

Now (courtesy global warming/ climate change)
mother nature experiences feeling strange
within valleys and atop many mountain range,
wherein goods traded away on stock exchange.

Fortunate concerning yours truly
versus daring to brave
inclement treacherous weather
getting stranded in the process
(possibly becoming gratefully dead)
risking life and limb venturing forth

amidst near whiteout conditions
creating debacle perilous and grave
shoveling snow lest he get buried
he can remain holed up
(in tandem with the missus)
snug as a bug in his mancave.

While nestled inside warm abode for awhile
(at least until temperature upwards doth dial
safely ensconced against elements (of style),
I stopped at metaphoric woods edge
trekking until... for no rhyme nor reason
the poetic metered equivalent,
viz another mile
then stopped for coffee break

burst of energy gave me cause to smile
fording imponderable stream of consciousness
impossible (airy) mission to dodge regarding
aforesaid daunting task to craft worthwhile
poetic endeavor to entertain anonymous readers
gleaning how one bard (with his shaky spear)
evokes fiction being snowbound
as if cast adrift within Siberian exile.

Straightaway I continue writing askew
aware how literary trademark modality
characteristic of one hapless wordsmith
unwittingly indelibly embedded
analous to mine Caucasian
versus swarthy melanin hue

man automatically confers eligibility granting
innumerable known mighty opportunities
(privileged skin color - how unfair)
bigoted prejudices shade those
either hashtagged as black,
naturally copper toned gentile and/or Jew.