THE GRAVE of Alexander Hamilton is in Trinity yard at the end of Wall Street.
  
The grave of Robert Fulton likewise is in Trinity yard where Wall Street stops.
  
And in this yard stenogs, bundle boys, scrubwomen, sit on the tombstones, and walk on the grass of graves, speaking of war and weather, of babies, wages and love.
  
An iron picket fence ... and streaming thousands along Broadway sidewalks ... straw hats, faces, legs ... a singing, talking, hustling river ... down the great street that ends with a Sea.
  
... easy is the sleep of Alexander Hamilton.
... easy is the sleep of Robert Fulton.
... easy are the great governments and the great steamboats.

We pass the
walled incline
of Barbour Park

during the day
a foreboding
patch…an open
air market for
the slave merchants
hustling crack and
**** drippin ****
that's been stepped
on so many times
its a wonder the cut
can still chide a high
out of a wrangled soul

the park’s
modest elevation
is an advantageous
lookout for
runners dealing
dimes while
petty ante
gangstas
daydream
gun blazing glories
of their next big job

not long ago
the park was
refurbed with
an industrial
strength plastic
Jungle Jim,
soon after
the park was
condemned
as a no go
zone for kids,
the litter of
hypodermic
needles and
mounds of
lead spiked
soil, deemed
a public health
risk for youth...
quickly
repurposed
as a crib
for ballers…

back in the
day, the shady
pocket park
lifted Paterson’s
citizenry off
the heated
pavements of
a bustling
thoroughfare

a respite from
the pulsing
tensions of urbanity,
a secular sanctuary,
balancing the urgent
industry of commerce
with the propriety of
residential life

compacting a
brief escape
from the clanging
metronome with
a viewing stand
offering elevation...
a heightened
perspective on
life’s parade
marching
up and down
Broadway…

this urban
oasis planted
at the center
of Silk City’s
grandiloquent
boulevard,
occupies
the most
democratic
equidistant
transit point
between opulent
Eastside mansions
of livin large tycoons
at one end….
and the
industrial district of
The Great Falls,
rising at Broadway’s
western terminus,
assiduously
manufacturing
dollars for the darlings
of fortune and
subsistence for
workers yearning to taste
the crumbs of
prosperity that may fall
from the tables of
opportunity

the park once a
pleasant face of
the landlocked
4th Ward filled
with homage to
a nation's greatest
citizens, Hamilton,
Rosa Parks,
Lafayette,
Madison, Fulton,
Montgomery and
Franklin has
denounced the
virtuous pursuit of
their aspirational
yearnings

now playas
feast on
the mead
of sustenance
harvested from
emaciated streets

commerce has taken
up full residency...
the wards cottage industry
cannibalizing
homes, hoods and
homeboys

as the
4th Ward
grows ugly,
the healthy
matrix of
bustling
street life
breaks down
the peeps
weakened
lay prostate
offer veins
to blood *******
predators
roaming
distressed
going south
neighborhoods

wise guy
knuckleheads,
get busy
gaming
the system
short changing
themselves and
hustling game
to get by
in the sweet bye
and buy of life

at night
a back lit
Barbour Park
floods with the
yellow haze of
blinking Fair St.
lamp posts
and the pulsing
halations
crowning the
Baptist's
of St. Luke's

sentient figures
shift between
park benches
flitting among the
black torsos
of skeletal trees
blending into
the faded
complexion
of abandoned
swing sets

I swear I see
Hurricane Carter
shadow boxing
dancing
around a gangling
Elm, jabbing
away, lifting
a sweet uppercut
working combos
of left hooks
and right crosses
hoping to drop an
intractable
presence
banging away
at a body politic
forming the walls
of taunting
inequities

Hurricane stays
busy delivering
body blows
to burst
through the
prison bars
surrounding
Barbour Park

Music selection:
Bob Dylan, Hurricane

Paterson
01/30/13
jbm

A fragment from extended poem Silk City PIT.  
Published today to honor the death of Rubin Hurricane Carter.
May he find the freedom in eternal rest that eluded him during his lifetime.

I.

The last thing? It wadn't nothing special. Pa and me, well, we never had what I guess you'd call a real easy exchange. He kept to hisself. I kept to myself. We worked hard, and we appreciated each other. But we--and this may be sad to you, but it ain't sad to me--we didn't get touchy-feely. Didn't say "I love you" or things like that. We traded off fetching the water. Traded off nabbing clothes off the line for Ma. He taught me how to be, to live, you know? How to work the cotton. How to work the mules. He gave me three bullets--just three--every time I took the .22 out to get a squirrel. "Make it count," he'd say. "Don't bring home less than four." Making it count--that means more than that other stuff.

So, what I'm saying is, in the end it wadn't no big to-do. Before he handed Ma the shotgun and told us to get, he stuck his head out the kitchen window, the one just over the sink. He said, "It's gonna rain. Them's the kind of clouds that ain't fickle."

I said I reckoned he was right. He said yep. Handed Ma the shotgun. And that was that.


II.

Robert never wanted to live in Tennessee. He was a Kentucky boy, and if it hadn't been for my selfishness, I believe he would have died a Kentucky boy--or man, rather--at a much later date. See my mother, Faye, she got dreadful sick back in '31, and I says to him, I says, Robert, you know my sister can't take care of her--this being on account of her being touched in the head and all. He didn't say nothing, which was usual, but he didn't grumble neither and that, that right there, is the mark of a good man.

We started with just 80 acres. He built the house hisself. Did you know that? It wasn't nothing fancy, no, but we didn't need nothing fancy. It was made pretty much entirely of--oh what do they call it. It ain't just cedar. That uh uh uh--red cedar. Can't believe I forgot that.

Anyway, our place was sprawling with red cedar. Not the prettiest trees you ever saw, but they were ours, and they provided what we needed of them.

Because of us doing alright with the logging, we was able to pick up the Whitmore place. That was another 160 acres.  Robert hated Tennessee, not a doubt in my mind about that. It was his home, though, you see. It was his land. He wanted to make something of it to give to our son, Henry.


III.

Come all you people if you want to hear
The story about a brave engineer;
He's Franklin D. Roosevelt, in Washington D.C.
He's running the train they call 'prosperity.'

Now he straightened up the banks with a big holiday;
He circulated money with the T.V.A.
With the C.C.C. and the C.W.A.
He's brought back smiles and kept hunger away.
      -"Casey Roosevelt" [Excerpts]
          Folk song recorded by Buck Fulton for E.C. and M.N. Kirkland, July, 1937


IV.

Before they even started on the reservoir, the Tennessee Valley Authority started digging up the dead. I'm serious. Most frightful thing you ever saw. Hickory Road--and I swear, I swear on the country, the good Lord, anything from a ****** to a mountain--the road was full-up with buggies carting coffins. Three days straight they were carting dead folks down to Clinton. Most of the coffins were barely holding up, too. Made out that crude pine. Seeing them yellow-but-not-yellow heads poking out was enough to make a feller sick.

If I remember right, they had to relocate something like 5,000 before they dammed up the Clinch, but they made a lot more living, breathing folks than that move along. Lot more.


V.

A week before the T.V.A went and flooded the valley the sounds stopped. The duhh-duhh. The errgh-errgh. You know? The sounds of work. When you don't got all that noise going on--that routine, I guess you could say--what can you do but think?

And because of that, I believe, that last week Pa acted different. He was trying not to, trying to act just the same. But he was trying to be the same too hard. Ma would take coffee off the stove, pour it for him and he'd say: "Thank you, sweetheart." He always said thank you. That much was the same. It's that sweetheart bit that didn't fit in his mouth right. She left the kitchen. Couldn't take it.

Tom Scott hung himself, too. Clyde Johnson, his brother Jacob. There was one more. Big fella that lived down by Hershel's store. Can't remember his name. Pa's was the only body that didn't wash up on the bank.

I never did see them after they washed up. Mrs. Scott said it was appalling. She said her husband's body was all puffed up, swollen with the water. Sheriff cut the rope off her husband's neck. She said that neck was black leading into purple leading into black. Raw. Mrs. Scott didn't live too long after that. A year or so. The shame got to her I suppose.

When folks called my pa a coward, I never argued with them. Didn't see the point. What's a coward? Somebody hang hisself? Somebody that leave his wife and boy to fend for themselves? That a coward? Call him what you want. I ain't gonna argue. All he is--is dead to me.

VI.

My people will abide in a peaceful habitation, in secure dwellings, and in quiet resting places. And it will hail when the forest falls down, and the city will be utterly laid low. Happy are you who sow beside all waters, who let the feet of the ox and the donkey range free.
         - Isaiah 32:18-20

VII.**

Robert had brown, wavy hair. He had big hands with scarred knuckles. He was missing a tooth on the right side. Three or four down from the front. You could only tell when he laughed. Every day in the field he wore the same cap, a Miller's Co-op cap, with overlapping sweat stains. He never wanted to track dirt in the house so he'd knock on the side of the house anytime he needed something from inside, like a box of matches or a knife or something. The first two knocks would be to get my attention. They'd sound urgent. The third was soft, as if to say please. When we went to bed, he always waited for me to fall asleep before he even tried. He knew his snoring kept me up.

On the last day, Robert handed me his shotgun. Says, "I love you, Mary." He was so choked up, I didn't know if he was going to kiss me. So I kissed him. Says, "I love you Robert." And that was pretty much all. We got in the buggy and headed off to my mother's.

I wanted to bury the shotgun. I knew I'd need a place to visit, a place to talk to Robert. And it had to be a piece of him. I dug the hole out behind my mother's place. Henry, he must've thought I was crazy, digging that hole the very next day. He asked me what I was going to put in there. I says the shotgun. He says, "No, ma'am, you isn't." I says, "Yes, son, I is." He says we need that gun. Get squirrels. Get rabbits. Make it count, he says.

I was pretty sore about it, but I ended up throwing my wedding ring in that hole. It being the only other thing that was him. We put the shotgun over the door frame in the kitchen.

I miss him every day. I feel it in my body. Feel it down to my bones. I imagine it wouldn't feel no different if I had lost a hand. But what makes me sadder than anything, sadder than not seeing Robert every morning, sadder than knowing he don't get to see what Henry makes of hisself, is that Robert didn't get nobody's attention.

He never said that's why he had to do it. I just figured as much. He wouldn't die for nothing. That wasn't him. The paper wouldn't say nothing about him other than he was dead. I wrote the T.V.A. Never heard nothing back. It's like the world mumbled, "I'm sorry," and just spun on. That's what they give the good men: a mumble. Killers make the front page. They're in the pictures. The good men? For the good men, the world has to keep asking for their names. The world says, "Oh, Robert, right," and "I'm sorry." But the world don't mean it. The world's got dams to build, valleys to flood. Graves to move. People to uproot. Why? Do you know? Course you don't. God hisself would shrug his shoulders and tell me that's just the way it is.

I stand alone in the dark Fulton Street subway station,
Breathing in the *****-scented air,
Breathing out clouds of steam,
A subway train rushes along,
Not stopping,
Biting at my eardrums,
With the painful percussion,
Of thousands of people,
Silently screaming,

I don’t want to see,
     I don’t want to see,
          I don’t want to see,

The air fanned by each subway car,
Rushes against me,
Pushes the ozone and the smell of burnt brake linings,
Into my nostrils,
Along with the air,
****** through the iron gratings,
Along miles of Brooklyn sidewalks,
Carrying the odor of a *******’s festering sores,
And the cries of a hungry, fatherless child in ***** diapers,
And the hoarse moaning of a city councilman mentoring a young intern,
And the cheap perfume of a fourteen year-old runaway,
Turning $20 tricks in an alley,
Smelling of stale Chinese food and wet dogs,
And . . .

I don’t want to see,
     I don’t want to see,
          I don’t want to see,

. . . the smell of spoiled cabbage soup,
And the rancid remains of a hotdog buried in sauerkraut,
And putrid lilies lying in a gutter,
All assaulting me, forcing me backwards,
Until my back presses against,
The grimy once-white tiles,
That coldly burn their graffiti on my spine:

God is dead,
Bake a ****,
Whitey *****,
**** the *******,

I don’t want to see,
     I don’t want to see,
          I don’t want to see,

The train finally passes,
Its red eyes receding into the dank,
Dark tunnel beyond the platform,
The screeches and screams slowly die out,
Their echoes ******* behind them,
The smell,
Of my,
Warm
*****.

Stormy day , rising , pollen laced puddles
Obsidian , squally countryside backdrops -
with aromatic Wisteria infusions , humid , sunbeam fueled -
certain windstorm conclusions
Citywide , asphalt stained vehicles , rain engulfed curbside -
rivers at full pool , diesel fumes swallowing available air
at four-way intersections
Discarded paper , eastbound swayed hardwoods
Snapping flags cry out in brief , turbulent episodes
Evergreen needles at hours disposal
The mechanized voices of late afternoon
travel and corruption

“Ever since I started this job and anyone asks how I’m doing, I always say, ‘I’m great!’ ” Maayan Zilberman excitedly explains. And why shouldn’t she? The former Lake & Stars lingerie designer, who has since founded confections lineSweet Saba, happens to have the sweetest career around. Concocting a literal visual feast out of her Park *****, Brooklyn, kitchen and Fort Gansevoort Meatpacking pop-up shop, the Israeli-born polymath uses her background in sculpture and a biting sense of humor to create her vibrant, indulgent delicacies. Think sugarfied tubes of lipstick, rap mixtapes, and Rolex watches—with their raw handiwork and dead-on wit, these in-demand pieces match Zilberman’s equally enticing wardrobe. Hardly barefoot in the kitchen, Zilberman teeters about in her workspace in vintage Betsey Johnson Mary Janes, while throwing on a customized Adam Selman pearl-laced apron to protect her Prada skirts andProenza Schouler knits. Here, the dazzling candymaker reveals how she has always been more En Vogue than grunge, why she never forgoes a perfect press-on manicure, and her plans on taking Sweet Saba herbal.

From Jerusalem to Vancouver

I was born on a kibbutz, where the first clothing I had was a mix of unisex hand-me-downs, so I was given a pretty blank slate. When I lived in Jerusalem we were surrounded by several sects of Orthodox communities, and the fabrics associated with each group were inspiring to me. During those years, designer brands were becoming popular, and the only place I was seeing this was in the shuk [market] where one could find imitation Calvin Klein and United Colors of Benetton next to tzitzit and shawls. I think it was in the early ’90s that I first understood how to mix my ethnicity with fashion and food.

Also, one of the most influential books of my childhood was Color Me Beautiful, which the women in my family took very seriously. I learned at the age of 6 that I was a “Winter” and haven’t veered off course since. I still have the book and love to pull it out at parties. Later in high school in Vancouver, grunge was the big trend and there wasn’t much room for my sensibilities in that environment—even when I wore my Revlon Blackberry lipstick and grunged out with irony. I was always far more En Vogue and Versace than the Pacific Northwest could handle.

Taking Cues From ’90s New York City Street Style

When I first got to New York, when I was 15, one of the first things I discovered was all the music I could get on Canal Street. I used to buy mix CDs from girls in monochrome outfits and big name-plate earrings. They pointed me to Fulton Mall in Brooklyn, and that’s where I finally got pants that fit right and jewelry that reflected my personality—a departure from the stuff I’d received for my bat mitzvah.

A shift in style for me meant a tougher, more confident look, where a short skirt is a reference to an era, not a call for attention. Music and lyrics played a big part in teaching me about how to dress and how to feel feminine. I had a Versace quilted skirt that I wore a lot—it made me feel like the supermodels in the ad campaigns: Cindy, Claudia, Stephanie, et cetera. I also had a Jean Paul Gaultierdouble-breasted pinstripe suit that I’d wear casually. In fact, I’m still wearing most of my clothes from those days: Betsey Johnson floral dresses, Donna Karanbodysuits, a metallic Byblos pouf skirt, and a grommeted Pelle Pelle jacket.

Lingerie Beginnings

I studied sculpture at the School of Visual Arts, and for a year at the San Francisco Art Institute my major was “new genres,” a very ’90s thing. Right after I graduated from SVA, I did an artist residency with Ilya Kabakov at the Fondazione Antonio Ratti in Como, where they also manufactured some of the world’s most beautiful silks. A tour of their factory opened my eyes to a potential dip into fashion, but it wasn’t until I met a pair of women in New York City that same year looking to start a lingerie brand that I took a chance on garment design. I bought a bunch of bras and took them apart and figured out how they were put back together. I cofounded The Lake & Stars in 2007 with the desire to make a brand that was in line with the story I wanted to tell as an artist. Lingerie was a tool, a structure that gave me rules so I could tell a sci-fi tale while inherently delivering romance and *** appeal.

read more:http://www.marieaustralia.com

www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

La satire à présent, chant où se mêle un cri,
Bouche de fer d'où sort un sanglot attendri,
N'est plus ce qu'elle était jadis dans notre enfance,
Quand on nous conduisait, écoliers sans défense,
À la Sorbonne, endroit revêche et mauvais lieu,
Et que, devant nous tous qui l'écoutions fort peu,
Dévidant sa leçon et filant sa quenouille,
Le petit Andrieux, à face de grenouille,
Mordait Shakspeare, Hamlet, Macbeth, Lear, Othello,
Avec ses fausses dents prises au vieux Boileau.

La vie est, en ce siècle inquiet, devenue
Pas à pas grave et morne, et la vérité nue
Appelle la pensée à son secours depuis
Qu'on l'a murée avec le mensonge en son puits.
Après Jean-Jacques, après Danton, le sort ramène
Le lourd pas de la nuit sur la triste âme humaine ;
Droit et Devoir sont là gisants, la plaie au flanc ;
Le lâche soleil rit au noir dragon sifflant ;
L'homme jette à la mer l'honneur, vieille boussole ;
En léchant le vainqueur le vaincu se console ;
Toute l'histoire tient dans ce mot : réussir ;
Le succès est sultan et le meurtre est visir ;
Hélas, la vieille ivresse affreuse de la honte
Reparaît dans les yeux et sur les fronts remonte,
Trinque avec les tyrans, et le peuple fourbu
Reboit ce sombre vin dont il a déjà bu.
C'est pourquoi la satire est sévère. Elle ignore
Cette grandeur des rois qui fit Boileau sonore,
Et ne se souvient d'eux que pour les souffleter.
L'échafaud qu'il faut pièce à pièce démonter,
L'infâme loi de sang qui résiste aux ratures,
Qui garde les billots en lâchant les tortures,
Et dont il faut couper tous les ongles ; l'enfant
Que l'ignorance tient dans son poing étouffant
Et qui doit, libre oiseau, dans l'aube ouvrir ses ailes ;
Relever tour à tour ces sombres sentinelles,
Le mal, le préjugé, l'erreur, monstre romain,
Qui gardent le cachot où dort l'esprit humain ;
La guerre et ses vautours, la peste avec ses mouches,
À chasser ; les bâillons qu'il faut ôter des bouches ;
La parole à donner à toutes les douleurs ;
L'éclosion d'un jour nouveau sur l'homme en fleurs ;
Tel est le but, tel est le devoir, qui complique
Sa colère, et la fait d'utilité publique.

Pour enseigner à tous la vertu, l'équité,
La raison, il suffit que la Réalité,
Pure et sereine, monte à l'horizon et fasse
Évanouir l'horreur des nuits devant sa face.
Honte, gloire, grandeurs, vices, beautés, défauts,
Plaine et monts, sont mêlés tant qu'il fait nuit ; le faux
Fait semblant d'être honnête en l'obscurité louche.
Qu'est-ce que le rayon ? Une pierre de touche.
La lumière de tout ici-bas fait l'essai.
Le juste est sur la terre éclairé par le vrai ;
Le juste c'est la cime et le vrai c'est l'aurore.

Donc Lumière, Raison, Vérité, plus encore,
Bonté dans le courroux et suprême Pitié,
Le méchant pardonné, mais le mal châtié,
Voilà ce qu'aujourd'hui, comme aux vieux temps de Rome,
La satire implacable et tendre doit à l'homme.
Marquis ou médecins, une caste, un métier,
Ce n'est plus là son champ ; il lui faut l'homme entier.
Elle poursuit l'infâme et non le ridicule.

Un petit Augias veut un petit Hercule,
Et le bon Despréaux malin fit ce qu'il put.
Elle n'a plus affaire à l'ancien Lilliput.

Elle vole, à travers l'ombre et les catastrophes,
Grande et pâle, au milieu d'un ouragan de strophes ;
Elle crie à sa meute effrayante : - Courons !
Quand un vil parvenu, marchant sur tous les fronts,
Écrase un peuple avec des pieds jadis sans bottes.
Elle donne à ses chiens ailés tous les despotes,
Tous les monstres, géants et nains, à dévorer.
Elle apparaît aux czars pour les désespérer.
On entend dans son vers craquer les os du tigre.
De même que l'oiseau vers le printemps émigre,
Elle s'en va toujours du côté de l'honneur.
L'ange de Josaphat, le spectre d'Elseneur
Sont ses amis, et, sage, elle semble en démence,
Tant sa clameur profonde emplit le ciel immense.
Il lui faut, pour gronder et planer largement,
Tout le peuple sous elle, âpre, vaste, écumant ;
Ce n'est que sur la mer que le vent est à l'aise.

Quand Colomb part, elle est debout sur la falaise ;
Elle t'aime, ô Barbès ! Et suit d'un long vivat
Fulton, Garibaldi, Byron, John Brown et Watt,
Et toi Socrate, et toi Jésus, et toi Voltaire !
Elle fait, quand un mort glorieux est sous terre,
Sortir un vert laurier de son tombeau dormant ;
Elle ne permet pas qu'il pourrisse autrement.
Elle panse à genoux les vaincus vénérables,
Bénit les maudits, baise au front les misérables,
Lutte, et, sans daigner même un instant y songer,
Se sent par des valets derrière elle juger ;
Car, sous les règnes vils et traîtres, c'est un crime
De ne pas rire à l'heure où râle la victime
Et d'aimer les captifs à travers leurs barreaux ;
Et qui pleure les morts offense les bourreaux.

Est-elle triste ? Non, car elle est formidable.
Puisqu'auprès des tombeaux les vainqueurs sont à table,
Puisqu'on est satisfait dans l'opprobre, et qu'on a
L'impudeur d'être lâche avec un hosanna,
Puisqu'on chante et qu'on danse en dévorant les proies,
Elle vient à la fête elle aussi. Dans ces joies,
Dans ces contentements énormes, dans ces jeux
À force de triomphe et d'ivresse orageux,
Dans ces banquets mêlant Paphos, Clamart et Gnide,
Elle apporte, sinistre, un rire d'euménide.

Mais son immense effort, c'est la vie. Elle veut
Chasser la mort, bannir la nuit, rompre le nœud,
Dût-elle rudoyer le titan populaire.
Comme elle a plus d'amour, elle a plus de colère.
Quoi ! L'abdication serait un oreiller !
La conscience humaine est lente à s'éveiller ;
L'honneur laisse son feu pâlir, tomber, descendre
Sous l'épaississement lugubre de la cendre.
Aussi la Némésis chantante qui bondit
Et frappe, et devant qui Tibère est interdit,
La déesse du grand Juvénal, l'âpre muse,
Hébé par la beauté, par la terreur Méduse,
Qui sema dans la nuit ce que Dante y trouva,
Et que Job croyait voir parler à Jéhovah,
Se sent-elle encor plus de fureur magnanime
Pour réveiller l'oubli que pour punir le crime.
Elle approche du peuple et, guettant la rumeur,
Penche l'ïambe amer sur l'immense dormeur ;
La strophe alors frissonne en son tragique zèle,
Et s'empourpre en tâchant de tirer l'étincelle
De toute cette morne et fatale langueur,
Et le vers irrité devient une lueur.
Ainsi rougit dans l'ombre une face farouche
Qui vient sur un tison souffler à pleine bouche.

Le 26 avril 1870.

I got that Fulton  shackles and that Manhattan price
I stayed lucky on Utica Ave with those Brooklyn dice
Then Hopping on the train to get where I'm going
My mind is on my eternity but I'm stuck in this New York moment

It's my jungle gym, New York I made my marks
You got me ready for the world even when I didn't no where to start
You birth me , made me stronger
As I continue to grow, concrete food you made me live longer

I wrote my name on you , gain my fame from you
I made a ugly vision perfect , isn't that what a Yankee suppose to do
In New York there's pain so we cover it in art
And the world think they know our story's from the movies but they never played the part

I've driven the blocks
I've road the trains
I've Heard the shots
And I no what the out come has contain

Up in the clouds and in my mind
I'll see Jordan and Air ones kicks
Hanging in the sky
And my mama use to whoop my *** if I didn't have those shoe laces tied

But when It rains it pours in my city
That's not precipitation , that's tears from mothers who son died in my city
They say the puddle shows reflection of the  hardship we learn from the gutters
We fall as rain fall but some how New York we lean on each other

And fiends was fiendin from the same stoop my belly was fiendin for food
But My mother did her best , while my sister Kept it cool
But still this is my influence, this is who raised me
They say if you enter New York world your better be born crazy

They say you can win anywhere if you win here
And you ain't been nowhere if you ain't been here
Same places , Same face on the train mane ,
                        New York New York

I will arise and forage
not for eggs nor bread
for a bowl of porridge
that gets me out of bed.

Smooth like silk
with added milk
not lumpy mind
‘tis good to find
it thick and grey.
No better way
to start the day.

If the spoon stands upright
no need to  get uptight
it passed  the test
of thin or thick.
Got the Tick.
The Best.

Top Recipe:

Take Slade Prison
Add Ronnie Barker
& Richard Beckinsale
Stir in Fulton Mackay
Mr. Barrowclough to serve.

TOBIAS

Martin Narrod [Chicago] to Adam Holzrichter [San Francisco, via NYC]*
June 26 2005
Guild Printers Press
122 Bedford
Brooklyn NY, 11211*

I peeled back the polyurethane bandage that wrapped together my two toes where I had dug them into the armoire once again last night. It's a raggedy old mess of green goop like your brother had when he returned from Sicily. Those posters and solipsisms of war, how could we forget, right?

The scene here is really frantic. There's a whole room knotted up with tea heads, loaded up on benzos, looking for green doves or any of the MDMA that came through Fulton Market last week. Mr. Popular is revealing any details, though I expect he'll want more than his own hands throwing around his dining room furniture. I count three days since I heard them through the wall, but I did go out yesterday for a brief walk to buy an 18-pack of ******, just in case I decide to come off the drink for a bit, I do have a blood disease you know that right?

Noon

It was about a month ago, I was at April's house, and I had woken up on the couch, standing up I felt a bit dizzy and realizing I hadn't had a drink of anything for about 12 hours I pulled a Red Stripe from the fridge. I shucked the cap off and put down nearly half of it, it was that cool Jamaica that rocked me man. As I was headed back to the couch I could tell something wasn't right, and that's when it all goes blank- they told me I had suffered a grand mal seizure, sister, brother, and April standing over me with Ouakimbo there too. He gave me those sterile gray straight eyes and a thousand yard stare. Then he popped right up and grabbed my wrist and held it. They put me on a cornucopia of blood thinners and muscle relaxers, it's grand, just ******* grand. I make a fist and my toes wiggle, blink my eyes and my tongue comes out. There is nothing truer than this humanness I now am enjoying. 2 days more they say it'll be before I can go back to the pen and our flat. Geoff just had a baby I read in a post I saw today that Ashley brought in, but i tell you. If you don't bring me a dollar slice from Jack's on Metropolitan you ain't gonna have any of this.

9:00p.m.

First it's cool down the back of the spine, like my bones have unhinged themselves and are resorting their positions to suit a more comfortable order of things. But I repeat, I REPEAT with all SERIOUSNESS. DO NOT TAKE ANY HALLUCINAGINS UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES - Perhaps I have not explained myself too clearly - Guy is at the ice- the onlyu hope now is some morphine. In dealing with these underwear midettttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt­ttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt­ttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt­ttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt­tttttttiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii­iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiotttt       vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv­vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv­vcccccccccccccc.

Que devant les coquins l'honnête homme soupire ;
Que l'histoire soit laide et plate ; que l'empire
Boîte avec Talleyrand ou louche avec Parieu ;
Qu'un tour d'escroc bien fait ait nom grâce de Dieu ;
Que le pape en massue ait changé sa houlette ;
Qu'on voie au Champ de Mars piaffer sous l'épaulette
Le Meurtre général, le Vol aide de camp ;
Que hors de l'Elysée un prince débusquant,
Qu'un flibustier quittant l'île de la Tortue,
Assassine, extermine, égorge, pille et tue ;
Que les bonzes chrétiens, cognant sur leur tam-tam
Hurlent devant Soufflard : Attollite portam !
Que pour claqueurs le crime ait cent journaux infâmes,
Ceux qu'à la maison d'or, sur les genoux des femmes,
Griffonnent les Romieux, le verre en main, et ceux
Que saint-Ignace inspire à des gredins crasseux ;
Qu'en ces vils tribunaux, où le regard se heurte
De Moreau de la Seine à Moreau de la Meurthe,
La justice ait reçu d'horribles horions ;
Que, sur un lit de camp, par des centurions
La loi soit violée et râle à l'agonie ;
Que cet être choisi, créé par Dieu génie,
L'homme, adore à genoux le loup fait empereur ;
Qu'en un éclat de rire abrégé par l'horreur,
Tout ce que nous voyons aujourd'hui se résume ;
Qu'Hautpoul vende son sabre et Cucheval sa plume ;
Que tous les grands bandits, en petit copiés,
Revivent ; qu'on emplisse un sénat de plats-pieds
Dont la servilité négresse et mamelouque
Eût révolté Mahmoud et lasserait Soulouque ;
Que l'or soit le seul culte, et qu'en ce temps vénal,
Coffre-fort étant Dieu, Gousset soit cardinal ;
Que la vieille Thémis ne soit plus qu'une gouine
Baisant Mandrin dans l'antre où Mongis baragouine ;
Que Montalembert bave accoudé sur l'autel ;
Que Veuillot sur Sibour crève sa poche au fiel ;
Qu'on voie aux bals de cour s'étaler des guenipes
Qui le long des trottoirs traînaient hier leurs nippes,
Beautés de lansquenet avec un profil grec ;
Que Haynau dans Brescia soit pire que Lautrec ;
Que partout, des Sept-Tours aux colonnes d'Hercule,
Napoléon, le poing sur la hanche, recule,
Car l'aigle est vieux, Essling grisonne, Marengo
À la goutte, Austerlitz est pris d'un lombago ;
Que le czar russe ait peur tout autant que le nôtre ;
Que l'ours noir et l'ours blanc tremblent l'un devant l'autre ;
Qu'avec son grand panache et sur son grand cheval
Rayonne Saint-Arnaud, ci-devant Florival,
Fort dans la pantomime et les combats à l'hache ;
Que Sodome se montre et que Paris se cache ;
Qu'Escobar et Houdin vendent le même onguent ;
Que grâce à tous ces gueux qu'on touche avec le gant,
Tout dorés au dehors, au dedans noirs de lèpres,
Courant les bals, courant les jeux, allant à vêpres,
Grâce à ces bateleurs mêlés aux scélérats,
La Saint-Barthélemy s'achève en mardi gras ;
Ô nature profonde et calme, que t'importe !
Nature, Isis voilée assise à notre porte,
Impénétrable aïeule aux regards attendris,
Vieille comme Cybèle et fraîche comme Iris,
Ce qu'on fait ici-bas s'en va devant ta face ;
À ton rayonnement toute laideur s'efface ;
Tu ne t'informes pas quel drôle ou quel tyran
Est fait premier chanoine à Saint-Jean-de-Latran ;
Décembre, les soldats ivres, les lois faussées,
Les cadavres mêlés aux bouteilles cassées,
Ne te font rien ; tu suis ton flux et ton reflux.
Quand l'homme des faubourgs s'endort et ne sait plus
Bourrer dans un fusil des balles de calibre ;
Quand le peuple français n'est plus le peuple libre ;
Quand mon esprit, fidèle au but qu'il se fixa,
Sur cette léthargie applique un vers moxa,
Toi, tu rêves ; souvent du fond des geôles sombres,
Sort, comme d'un enfer, le murmure des ombres
Que Baroche et Rouher gardent sous les barreaux,
Car ce tas de laquais est un tas de bourreaux ;
Etant les cœurs de boue, ils sont les cœurs de roche ;
Ma strophe alors se dresse, et, pour cingler Baroche,
Se taille un fouet sanglant dans Rouher écorché ;
Toi, tu ne t'émeus point ; flot sans cesse épanché,
La vie indifférente emplit toujours tes urnes ;
Tu laisses s'élever des attentats nocturnes,
Des crimes, des fureurs, de Rome mise en croix,
De Paris mis aux fers, des guets-apens des rois,
Des pièges, des serments, des toiles d'araignées,
L'orageuse clameur des âmes indignées ;
Dans ce calme où toujours tu te réfugias,
Tu laisses le fumier croupir chez Augias,
Et renaître un passé dont nous nous affranchîmes,
Et le sang rajeunir les abus cacochymes,
La France en deuil jeter son suprême soupir,
Les prostitutions chanter, et se tapir
Les lâches dans leurs trous, la taupe en ses cachettes,
Et gronder les lions, et rugir les poètes !
Ce n'est pas ton affaire à toi de t'irriter.
Tu verrais, sans frémir et sans te révolter,
Sur tes fleurs, sous tes pins, tes ifs et tes érables,
Errer le plus coquin de tous ces misérables.
Quand Troplong, le matin, ouvre un œil chassieux,
Vénus, splendeur sereine éblouissant les cieux,
Vénus, qui devrait fuir courroucée et hagarde,
N'a pas l'air de savoir que Troplong la regarde !
Tu laisserais cueillir une rose à Dupin !
Tandis que, de velours recouvrant le sapin,
L'escarpe couronné que l'Europe surveille,
Trône et guette, et qu'il a, lui parlant à l'oreille,
D'un côté Loyola, de l'autre Trestaillon,
Ton doigt au blé dans l'ombre entrouvre le sillon.
Pendant que l'horreur sort des sénats, des conclaves,
Que les États-Unis ont des marchés d'esclaves
Comme en eut Rome avant que Jésus-Christ passât,
Que l'américain libre à l'africain forçat
Met un bât, et qu'on vend des hommes pour des piastres,
Toi, tu gonfles la mer, tu fais lever les astres,
Tu courbes l'arc-en-ciel, tu remplis les buissons
D'essaims, l'air de parfums et les nids de chansons,
Tu fais dans le bois vert la toilette des roses,
Et tu fais concourir, **** des hommes moroses,
Pour des prix inconnus par les anges cueillis,
La candeur de la vierge et la blancheur du lys.
Et quand, tordant ses mains devant les turpitudes,
Le penseur douloureux fuit dans tes solitudes,
Tu lui dis : Viens ! c'est moi ! moi que rien ne corrompt !
Je t'aime ! et tu répands dans l'ombre, sur son front
Où de l'artère ardente il sent battre les ondes,
L'âcre fraîcheur de l'herbe et des feuilles profondes !
Par moments, à te voir, parmi les trahisons,
Mener paisiblement tes mois et tes saisons,
À te voir impassible et froide, quoi qu'on fasse,
Pour qui ne creuse point plus bas que la surface,
Tu sembles bien glacée, et l'on s'étonne un peu.
Quand les proscrits, martyrs du peuple, élus de Dieu,
Stoïques, dans la mort se couchent sans se plaindre,
Tu n'as l'air de songer qu'à dorer et qu'à peindre
L'aile du scarabée errant sur leurs tombeaux.
Les rois font les gibets, toi, tu fais les corbeaux.
Tu mets le même ciel sur le juste et l'injuste.
Occupée à la mouche, à la pierre, à l'arbuste,
Aux mouvements confus du vil monde animal,
Tu parais ignorer le bien comme le mal ;
Tu laisses l'homme en proie à sa misère aiguë.
Que t'importe Socrate ! et tu fais la ciguë.
Tu créas le besoin, l'instinct et l'appétit ;
Le fort mange le faible et le grand le petit,
L'ours déjeune du rat, l'autour de la colombe,
Qu'importe ! allez, naissez, fourmillez pour la tombe,
Multitudes ! vivez, tuez, faites l'amour,
Croissez ! le pré verdit, la nuit succède au jour,
L'âne brait, le cheval hennit, le taureau beugle.
Ô figure terrible, on te croirait aveugle !
Le bon et le mauvais se mêlent sous tes pas.
Dans cet immense oubli, tu ne vois même pas
Ces deux géants lointains penchés sur ton abîme,
Satan, père du mal, Caïn, père du crime !

Erreur ! erreur ! erreur ! ô géante aux cent yeux,
Tu fais un grand labeur, saint et mystérieux !
Oh ! qu'un autre que moi te blasphème, ô nature
Tandis que notre chaîne étreint notre ceinture,
Et que l'obscurité s'étend de toutes parts,
Les principes cachés, les éléments épars,
Le fleuve, le volcan à la bouche écarlate,
Le gaz qui se condense et l'air qui se dilate,
Les fluides, l'éther, le germe sourd et lent,
Sont autant d'ouvriers dans l'ombre travaillant ;
Ouvriers sans sommeil, sans fatigue, sans nombre.
Tu viens dans cette nuit, libératrice sombre !
Tout travaille, l'aimant, le bitume, le fer,
Le charbon ; pour changer en éden notre enfer,
Les forces à ta voix sortent du fond des gouffres.

Tu murmures tout bas : - Race d'Adam qui souffres,
Hommes, forçats pensants au vieux monde attachés,
Chacune de mes lois vous délivre. Cherchez ! -
Et chaque jour surgit une clarté nouvelle,
Et le penseur épie et le hasard révèle ;
Toujours le vent sema, le calcul récolta.
Ici Fulton, ici Galvani, là Volta,
Sur tes secrets profonds que chaque instant nous livre,
Rêvent ; l'homme ébloui déchiffre enfin ton livre.

D'heure en heure on découvre un peu plus d'horizon
Comme un coup de bélier au mur d'une prison,
Du genre humain qui fouille et qui creuse et qui sonde,
Chaque tâtonnement fait tressaillir le monde.
L'***** des nations s'accomplit. Passions,
Intérêts, mœurs et lois, les révolutions
Par qui le cœur humain germe et change de formes,
Paris, Londres, New-York, les continents énormes,
Ont pour lien un fil qui tremble au fond des mers.
Une force inconnue, empruntée aux éclairs,
Mêle au courant des flots le courant des idées.
La science, gonflant ses ondes débordées,
Submerge trône et sceptre, idole et potentat.
Tout va, pense, se meut, s'accroît. L'aérostat
Passe, et du haut des cieux ensemence les hommes.
Chanaan apparaît ; le voilà, nous y sommes !
L'amour succède aux pleurs et l'eau vive à la mort,
Et la bouche qui chante à la bouche qui mord.
La science, pareille aux antiques pontifes,
Attelle aux chars tonnants d'effrayants hippogriffes
Le feu souffle aux naseaux de la bête d'airain.
Le globe esclave cède à l'esprit souverain.
Partout où la terreur régnait, où marchait l'homme,
Triste et plus accablé que la bête de somme,
Traînant ses fers sanglants que l'erreur a forgés,
Partout où les carcans sortaient des préjugés,
Partout où les césars, posant le pied sur l'âme,
Etouffaient la clarté, la pensée et la flamme,
Partout où le mal sombre, étendant son réseau,
Faisait ramper le ver, tu fais naître l'oiseau !
Par degrés, lentement, on voit sous ton haleine
La liberté sortir de l'herbe de la plaine,
Des pierres du chemin, des branches des forêts,
Rayonner, convertir la science en décrets,
Du vieil univers mort briser la carapace,
Emplir le feu qui luit, l'eau qui bout, l'air qui passe,
Gronder dans le tonnerre, errer dans les torrents,
Vivre ! et tu rends le monde impossible aux tyrans !
La matière, aujourd'hui vivante, jadis morte,
Hier écrasait l'homme et maintenant l'emporte.

Le bien germe à toute heure et la joie en tout lieu.
Oh ! sois fière en ton cœur, toi qui, sous l'œil de Dieu,
Nous prodigues les dons que ton mystère épanche,
Toi qui regardes, comme une mère se penche
Pour voir naître l'enfant que son ventre a porté,
De ton flanc éternel sortir l'humanité !

Vie ! idée ! avenir bouillonnant dans les têtes !
Le progrès, reliant entre elles ses conquêtes,
Gagne un point après l'autre, et court contagieux.
De cet obscur amas de faits prodigieux
Qu'aucun regard n'embrasse et qu'aucun mot ne nomme,
Tu nais plus frissonnant que l'aigle, esprit de l'homme,
Refaisant mœurs, cités, codes, religion.
Le passé n'est que l'oeuf d'où tu sors, Légion !

Ô nature ! c'est là ta genèse sublime.
Oh ! l'éblouissement nous prend sur cette cime !
Le monde, réclamant l'essor que Dieu lui doit,
Vibre, et dès à présent, grave, attentif, le doigt
Sur la bouche, incliné sur les choses futures,
Sur la création et sur les créatures,
Une vague lueur dans son œil éclatant,
Le voyant, le savant, le philosophe entend
Dans l'avenir, déjà vivant sous ses prunelles,
La palpitation de ces millions d'ailes !

Jersey, le 23 mai 1853.

Every day or night my mind grows more curious of the dangerous ways I go. Every day I cheat death even tho his whispers draw me closers to mistakes that can't be reversed. Let's play a game of insanity?
Every rule we break we mend a new insane way of our tricks. A lie brings misfortune as showing you have no boundaries.

My secret I scream is the dead silence on the sleepy hollow cemetery.
  My pain inside my bipolarmind is running wild with energy I could have saved to save my self from the deadly things that grab you.

My nightmares  become a stories that play with me like a horror film that was just shot.

How fast can scream.
Do u want to play with your own darkness or spread the sickening like a wild fire.


I have no heart beat only when life breathes into my lungs.



Dose evil bring good fortune or dose it spill blood like savagely brut let killing a person.



How far do we open up our minds to open ideas for evil or good.

Do u want to play with my mind to full blown destruction that we can't put out.


My pain inside my bipolarmind  is like a lighter starting a spark adding Fulton the fire setting my path of pure blinding aggression.


My pain inside my bipolarmind  is a trap I can't escape only way out is a fight till Insanity  kills me.


Clostrabobic  small room I can't breath I have no place to free any thought leaving me with my demons who have otherwise plans in mind.


Are u insain or can you break the lone and escape your twisted mind.



Let's play a game of mine can you escape and set your self free or will you be traded for inturnity weak and powerless of hope and lost of life.


Are u insain or can you handle your own pain

Red tip shrubs are reflecting intermittent sunshine across puddles of water in the yard , pine cones , straw covers the ground beneath the trees . Steam coming off the road , cars crashing into standing water , garden soaked , eggplant laying sideways...Fall garden looks invigorated , rain barrel overflowing , wheel barrow completely full of water , dead grass from previous grass cuttings have collected at the end of the driveway from water rushing down earlier today .Birds are leaving their cover to forage , dark clouds once again coming from the East ...The rumble of a train coming through Palmetto , big trucks on South Fulton Parkway and the occasional jet coming into Hartsfield .....

Je suis l'esprit, vivant au sein des choses mortes.
Je sais forger les clefs quand on ferme les portes ;
Je fais vers le désert reculer le lion ;
Je m'appelle Bacchus, Noé, Deucalion ;
Je m'appelle Shakspeare, Annibal, César, Dante ;
Je suis le conquérant ; je tiens l'épée ardente,
Et j'entre, épouvantant l'ombre que je poursuis,
Dans toutes les terreurs et dans toutes les nuits.
Je suis Platon, je vois ; je suis Newton, je trouve.
Du hibou je fais naître Athène, et de la louve
Rome ; et l'aigle m'a dit : Toi, marche le premier !
J'ai Christ dans mon sépulcre et Job sur mon fumier.
Je vis ! dans mes deux mains je porte en équilibre
L'âme et la chair ; je suis l'homme, enfin maître et libre !
Je suis l'antique Adam ! j'aime, je sais, je sens ;
J'ai pris l'arbre de vie entre mes poings puissants ;
Joyeux, je le secoue au-dessus de ma tête,
Et, comme si j'étais le vent de la tempête,
J'agite ses rameaux d'oranges d'or chargés,
Et je crie : " Accourez, peuples ! prenez, mangez ! "
Et je fais sur leurs fronts tomber toutes les pommes ;
Car, science, pour moi, pour mes fils, pour les hommes,
Ta sève à flots descend des cieux pleins de bonté,
Car la Vie est ton fruit, racine Éternité !
Et tout germe, et tout croît, et, fournaise agrandie,
Comme en une forêt court le rouge incendie,
Le beau Progrès vermeil, l'oeil sur l'azur fixé,
Marche, et tout en marchant dévore le passé.
Je veux, tout obéit, la matière inflexible
Cède ; je suis égal presque au grand Invisible ;
Coteaux, je fais le vin comme lui fait le miel ;
Je lâche comme lui des globes dans le ciel.
Je me fais un palais de ce qui fut ma geôle ;
J'attache un fil vivant d'un pôle à l'autre pôle ;
Je fais voler l'esprit sur l'aile de l'éclair ;
Je tends l'arc de Nemrod, le divin arc de fer,
Et la flèche qui siffle et la flèche qui vole,
Et que j'envoie au bout du monde, est ma parole.
Je fais causer le Rhin, le Gange et l'Orégon
Comme trois voyageurs dans le même wagon.
La distance n'est plus. Du vieux géant Espace
J'ai fait un nain. Je vais, et, devant mon audace,
Les noirs titans jaloux lèvent leur front flétri ;
Prométhée, au Caucase enchaîné, pousse un cri,
Tout étonné de voir Franklin voler la foudre ;
Fulton, qu'un Jupiter eût mis jadis en poudre,
Monte Léviathan et traverse la mer ;
Galvani, calme, étreint la mort au rire amer ;
Volta prend dans ses mains le glaive de l'archange
Et le dissout ; le monde à ma voix tremble et change ;
Caïn meurt, l'avenir ressemble au jeune Abel ;
Je reconquiers Éden et j'achève Babel.
Rien sans moi. La nature ébauche ; je termine.
Terre, je suis ton roi.

First 8 lines are always free, the rest costs 20 minuters
- Raw, working stock poet tries and guesses, cast
as cares away, in spells… opposing all solid-state profits,
I disagree with most superlatives,
August is far crueler,
everybody knows. As a month,
April is
Seed
come so, see
Time come soon, prythee, swifty, didwe
Harvest, bestness contended for, proud
blue ribbon exceptionality, proved
-fecundity fructifity
consciousness, place in time known
light as punctual mass, echolialy lialy la la
- and also and also and also with you
~~~~ wavy thing, right
;rock on
who pulls past last rituals, past wars,
and war's threats,
defend the wall,
calling all outs in, defend the wall
fend off the opposing mind, in time, attempt
tempting all my desires to lieve be,
the state I'm in, once again
- no, I don't believe we're on the eve
- of destruction, my AI went auto inteleosic
Free am I, paid the life, or fifty years,
first come, first served,
learn the long way,
beats never learning at all.
- warrior spirit, something, like that
- say Maxwell's daemon is squeezin' yer bub-

not worried for my nation, not worried for
my error, nor for my will divided among my

auto refreshing systems, in the system,

set to flow at any speed we may agree, this fast
mean, statistical mean, free path, not
shortest distance, point to pointless whenever,
whatever,
mean free path, meandering, ring ring
beer commercial real life, as many can imagine
this is that good place, rest and relaxation, unwind,
- imagine you enjoy lines that insist, each
- line insists… it is all good, from one POV.
spin down, settle
light as the first point ever made in the game
of life on the line, strings of possibilities,
first free way, no entry fee,
we take -time, this whole thing took all day
to just now a flight of three warships
aim at Miramar, right over my valley
7:30 reread 6 m.
we feel - a sigh, some new sense esthesic
poeisic, sic, ever as it is written, so it is done.

[[[ Relegare. Read the records, find in the archives,
a volume, sealed under pressure,
to hold our emptiness out.

Popt. Popped that bubble, bubble
of thought, full spread to the bezel, white space

-eventually we all fall apart, art, and craft. Raw
reality remains, complicated, many ply, many threads
per centimeter, me-assure, self fi, con science
think
aaaaaaaa we all know knowing does not lead to madness.

Far from the maddened crowd imagined, cast of thousands,
from today, as the mother of the eight billioneth breather,
born after the events near Alamogordo, that mother
is
done been born, it aint you.

[[[[

First place/ Blue Ribbon,
Second place/ Red Ribbon,
Third place, was probably green, but I do not recall.
I never noticed what color I got, I was third.

Got a requisition for the old military mind,
kept it shined, knew it was good for something,-

Some one, ah, yes, Fulton Sheen, asked me, on TV,
just like in the spirit, the way I hear it, no lie
is of the truth, yet, yes, I know,
how lies work, one must believe trust is possible,
not culturally defined, what it is, the wedom
feeling, me and you, bound to find the answer…

F.T.A. wei wu wei wu, too WAYtold you, … meet me
at that ***** colony in Vietnam, give a dam,
rebuild some dikes we blew to hell and gone, gone
awe, the we
still functions, the old military mind, we got the gaba
keeping mean free paths open to any
enquirery counsel of haught, haught, ought not we
- clearing percussive growl- insignificant
respect our predecessors. In deed, rewatch 957 hours

This
Is BBC, from the past yet to be completed in your futurer

------------ bleed through, has dear value here? NOW
Who asks of me a reason for this faith in me?
Waar. Alas. 8 wpm
Dear , God, what
Contention,
dispute
- repute
perhaps "repeatedly" (see re-), + putare
"to judge, suppose, believe, suspect,"
originally "to clean, trim, prune"

From <https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=repute>

Or PIE*pau, punch-
"to cut, strike, stamp" {;}

Content is king.
- moments, instants, we all know
pride, swelling heat, as we are
mostly micky mouse molecules, heated
e-motionally, as volume of conscious thought
shifts into save me, auto, self, image,
hot h2oh yes
rush from rage or shame,
AI puts the blame on Thymus glands planned
final message, at the canker worm's first byte

pre-serving pattern, rage, red-face grimace
peruperu, yaaaah,
-Ma-ow-ri co robbery-gasp
choke, cough, click off. Angery flesh,
where the lie you love ***** your reason
for war to a head, that is shrunken,
to a mathematical point,
to weigh against shame put on you by a contest,
for best…

It's business, busy, busy, busy, we all must be
busy about our master's business,
making disciples, ah, ambiguity, you *****,
discipline my poeisis plea-plea-please

break loose, hold the line at etho- no, esthesic

esthesic, sic, the es, essential esses, complex
enfolding from olden minds loosed in 2022.

The rub. Yes, per haps we rhearrange, create next
from another ify point made,
you know, you just do, right, sci-psi-psy, experientially,
inside
out, gleam, see that gleam, something like the rage
that reddened the last loser's face, that gleam in her eye,
uses twice that power,
one look, one look,
you know, she knows, just iust adjust a second perspective,

megamacro gravity lens, placed just there,

I am asking you,
to play a game, with ghosts of old agreements, oaths
kept,

to the proof of the promise; and not one  

-dared finish the reason strung together, over spreading pearls,
- until the internet ****** him in
- like, 1995
sheen shone in the word serpent, on tele-type roles
to the moon, Alice, Jones, what I miss, 1964
to the moon
as in, wise as, as is the voice, bray
hoo, uses {} these to appear obvious.
- in Kansas, we call these buttermilk skys,
to here 2022, that fast
real as ever.

Trippier than hell. BY FAR, be it known.
This is the soul of a sould out soldier-
monk- protestant dissenter, cursed
son of an itch
no man can scratch alone, be it known.
Be it known, echolalia glossalalial
'armonica.

Humming.

The imaginations, ours, not
the other people, we are not
other people now. We are you,
Dear Reader, from the Dear Diary
classification for emotional connection, sin is losing all connection.
- that is all. That is, the religious ordered     wall
It is, of course, of course,
correctible,
a matter of physics, time in truth,
alls it is.

Time in truth. As a regular thing,
a daily routine,
a quotidian thing that makes peace

seem this easy, for example.
7:48

Estoy solo en la oscura estación de metro de Fulton Street,
Respirando el aire con olor a orina,
Exhalando nubes de vapor,
Un tren subterráneo se precipita a lo largo del anden,
No se detiene,
Muerde mis tímpanos,
Con la percusión dolorosa,
De miles de personas,
Gritando en silencio,

Yo no quiero ver,
     Yo no quiero ver,
          Yo no quiero ver,

El aire avivado por cada vagón de metro,
Me empuja,
Propulsa el ozono y el olor de frenos quemados,
En mis fosas nasales,
Junto con el aire,
Introducido a través de las rejillas de hierro,
A lo largo de kilómetros de las aceras de Brooklyn,
Llevando el olor de las llagas supurantes de una prostituta,
Y los gritos de un niño hambriento, sin padre en pañales sucios,
Y el gemido ronco de un concejal de la ciudad educando a un paje joven,
Y el perfume barato de una niña de catorce años de edad fugitiva,
Vendiendo su cuerpo por $20 en un callejón,
Oliendo de comida china rancia y perros humedos,
Y . . .

Yo no quiero ver,
     Yo no quiero ver,
          Yo no quiero ver,

. . . el olor de la sopa de repollo podrida,
Y los restos rancios de un perrito caliente enterrado en chucrut,
Y lirios putrefactos acostados en una alcantarilla,
Todos agrediéndome, obligándome hacia atrás,
Hasta que mi espalda presiona contra,
Las una vez blancas baldosas sucias, que queman fríamente sus grafitis en mi columna vertebral:

Dios está muerto,
Asa a un judío,
Los blancos chupan,
Mata a los negros,

Yo no quiero ver,
     Yo no quiero ver,
          Yo no quiero ver,

El tren finalmente pasa,
Sus ojos rojos retrocediendo en el túnel,
Húmedo y oscuro más allá de la plataforma,
Los gritos y chillidos lentamente mueren,
Sus ecos aspirando detrás de ellos,
El olor,
De mi,
Vomito,
Caliente.

“****** butter was made by mixing two parts of lard with one part of molasses This ****** butter was what we had to use on our bread; and we did well if we didn't have to spread it deuced thin. The bread was so hard that it needed greasing; and this was all we had to grease it with – we had no gravy.” ~ Speaking Lives, Authoring Texts: Three African American Women's Oral Slave Narratives edited by DoVeanna S. Fulton Minor, Reginald H. Pitts

In the early morning rise,
my mother and I
take a ride
to the hospital
where I was born
and she has her
dialysis treatments.
Her feet,
wrinkled and bruised,
exhausted
are raised
on a leather pedestal.

They remind me
of Grandma’s
heavy black nylons
that pooled around
her ankles
as she prayed
the rosary at night
in the gentle sway
of her rocking chair,
praying through the days
and all the
joyful,
luminous,
sorrowful,
glorious mysteries,
the standing
required for raising
thirteen children
on platefuls
of morning quesitos,
revoltillos,
bowls of crema
and loaves
of pan de aqua,
three hours
of washing, ironing
and folding their vestidos,
the lunches of
mofongo, and pasteles,
the dinners of
asopao de gandules,
the culling of coins
from a big crystal bowl
to buy dulces
at Carmen’s bodega
just down the block
on Fulton and Seventh.

My mother only had four children,
three boys and a girl,
and just like abuela,
she nourished
them the same way—
standing long and hard
until her feet gave out
and her blood wore down,
in the days before
the seams of myself
unraveled in black threads
and dispersed in tears
to every corner.

In the dreams
for the reality
that never occurred
I would
massage her feet,
put the richest nard
generously on them
like the chastised Mary
did for Jesus,
bandage them in flesh.

The little memories
are unremembered
to the world
except for
the faithful sons
and daughters
who recall only
the clinking of
thirty shiny silver pieces
placed silently
into their open palms,
betraying the reality
with the buffing of memory
into better hopes and dreams,
a poetry
of bruised feet,
blood,
the scent
of good Boricua cuisine,
the silent
watching  
mother
asleep.

Yes it's me, the B.I.G
Competition ripper ever since 13
Used to steal clothes was considered a thief
Until I started hustlin' on Fulton Street
Makin' loot, knockin' boots on the regular
Pass the microphone I'm the perfect competitor
Jewels and all that, my clothes is all that
Chumps steppin' to me, that's where they took a FALL at!
B.I.G. without burner, that's unheard of
I stay close to mine like Tina on Turner
Quick to smother, a punk *******
Undercover, word to mother, I'm above ya
And I love ya, cause you're a sweet *****
A crazy crab, the type to make my **** itch
I flow looser than Luther, words ya get used ta
B.I.G. is a born trooper
Like ice cream I scoop ya, my music you wanna get loose ta
Stay dipped, and I'm not a booster
So what'cha got to say? This mackin' word is bond
There's no other assumption, I got it going on
I'm not conceited, my friends tell me this
Even my mother, be noddin' her head to this
Makes her proud to see her one son get loud
Flip on a sucker, and bow to the crowd
Drink a little Hennessy, smoke a blunt or 2 or 3 or 4
Live in action, guaranteed RAW

My Final Poem

desert this below a kiss
blow open the door;
sit next to a two bit *****
in shallow peaks we gain our reach return to speak
enough of the bad stuff no word below its cuff
shadows in the brightened morn
if there's a rose will beg a thorn
Pac would have been proud the Grecian Urn appears
below the breeze an acorn below a tree
slight of hand will lead to understand
move closer then ever before
love in its painted view
in the light of the slightest hint
shadows again block the vortex of the eye
love in its fullest foughht born disease
come closer then ever before
carry yourself mild get a bit wild
tremendous push into its mix
sorrowful scent below the push

These are the final days
caught below some purple haze
stuck in the window of affliction
barnyard goat reserved the roast;
take some time to think we look in the mix
solace, from here to pause the way you think
love is fallen duration in a lucky behind
shades of wrath above the Fulton mask
this is my final poem with words to cope to learn
red, grey & blue

heat around the meadow barren in the unique circle
as I look to the East through an oceanic view
these are the mark of a man family jewels
a scent of green ivy of how one depends
Lori & I
walk along the beach
try to catch that frisbee so out of reach
we reserved the right to be custom made
brave as your kind made from behind
some have busted their *** no one gets by on any free pass
we can learn to cope
having a fight with the soap on the right

Shades of red, blue & green
living in a land so very mean
search through the newspapers to begins
search through an encounter
getting up their in age
to learn from your mistakes
search through the window
plug up your ear
a search as the queer
love in the instant