Like a psychotic docent in the wilderness,
I will not speak in perfect Ciceronian cadences.
I draw my voice from a much deeper cistern,
Preferring the jittery synaptic archive,
So sublimely unfiltered, random and profane.
And though I am sequestered now,
Confined within the walls of a gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55 lunatic asylum (for Active Seniors I am told),
I remain oddly puerile,
Remarkably refreshed and unfettered.  
My institutionalization self-imposed,
Purposed for my own serenity, and also the safety of others.
Yet I abide, surprisingly emancipated and frisky.
I may not have found the peace I seek,
But the quiet has mercifully come at last.

The nexus of inner and outer space is context for my story.
I was born either in Brooklyn, New York or Shungopavi, Arizona,
More of intervention divine than census data.
Shungopavi: a designated place for tribal statistical purposes.
Shungopavi: an ovine abbatoir and shaman’s cloister.
The Hopi: my mother’s people, a state of mind and grace,
Deftly landlocked, so cunningly circumscribed,
By both interior and outer Navajo boundaries.
The Navajo: a coyote trickster people; a nation of sheep thieves,
Hornswoggled and landlocked themselves,
Subsumed within three of the so-called Four Corners:
A 3/4ths compromise and covenant,
Pickled in firewater, swaddled in fine print,
A veritable swindle concocted back when the USA
Had Manifest Destiny & mayhem on its mind.

The United States: once a pubescent synthesis of blood and thunder,
A bold caboodle of trooper spit and polish, unwashed brawlers, Scouts and      
Pathfinders, mountain men, numb-nut ne'er-do-wells,
Buffalo Bills & big-balled individualists, infected, insane with greed.
According to the Gospel of His Holiness Saint Zinn,
A People’s’ History of the United States: essentially state-sponsored terrorism,
A LAND RUSH grabocracy, orchestrated, blessed and anointed,
By a succession of Potomac sharks, Great White Fascist Fathers,
Far-Away-on-the Bay, the Bay we call The Chesapeake.
All demented national patriarchs craving lebensraum for God and country.
The USA: a 50-state Leviathan today, a nation jury-rigged,
Out of railroad ties, steel rails and baling wire,
Forged by a litany of lies, rapaciousness and ******,
And jaw-torn chunks of terra firma,
Bites both large and small out of our well-****** Native American ***.

Or culo, as in va’a fare in culo (literally "go do it in the ***")
Which Italian Americans pronounce as fongool.
The language center of my brain,
My sub-cortical Broca’s region,
So fraught with such semantic misfires,
And autonomic linguistic seizures,
Compel acknowledgement of a father’s contribution,
To both the gene pool and the genocide.
Columbus Day:  a conspicuously absent holiday out here in Indian Country.
No festivals or Fifth Avenue parades.
No excuse for ethnic hoopla. No guinea feast. No cannoli. No tarantella.
No excuse to not get drunk and not **** your sister-in-law.
Emphatically a day for prayer and contemplation,
A day of infamy like Pearl Harbor and 9/11,
October 12, 1492: not a discovery; an invasion.

Growing up in Brooklyn, things were always different for me,
Different in some sort of redskin/****/****--
Choose Your Favorite Ethnic Slur-sort of way.
The American Way: dehumanization for fun and profit.
Melting *** anonymity and denial of complicity with evil.
But this is no time to bring up America’s sordid past,
Or, a personal pet peeve: Indian Sovereignty.
For Uncle Sam and his minions, an ever-widening, conveniently flexible concept,
Not a commandment or law,
Not really a treaty or a compact,
Or even a business deal.  Let’s get real:
It was not even much in the way of a guideline.
Just some kind of an advisory, a bulletin or newsletter,
Could it merely have been a free-floating suggestion?
Yes, that’s it exactly: a suggestion.

Over and under halcyon American skies,
Over and around those majestic purple mountain peaks,
Those trapped in poetic amber waves of wheat and oats,
Corn and barley, wheat shredded and puffed,
Corn flaked and milled, Wheat Chex and Wheaties, oats that are little Os;
Kix and Trix, Fiber One, and Kashi-Go-Lean, Lucky Charms and matso *****,
Kreplach and kishka,
Polenta and risotto.
Our cantaloupe and squash patch,
Our fruited prairie plain, our delicate ecological Eden,
In balance and harmony with nature, as Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce instructs:
“These white devils are not going to,
Stop ****** and killing, cheating and eating us,
Until they have the whole ******* enchilada.
I’m talking about ‘from sea to shining sea.’”

“I fight no more forever,” Babaloo.
So I must steer this clunky keelboat of discovery,
Back to the main channel of my sad and starry demented river.
My warpath is personal but not historical.
It is my brain’s own convoluted cognitive process I cannot saavy.
Whatever biochemical or—as I suspect more each day—
Whatever bio-mechanical protocols govern my identity,
My weltanschauung: my world-view, as sprechen by proto-Nazis;
Putz philosophers of the 17th, 18th & 19th century.
The German intelligentsia: what a cavalcade of maniacal *******!
Why is this Jew unsurprised these Zarathustra-fueled Übermenschen . . .
Be it the Kaiser--Caesar in Deutsch--Bismarck, ******, or,
Even that Euro-*****,  Angela Merkel . . . Why am I not surprised these Huns,
Get global grab-*** on the sauerbraten cabeza every few generations?
To be, or not to be the ***** bullgoose loony: GOTT.

Biomechanical protocols govern my identity and are implanted while I sleep.
My brain--my weak and weary CPU--is replenished, my discs defragmented.
A suite of magnetic and optical white rooms, cleansed free of contaminants,
Gun mounts & lifeboat stations manned and ready,
Standing at attention and saluting British snap-style,
Snap-to and heel click, ramrod straight and cheerful: “Ready for duty, Sir.”
My mind is ravenous, lusting for something, anything to process.
Any memory or image, lyric or construct,
Be they short-term dailies or deeply imprinted.
Fixations archived one and all in deep storage time and space.
Memories, some subconscious, most vaporous;
Others--the scary ones—eidetic: frighteningly detailed and extraordinarily vivid.
Precise cognitive transcripts; recollected so richly rife and fresh.
Visual, auditory, tactile, gustatory, and olfactory reloads:
Queued up and increasingly re-experienced.

The bio-data of six decades: it’s all there.
People, countless, places and things cataloged.
Every event, joy and trauma enveloped from within or,
Accessed externally from biomechanical storage devices.
The random access memory of a lifetime,
Read and recollected from cerebral repositories and vaults,
All the while the entire greedy process overseen,
Over-driven by that all-subservient British bat-man,
Rummaging through the data in batches small and large,
Internal and external drives working in seamless syncopation,
Self-referential, at times paradoxical or infinitely looped.
“Cogito ergo sum."
Descartes stripped it down to the basics but there’s more to the story:
Thinking about thinking.
A curse and minefield for the cerebral:  metacognition.

No, it is not the fact that thought exists,
Or even the thoughts themselves.
But the information technology of thought that baffles me,
As adaptive and profound as any evolution posited by Darwin,
Beyond the wetware in my skull, an entirely new operating system.
My mental and cultural landscape are becoming one.
Machines are connecting the two.
It’s what I am and what I am becoming.
Once more for emphasis:
It is the information technology of who I am.
It is the operating system of my mental and cultural landscape.
It is the machinery connecting the two.
This is the central point of this narrative:
Metacognition--your superego’s yenta Cassandra,
Screaming, screaming in your psychic ear, your good ear:

“LISTEN:  The machines are taking over, taking you over.
Your identity and train of thought are repeatedly hijacked,
Switched off the main line onto spurs and tangents,
Only marginally connected or not at all.
(Incoming TEXT from my editor: “Lighten Up, Giuseppi!”)
Reminding me again that most in my audience,
Rarely get past the comic page. All righty then: think Calvin & Hobbes.
John Calvin, a precocious and adventurous six-year old boy,
Subject to flights of 16th Century French theological fancy.
Thomas Hobbes, a sardonic anthropomorphic tiger from 17th Century England,
Mumbling about life being “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.”
Taken together--their antics and shenanigans--their relationship to each other,
Remind us of our dual nature; explore for us broad issues like public education;
The economy, environmentalism & the Global ****** Thermometer;
Not to mention the numerous flaws of opinion polls.



And again my editor TEXTS me, reminds me again: “LIGHTEN UP!”
Consoling me:  “Even Shakespeare had to play to the groundlings.”
The groundlings, AKA: The Rabble.
Yes. Even the ******* Bard, even Willie the Shake,
Had to contend with a decidedly lowbrow copse of carrion.
Oh yes, the groundlings, a carrion herd, a flying flock of carrion seagulls,
Carrion crow, carrion-feeders one and all,
And let’s throw Sheryl Crow into the mix while we’re at it:
“Hit it! This ain't no disco. And it ain't no country club either, this is L.A.”  

                  Send "All I Wanna Do" Ringtone to your Cell              

Once more, I digress.
The Rabble:  an amorphous, gelatinous Jabba the Hutt of commonality.
The Rabble: drunk, debauched & lawless.
Too *****-delicious to stop Bill & Hilary from thinking about tomorrow;
Too Paul McCartney My Love Does it Good to think twice.

The Roman Saturnalia: a weeklong **** fest.
The Saturnalia: originally a pagan kink-fest in honor of the deity Saturn.
Dovetailing nicely with the advent of the Christian era,
With a project started by Il Capo di Tutti Capi,
One of the early popes, co-opting the Roman calendar between 17 and 25 December,
Putting the finishing touches on the Jesus myth.
For Brooklyn Hopi-***-Jew baby boomers like me,
Saturnalia manifested itself as Disco Fever,
Unpleasant years of electrolysis, scrunched ***** in tight polyester
For Roman plebeians, for the great unwashed citizenry of Rome,
Saturnalia was just a great big Italian wedding:
A true family blowout and once-in-a-lifetime ego-trip for Dad,
The father of the bride, Vito Corleone, Don for A Day:
“Some think the world is made for fun and frolic,
And so do I! Funicula, Funiculi!”

America: love it or leave it; my country right or wrong.
Sure, we were citizens of Rome,
But any Joe Josephus spending the night under a Tiber bridge,
Or sleeping off a three day drunk some afternoon,
Up in the Coliseum bleachers, the cheap seats, out beyond the monuments,
The original three monuments in the old stadium,
Standing out in fair territory out in center field,
Those three stone slabs honoring Gehrig, Huggins, and Babe.
Yes, in the house that Ruth built--Home of the Bronx Bombers--***?
Any Joe Josephus knows:  Roman citizenship doesn’t do too much for you,
Except get you paxed, taxed & drafted into the Legion.
For us the Roman lifestyle was HIND-*** humble.
We plebeians drew our grandeur by association with Empire.
Very few Romans and certainly only those of the patrician class lived high,
High on the hog, enjoying a worldly extravaganza, like—whom do we both know?

Okay, let’s say Laurence Olivier as Crassus in Spartacus.
Come on, you saw Spartacus fifteen ******* times.
Remember Crassus?
Crassus: that ***** twisted **** trying to get his freak on with,
Tony Curtis in a sunken marble tub?
We plebes led lives of quiet *****-scratching desperation,
A bunch of would-be legionnaires, diseased half the time,
Paid in salt tablets or baccala, salted codfish soaked yellow in olive oil.
Stiffs we used to call them on New Year’s Eve in Brooklyn.
Let’s face it: we were hyenas eating someone else’s ****,
Stage-door jackals, Juvenal-come-late-lies, a mob of moronic mook boneheads
Bought off with bread & circuses and Reality TV.
Each night, dished up a wide variety of lowbrow Elizabethan-era entertainments.  
We contemplate an evening on the town, downtown—
(cue Petula Clark/Send "Downtown" Ringtone to your Cell)

On any given London night, to wit:  mummers, jugglers, bear & bull baiters.
How about dog & **** fighters, quoits & skittles, alehouses & brothels?
In short, somewhere, anywhere else,
Anywhere other than down along the Thames,
At Bankside in Southwark, down in the Globe Theater mosh pit,
Slugging it out with the groundlings whose only interest,
In the performance is the choreography of swordplay and stale ****** puns.
Meanwhile, Hugh Fennyman--probably a fellow Jew,
An English Renaissance Bugsy Siegel or Mickey Cohen—
Meanwhile Fennyman, the local mob boss is getting his ya-yas,
Roasting the feet of my text-messaging editor, Philip Henslowe.
Poor and pathetic Henslowe, works on commission, always scrounging,
But a true patron of my craft, a gentleman of infinite jest and patience,
Spiritual subsistence, and every now and then a good meal at some,
Sawdust joint with oyster shells, and a Prufrockian silk purse of T.S. Eliot gold.

Poor, pathetic Henslowe, trussed up by Fennyman,
His editorial feet in what looks like a Japanese hibachi.
Henslowe’s feet to the fire--feet to the fire—get it?
A catchy phrase whose derivation conjures up,
A grotesque yet vivid image of torture,
An exquisite insight into how such phrases ingress the idiom,
Not to mention a scene once witnessed at a secret Romanian CIA prison,
I’d been ordered to Bucharest not long after 9/11,
Handling the rendition and torture of Habib Ghazzawy,

An entirely innocent falafel maker from Steinway Street, Astoria, Queens.
Shock the Monkey: it’s what we do. GOTO:
Peter Gabriel - Shock the Monkey/
(HQ music video) - YouTube//
www.youtube.com/
Poor, pathetic, ******-on Henslowe.


Fennyman :  (his avarice is whet by something Philly screams out about a new script)  "A play takes time. Find actors; Rehearsals. Let's say open in three weeks. That's--what--five hundred groundlings at tuppence each, in addition four hundred groundlings tuppence each, in addition four hundred backsides at three pence--a penny extra for a cushion, call it two hundred cushions, say two performances for safety how much is that Mr. Frees?"
Jacobean Tweet, John (1580-1684) Webster:  “I saw him kissing her bubbies.”

It’s Geoffrey Rush, channeling Henslowe again,
My editor, a singed smoking madman now,
Feet in an ice bucket, instructing me once more:
“Lighten things up, you know . . .
Comedy, love and a bit with a dog.”
I digress again and return to Hopi Land, back to my shaman-monastic abattoir,
That Zen Center in downtown Shungopavi.
At the Tribal Enrolment Office I make my case for a Certificate of Indian Blood,
Called a CIB by the Natives and the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs.
The BIA:  representing gold & uranium miners, cattle and sheep ranchers,
Sodbusters & homesteaders; railroaders and dam builders since 1824.
Just in time for Andrew Jackson, another false friend of Native America,
Just before Old Hickory, one of many Democratic Party hypocrites and scoundrels,
Gives the FONGOOL, up the CULO go ahead.
Hey Andy, I’ve got your Jacksonian democracy: Hanging!
The Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) mission is to:   "… enhance the quality of life, to promote economic opportunity, and to carry out the responsibility to protect and improve the trust assets of American Indians, Indian tribes, and Alaska Natives. What’s that in the fine print?  Uncle Sammy holds “the trust assets of American Indians.”

Here’s a ******* tip, Geronimo: if he trusted you,
It would ALL belong to you.
To you and The People.
But it’s all fork-tongued white *******.
If true, Indian sovereignty would cease to be a sick one-liner,
Cease to be a blunt force punch line, more of,
King Leopold’s 19th Century stand-up comedy schtick,
Leo Presents: The **** of the Congo.
La Belgique mission civilisatrice—
That’s what French speakers called Uncle Leo’s imperial public policy,
Bringing the gift of civilization to central Africa.
Like Manifest Destiny in America, it had a nice colonial ring to it.
“Our manifest destiny [is] to overspread the continent,
Allotted by Providence for the free development,
Of our yearly multiplying millions.”  John L. O'Sullivan, 1845

Our civilizing mission or manifest destiny:
Either/or, a catchy turn of phrase;
Not unlike another ironic euphemism and semantic subterfuge:
The Pacification of the West; Pacification?
Hardly: decidedly not too peaceful for Cochise & Tonto.
Meanwhile, Madonna is cash rich but disrespected Evita poor,
To wit: A ****** on the Rocks (throwing in a byte or 2 of Da Vinci Code).
Meanwhile, Miss Ciccone denied her golden totem *****.
They snubbed that little guinea ****, didn’t they?
Snubbed her, robbed her rotten.
Evita, her magnum opus, right up there with . . .
Her SNL Wayne’s World skit:
“Get a load of the unit on that guy.”
Or, that infamous MTV Music Video Awards stunt,
That classic ***** Lip-Lock with Britney Spears.

How could I not see that Oscar snubola as prime evidence?
It was just another stunning case of American anti-Italian racial animus.
Anyone familiar with Noam Chomsky would see it,
Must view it in the same context as the Sacco & Vanzetti case,
Or, that arbitrary lynching of 9 Italian-Americans in New Orleans in 1891,
To cite just two instances of anti-Italian judicial reach & mob violence,
Much like what happened to my cousin Dominic,
Gang-***** by the Harlem Globetrotters, in their locker room during halftime,
While he working for Abe Saperstein back in 1952.
Dom was doing advance for Abe, supporting creation of The Washington Generals:
A permanent stable of hoop dream patsies and foils,
Named for the ever freewheeling, glad-handing, backslapping,
Supreme Commander Allied Expeditionary Force (SCAEF), himself,
Namely General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the man they liked,
And called IKE: quite possibly a crypto Jew from Abilene.

Of course, Harry Truman was my first Great White Fascist Father,
Back in 1946, when I first opened my eyes, hung up there,
High above, looking down from the adobe wall.
Surveying the entire circular kiva,
I had the best seat in the house.
Don’t let it be said my Spider Grandmother or Hopi Corn Mother,
Did not want me looking around at things,
Discovering what made me special.
Didn’t divine intervention play a significant part of my creation?
Knowing Mamma Mia and Nonna were Deities,
Gave me an edge later on the streets of Brooklyn.
The Cradleboard: was there ever a more divinely inspired gift to human curiosity? The Cradleboard: a perfect vantage point, an infant’s early grasp,
Of life harmonious, suspended between Mother Earth and Father Sky.
Simply put: the Hopi should be running our ******* public schools.

But it was IKE with whom I first associated,
Associated with the concept 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
I liked IKE. Who didn’t?
What was not to like?
He won the ******* war, didn’t he?
And he wasn’t one of those crazy **** John Birchers,
Way out there, on the far right lunatic Republican fringe,
Was he? (It seems odd and nearly impossible to believe in 2013,
That there was once a time in our Boomer lives,
When the extreme right wing of the Republican Party
Was viewed by the FBI as an actual threat to American democracy.)
Understand: it was at a time when The FBI,
Had little ideological baggage,
But a great appetite for secrets,
The insuppressible Jay Edgar doing his thang.

IKE: of whom we grew so, oh-so Fifties fond.
Good old reliable, Nathan Shaking IKE:
He’d been fixed, hadn’t he? Had had the psychic snip.
Snipped as a West Point cadet & parade ground martinet.
Which made IKE a good man to have in a pinch,
Especially when crucial policy direction was way above his pay grade.
Cousin Dom was Saperstein’s bagman, bribing out the opposition,
Which came mainly from religious and patriotic organizations,
Viewing the bogus white sports franchise as obscene.
The Washington Generals, Saperstein’s new team would have but one opponent,
And one sole mission: to serve as the **** of endless jokes and sight gags for—
Negroes.  To play the chronic fools of--
Negroes.  To be chronically humiliated and insulted by—
Negroes.  To run up and down the boards all night, being outran by—
Negroes.  Not to mention having to wear baggy silk shorts.



Meadowlark Lemon:  “Yeah, Charlie, we ***** that grease-ball Dominic; we shagged his guinea mouth and culo rotten.”  

(interviewed in his Scottsdale, AZ winter residence in 2003 by former ESPN commentator Charlie Steiner, Malverne High School, Class of ’67.)
                                                        
  ­                                                                 ­                 
IKE, briefed on the issue by higher-ups, quickly got behind the idea.
The Harlem Globetrotters were to exist, and continue to exist,
Are sustained financially by Illuminati sponsors,
For one reason and one reason only:
To serve elite interests that the ***** be kept down and subservient,
That the minstrel show be perpetuated,
A policy surviving the elaborate window dressing of the civil rights movement, Affirmative action, and our first Uncle Tom president.
Case in point:  Charles Barkley, Dennis Rodman & Metta World Peace Artest.
Cha-cha-cha changing again:  I am Robert Allen Zimmermann,
A whiny, skinny Jew, ****** and rolling in from Minnesota,
Arrested, obviously a vagrant, caught strolling around his tony Jersey enclave,
Having moved on up the list, the A-list, a special invitation-only,
Yom Kippur Passover Seder:  Next Year in Jerusalem, Babaloo!

I take ownership of all my autonomic and conditioned reflexes;
Each personal neural arc and pathway,
All shenanigans & shellackings,
Or blunt force cognitive traumas.
It’s all percolating nicely now, thank you,
In kitchen counter earthen crockery:
Random access memory: a slow-cook crockpot,
Bubbling through my psychic sieve.
My memories seem only remotely familiar,
Distant and vague, at times unreal:
An alien hybrid databank accessed accidently on purpose;
Flaky science sustains and monitors my nervous system.
And leads us to an overwhelming question:
Is it true that John Dillinger’s ******* is in the Smithsonian Museum?
Enquiring minds want to know, Kemosabe!

“Any last words, *******?” TWEETS Adam Smith.
Postmortem cyber-graffiti, an epitaph carved in space;
Last words, so singular and simple,
Across the universal great divide,
Frisbee-d, like a Pleistocene Kubrick bone,
Tossed randomly into space,
Morphing into a gyroscopic space station.
Mr. Smith, a calypso capitalist, and me,
Me, the Poet Laureate of the United States and Adam;
Who, I didn’t know from Adam.
But we tripped the light fantastic,
We boogied the Protestant Work Ethic,
To the tune of that old Scotch-Presbyterian favorite,
Variations of a 5-point Calvinist theme: Total Depravity; Election; Particular Redemption; Irresistible Grace; & Perseverance of the Saints.

Mr. Smith, the author of An Inquiry into the Nature
& Causes of the Wealth of Nations (1776),
One of the best-known, intellectual rationales for:
Free trade, capitalism, and libertarianism,
The latter term a euphemism for Social Darwinism.
Prior to 1764, Calvinists in France were called Huguenots,
A persecuted religious majority . . . is that possible?
A persecuted majority of Edict of Nantes repute.
Adam Smith, likely of French Huguenot Jewish ancestry himself,
Reminds me that it is my principal plus interest giving me my daily gluten.
And don’t think the irony escapes me now,
A realization that it has taken me nearly all my life to see again,
What I once saw so vividly as a child, way back when.
Before I put away childish things, including the following sentiment:
“All I need is the air that I breathe.”

  Send "The Air That I Breathe" Ringtone to your Cell  

The Hippies were right, of course.
The Hollies had it all figured out.
With the answer, as usual, right there in the lyrics.
But you were lucky if you were listening.
There was a time before I embraced,
The other “legendary” economists:
The inexorable Marx,
The savage society of Veblen,
The heresies we know so well of Keynes.
I was a child.
And when I was a child, I spake as a child—
Grazie mille, King James—
I understood as a child; I thought as a child.
But when I became a man I jumped on the bus with the band,
Hopped on the irresistible bandwagon of Adam Smith.

Smith:  “Any last words, *******?”
Okay, you were right: man is rationally self-interested.
Grazie tanto, Scotch Enlightenment,
An intellectual movement driven by,
An alliance of Calvinists and Illuminati,
Freemasons and Johnny Walker Black.
Talk about an irresistible bandwagon:
Smith, the gloomy Malthus, and David Ricardo,
Another Jew boy born in London, England,
Third of 17 children of a Sephardic family of Portuguese origin,
Who had recently relocated from the Dutch Republic.
******* Jews!
Like everything shrewd, sane and practical in this world,
WE also invented the concept:  FOLLOW THE MONEY.

The lyrics: if you were really listening, you’d get it:
Respiration keeps one sufficiently busy,
Just breathing free can be a full-time job,
Especially when--borrowing a phrase from British cricketers—,
One contemplates the sorry state of the wicket.
Now that I am gainfully superannuated,
Pensioned off the employment radar screen.
Oft I go there into the wild ebon yonder,
Wandering the brain cloud at will.
My journey indulges curiosity, creativity and deceit.
I free range the sticky wicket,
I have no particular place to go.
Snagging some random fact or factoid,
A stop & go rural postal route,
Jumping on and off the brain cloud.

Just sampling really,
But every now and then, gorging myself,
At some information super smorgasbord,
At a Good Samaritan Rest Stop,
I ponder my own frazzled neurology,
When I was a child—
Before I learned the grim economic facts of life and Judaism,
Before I learned Hebrew,
Before my laissez-faire Bar Mitzvah lessons,
Under the rabbinical tutelage of Rebbe Kahane--
I knew what every clever child knows about life:
The surfing itself is the destination.
Accessing RAM--random access memory—
On a strictly need to know basis.
RAM:  a pretty good name for consciousness these days.

If I were an Asimov or Sir Arthur (Sri Lankabhimanya) Clarke,
I’d get freaky now, riffing on Terminators, Time Travel and Cyborgs.
But this is truth not science fiction.
Nevertheless, someone had better,
Come up with another name for cyborg.
Some other name for a critter,
Composed of both biological and artificial parts?
Parts-is-parts--be they electronic, mechanical or robotic.
But after a lifetime of science fiction media,
After a steady media diet, rife with dystopian technology nightmares,
Is anyone likely to admit to being a cyborg?
Since I always give credit where credit is due,
I acknowledge that cyborg was a term coined in 1960,
By Manfred Clynes & Nathan S. Kline and,
Used to identify a self-regulating human-machine system in outer space.

Five years later D. S. Halacy's: Cyborg: Evolution of the Superman,
Featured an introduction, which spoke of:  “… a new frontier, that was not,
Merely space, but more profoundly, the relationship between inner space,
And outer space; a bridge, i.e., between mind and matter.”
So, by definition, a cyborg defined is an organism with,
Technology-enhanced abilities: an antenna array,
Replacing what was once sentient and human.
My glands, once in control of metabolism and emotions,
Have been replaced by several servomechanisms.
I am biomechanical and gluttonous.
Soaking up and breathing out the atmosphere,
My Baby Boom experience of six decades,
Homogenized and homespun, feedback looped,
Endlessly networked through predigested mass media,
Culture as demographically targeted content.

This must have something to do with my own metamorphosis.
I think of Gregor Samsa, a Kafkaesque character if there ever was one.
And though we share common traits,
My evolutionary progress surpasses and transcends his.
Samsa--Phylum and Class--was, after all, an insect.
Nonetheless, I remain a changeling.
Have I not seen many stages of growth?
Each a painful metamorphic cycle,
From exquisite first egg,
Through caterpillar’s appetite & squirm.
To phlegmatic bliss and pupa quietude,
I unfold my wings in a rush of Van Gogh palette,
Color, texture, movement and grace, lift off, flapping in flight.
My eyes have witnessed wondrous transformations,
My experience, nouveau riche and distinctly self-referential;
For the most part unspecific & longitudinally pedestrian.

Yes, something has happened to me along the way.
I am no longer certain of my identity as a human being.
Time and technology has altered my basic wiring diagram.
I suspect the sophisticated gadgets and tools,
I’ve been using to shape & make sense of my environment,
Have reared up and turned around on me.
My tools have reshaped my brain & central nervous system.
Remaking me as something simultaneously more and less human.
The electronic toys and tools I once so lovingly embraced,
Have turned unpredictable and rabid,
Their bite penetrating my skin and septic now, a cluster of implanted sensors,
Content: currency made increasingly more valuable as time passes,
Served up by and serving the interests of a pervasively predatory 1%.
And the rest of us: the so-called 99%?
No longer human; simply put by both Howards--Beale & Zinn--

Humanoid.

This is not, a time to loosen up
Or nine to five job to give up
Just saddle up the power is in you
Five ladies cafe to dine at five and
drove_* the meter is running
(The Canadian Cup) team versus the
     Taxi Cup
He swooned you in your
Five dreamy but half heart sugars
Come on Baby bloomers
Let's see some boom!!

In your hips men will be men taking
frequent flyer trips temptation 1 2345
We need fewer digs one love teo reasons
World  345  heart flags
We don't have to cross our hearts
Perhaps tattoo heart legs no more strikes
Jumping Jack flash
What a rope in this isn't the Pope

Somehow we all get broke
To court her like your the lasso
stars cosmos hearts like Lassie
Never a change of subject how it
remains in your heart how it hit hard
to react but changed to five cards
Digging too long  lucky 777 like heaven
Heart digs

1-where?
Oh! There

No, I am here
We are always  
In-between
numbers_ I only
have 5 minutes
No I phone have a heart
Oh! where is designed for me
Those five plates

Whats in between them
      *Him
We are opening Live- Five
Strong heart to give the caring
The useful heart is never so daring
My gate* Girls are nail digging
Hugging
Or losing add +

Flirty
*****
Our community
Heftier like Jupiter
Heart to build
the gravity
A big kiss hunch
of five roses

Your getting to bloom
but only have
5 extra movie parts
The front dress mermaid tail
Your heart delicate hands
opened up your emails
I think you hit the
Jackpot

Max to the million shot
No heart of gold
Only more leaders
Scrambling and digging
your fork
Mixing those egg beaters

Five men think they know
there women
like ten
commandments
Turn to five wrong
engagements
There it goes the lucky
five arguments

A plot beating
like a hot-shot
The French Baguette
Bread 9 to 5 firecracker
Five-carat baguette
wedding band in her safe
Heart digs to five hands
Heart neck guilty as a giraffe

The cafe house had only
5 cups left  they sold you out
Only Five Bed and breakfast
stayers
Do detailed with their Ladyfingers
But need more alone time
Be on time get sweet key lime
What is real-time so sublime

That rose- paper cut- origami
Sorcerer of five he was like the
cold cuts of big Sub Salami
Japanese sword samurai
What a Geronimo Oh! no
Jericho
This wasn't a hot potato

Or Gizmo No-Go
Getting a shot for Polio
The gusto songs to the heart play
Maestro the Cosmo's
The five stars to heart his
afterglow
Like a titanic ship but heroics

Five lunatics wedding horns ******
Five two timer Mario gamers
so demonic
DOMINO'S bed five students wed
We dug deeper get-up sleepy-head
Exposed cries location set
Network U- dig cups

Something lip curved
He misplaced my lips
What did he do in exchange
More stocks and hard stone rocks
Like frying pan egg
scrambled words

Crossed heart Rapper so believing
The Fox five sticking tacky glue
His CD Rose lying pants no clue
Painful pointed shoes need R&R
     Robin's *Responsibilities
       The Heart On Replay
The deeper you dig to restart

The healthy organically grown brain
Men on Pause I truly believe nature
takes its course
but another beat to go is that so?
And if so heart digs to five
Feel the good vibe in another tribe
Five times I had to wake you up
I am the love cure reminiscing

Giving me five reasons
Our beautiful change of
heart in season
Studying the fine art heart
Referencing
Never refusing thats life
five-step to strive nothing
Fancy

Robin shoutbox she getting
her point across
Either you're the worker or loner
The heart pleaser the boss
Your heart looks good
on your dress
Whether we win or deep mess
The good heart can change to
a bad start

Recharge your heart count to five
Venus- beauty moved on like a
pathologist digging over staying alive

GERONIMO wherefore
are thou now?
what scaffold have you fallen
                                                       from & stared
w/milk-pale eyes
                                 at Reverend Cacey
(who stands murmuring   ,  
                     4
pound golden crucifix in out
stretched hands ? )

(the world is very scared
o
  f
     you..)

(why else would
                               ol' blood   hound
Joe Horn
                  be  put  on  yr  trail  ? )
                                                               raise thy sharps rifle 'bove yr head & eat out
                                                                ­                                                          
                                                                                                                    th'sun !!

                 (i declare you are a mountain poet.)

She was blessed from the start like a christening
Aura glistening
Her vision is
Astounding
Very humble still grounded
Well rounded
Well known
Not for getting *****
But rather for how shes sounding
On the mic every night
Harmonic tunes
Melodic boon
Has every one in a trance
As if she was a muse
no daughter to Zeus
But a goddess in her own rights
In a dark room she still consumes eyes
As if she's in the spot light
a little lime and still bright
Life gave her lemons
She created her own zest
Best
quality is her smooth characteristics
Or is it
how she styles with finess
With out trying to empress
The next
Man she  just do it for her self
**** here I am thinking I could help
But can't even help my self
Why cause her
Intellect matches her beauty
I'm talking she got brains and her *****
Bubble
**** see that's not really what attracted me
It was that crazy **** cool personality
Not exactly
a role model
But who wants perfect
Cause honestly
Sometimes a woman's flaws will make her worth it
Even if a future isn't certain
Instead of saying you working
Over time
Give a reason to put work in and overtime
You gain connection
Type of girl to be your lover and BESTFRIEND
Treat her nothing less then
The best thing
you ever had
Make sure she never mad
bad in their own view
But to you she beautiful
Woman not a *****
But that's a word most men are use to
Plus trying to get
a women as Devine
as I define
Is hard to find
So a good women we become immune to
But see if I get that I won't let go
but that's the funny thing about is you'll never know
feelings will never show
If they do  
You'll feel clumsy  
never look before you fall
You just close your eyes and say
Geronimo

once a collage
hung on a wide white wall  
with monochrome photos of  
all creatures great and small  

Dali juxtaposed with Doris Day,
LBJ atop JFK, and Joe DiMaggio,
grinning Frankenstein and frowning
Frank Sinatra, not far below

Hemingway, Groucho Marx, Marlon Brando  
occupying three of four corners, the bottom right
a curious cat, in stretched repose

dead center, a cracked crucifix
and four Beatles all, Paul the biggest
with the cross crowning his frame    

a Corvette,
and Stalin in his tomb  
were also given ample room,
on this black and white piece of art  
as were *******, with cap,
Jimi Hendrix with axe  

another three score
and a couple more, completed
this cacophony of sight, but absent
were J. Bieber, Beyonce, any of the Simpsons
of Fox fame, revealing the artist of this gray masterpiece  
was blissfully blind to cyber sacrilege,
Steve Job’s toys, and the lost soul
of Lindsey Lohan

Martin Luther had a dream
Geronimo had visions
People use all sorts of ways
To come to their decisions

Tea leaf readers in a cup
A Psychic with some cards
Looking at a twirling disc
And dancing in the yard

Decision making's easy
If you have the correct tool
You may get the right answer
Or you may end up a fool

Shaman in a sweat lodge
Chew peyote just to see
What the others can not visualize
But what comes easy to folks like me

Some roll dice, and others bones
To get the answer that they need
Others ask the dead to help
To get their answer freed

I myself use none of these
None of these at all
I sit down with a bourbon
And my old Magic Black 8-ball

I switched the little answer ball
It has answers....only two
One is just the one word "dude"
And "what would Keith Richards do?"

"Dude" is universal
It has helped me win not lose
Because it's meaning changes
Depending on the "u"'s

Say it with one U...dude
it means don't even think it
But add eight more and make it duuuuuuuuude
And there's no question you should drink it

The other answer's simple
What would good old Keefy do?
If it didn't **** old Keefy
It won't **** me and you

So, use your magic mushrooms
Dance with spirits in the hall
But I'll make my decisions
With my plastic, black eight ball

They put me by the door
And I could see below
800 feet to the ground
A solid green carpet
Looking soft enough to sleep on.
But the limbs underneath
Were sharp and deadly.
It wasn't a good day
For a jump I thought.
Who wants to jump out of a C-47
On their first airplane ride
Into the wild blue yonder--
No one with good sense
As I answered my own question.
I remembered hearing about
The guy who received a parachute
Not knowing it needed repair
But he had faith nothing happened
To a nice guy like him.
So when he jumped out
And didn't feel the jolt slow down
His descent to the ground
He looked up with panicked eyes
And saw the chute fluttering away.
He muttered a few cuss words
When he saw the ground come fast.
He didn't pull his reserve in time
And never heard the deadly thud.
Those were my thoughts
As the T-7 parachute
Opened with the snap of a whip
Just as the parachutist behind me
Started walking on my canopy.
I could see his boots sink in deep
And I hollared, get your sorry *** off
You low life no good *******--
A panic lingo that flowed out
Because I was scared crapless
At the turn of events.
Luckily my chute didn't collapse
And his chute started floating away.
No harm done except my nerves
Were a little frayed.
It only takes about 8-10 seconds
To get to the ground
From the time you leave the plane.
So I looked down and there it was
With the wind blowing about 20 knots.
I could feel myself swaying
Much like a pendulum on a clock.
I wasn't trained to land on my back
As I'd learned the five point landing technique
But then the ground slammed my rear
With a sledge hammer effect
Knocking the light off in my brain.
But I must have awakened shortly
As the wind had opened my canopy
Dragging me across the rocky landing zone
Till I became aware and remembered
To pull the bottom risers on my chute
To empty the air from it
So I could roll on top of it.
Then an instructor came by yelling
Get your *** up soldier
And take your chute back where you got it.
I responded accordingly
Wanting to keep my nose clean
And make the rest of my jumps
So I could get my Parachutist Wings.
It would take 4 more jumps that week.
I had to meet those requirements
Or they would send my derriere oveseas
Where a war was going on.
That was all the incentive I needed
To bust my **** gladly
And claw my way to paratrooper status.
Geronimo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
I thought sheepishly to myself
For my not so altruistic bravado.

On a Tuesday afternoon
we are all in one place so
an outing is long over-due.
Let’s go out for drinks, I suggest
and we agree—as long as we can wear whatever.

On a Tuesday night
I pick the girls up, avidly
avoiding the gaze of your window
in a building forced to live above you.

In Geronimo’s on a Tuesday night
I order ‘Red Sun’, she orders ‘Spicy Blood Orange’
& the other orders wine.
Mine is pink—it’s too strong, no more please.
Well you said ‘for drinks’! they complain
as if I’ve betrayed a pact.

She orders another, ‘Appaloosa Sangria’
and she’s so tiny when the waitress looks at my full glass
—Embarrassing.
I hate the sliding bathroom door where I am
alone with my thoughts for 2.7 minutes but
I’m antsy—time to go

In my Audi on a Tuesday night
I want dessert; I want a donut.
Dunkin it is.

In Dunkin Donuts on a Tuesday night
Tiny tells me she wants to cuddle
sometimes. She’s drunk.
I order a chocolate glazed donut to a poor man with Hispanic features
who is working alone
The homeless lady won’t stop talking and we wont stop laughing
in the Dunkin bathroom.
I heard everything, she says as we leave and giggle in terror.

In my Audi on a late Tuesday night
I don’t want to go back to school yet—I have an idea.
Post Road is empty; I’m hyper-aware
of the black Dodge pick-up driving past.
I don’t question if it’s you.
Did you see me?
Of course you saw me, my car is
unavoidable; it’s **** & white.

In The Grape on a late Tuesday night
there is no one I know so I trail
Wine and Tiny trails me.
I know friends of friends, say Hi, hi, hi
You look cute, so do you! Yay! hug Okay bye, bye, bye
Tiny drinks another with Wine and I’m still
sober where I want to be,
making memories without you, ha.
But it’s time to go back to hellhole and these people kinda ****.

In my Audi for the last time on a late Tuesday night
Mahan lot full, duh.
Quick Center lot full, duh.
Bellarmine lot full, ****!
Regis lot—Where’s your car? It’s got to be here . . .
black Dodge pick-up backed in nicely, I wish I could park beside.
What did you do on a Tuesday night?
Regis lot full, are you kidding?
Tiny has motion sickness, she’s quite a drag
I wonder if my friend nearby, with the golf cart, can drive us back
But **** it, we can walk ten minutes in the cold ‘cuz
I’ve got my jacket and gloves.

In McInnes on a late Tuesday night
Wine goes to bed, Tiny calls for a reinforcement
who is waiting at our door.
Questions with an upward inflection fill my bedroom as if she can’t
take care of herself—her support can barely support himself.
I write a long note to you on my computer on my bed because you ****.
I get a Do you mind if Support sleeps over just this once to make sure I’m okay? text
Which means I won’t get sleep due to overweight heavy breathing
Fine, I’m backed into a corner.
& I know that after my third attempt of slumber, I will end up crying
on the couch in the living room. I should have stayed home.

On an early Wednesday morning
I stuff a bag of clothes, my retainer case, and Berner & Holes and
I power-walk to my car in Jogues—7 minutes, probably or less
& drive the 5 minutes home before the tears fall.
There’s a cop parked beside Pine Creek Deli,
I wonder if he wonders why an Audi is up so late.

In [address] on an early Wednesday morning
my dad is in his boxers in the middle of the stairs.
What are you doing? he asks and I snap back because
Isn’t it obvious what someone would be doing at 2:43 am?
My bed is quiet and my mind is loud wondering—
Did you have fun tonight? for the both of us.

I done jumped off a cliff..
I wrote this poem on my way to the bottom
Hard to see from all the air pressure.
I should have wore goggles
You know safety first
The Bible say no *** before marriage
Yet the world say just where a ******
I think thats  a eagles nest
Did one of them hatch
Mama eagle scouting for food
But where daddy at?
Thinking of Dr. Seuss the little bird looking for his mama
But where I'm from too often we looking for papa
The landscape getting close.
Now why did I jump
Oh yeah my gang dared me
I had to show them I wasn't a punk
Do anything to be socially accepted
Even risk becoming a ghost
I should have stopped trying to be in the crowd
Instead accepted my reality
Now I'm just another casualty of gravity

So slight, the difference
Between falling and flying.

They share the jump, and
The difficult breathing.

No one can tell you died crying
When you've been hit in the face

With the
World.

The irony of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
As being a European, a foreigner to this land
Not a native, as the original people who art still here,
I shalt speaketh truth, on a topic, the European's here
Don't speaketh of;

I seeith politician's, speaketh of building a higher wall
As tis their art already wall's, lining Mexico and the united states,
I seeith wall's, to tryeth and keepeth out, the original people's.
As tis so many I'll heareth, so many sayeth the quote: ( illegal alien's, art coming over here stealing work) huh? Illegal alien's didst thou sayeth? As if their from another land? Or planet?......

Yet the fact is;
Who art the real quote: ALIENS!!!!
Us, the European's, as tis not mine fault mine parents hath cometh here, as not the other European's fault
That their parent's hath cometh here,
As tis I hath Cherokee in mine blood as well, from mine mother;

Though fact is, here's the truth;
The disgusting fact, noone want's to speaketh of, in
Politic's, in religion, in media, nowhere, is this fact..........

The European's and rich men now leading the country
From the quote: founding Father's, which may be other's founding father's, verily not mine!!!!!! Hath built wall's,
To keepeth out the alien's as many calleth them, in actuality us European's art the alien's, the one's who stole their land, built walls, and fences, and hath polluted their water, wherein water was once blue and green here in the river's and stream's,
As for example; in the town I'm in now, Rossford Ohio, some left from the older generation around here in their nineties Or 80's told me and mine family, the river that sit's behind mine place, native river called the ( maumee river) one fifty years ago people swam in, it was blue they told us, thou couldst seeith the fish inside of it, as children wouldst swim it... Guess what? Now that same river, is brown, is polluted, is poisoned, with the glass factories mess , and dump from work site's, into that river..... It's sickening... As tis the land once was open, free, no border's, no fences, here's the good part, see, the chief's all along this great nation, they all hadst vision's, vision's of these white men coming, as they saw it in spiritual shamanic ceremonies, as they saw the land being stolen, their people murdered by the thousand's, they saw destruction, from what? Men thou calleth thine founding father's? Thieves that hadst cometh here, to build walls? And killeth the native people's who were slaughtered, brought disease, and put on plot's of land a mile big? If even that... As tis they used to roam free, now forced into gvt debt, and the quote founding father's ancestor's and politician's hath given them medal's, as if that wouldst healeth them? No!!! As tis even the natives won't speaketh on this topic much. Though some will.... Fact is , àll went downhill, since the quote: founding Father's raised their flag... On a land not their's, on a land, not mine....though noone speaketh of this harsh truth... History channel hath now shown, with other archeologists, that the original people, now in southern Mexico, the Aztec people, once cameth from the north... Northern America, as in Wisconsin, see, in Wisconsin, their art pyramid's down below a certain lake, rock lake is it's name... The pyramids match the Aztec style as tis there art writings to showeth their presence their.. As come to findeth out; there is a map, sent into a famous Mexican archeological historical advocate, the map showeth on it something the u s gvt hath hid, as they do such much hiding from all of us... The map showeth on salt like, in Utah, is known place for the original Aztec people, purely factual, the story was told, the chief of his clan Aztecs, told his people, that he kneweth the men wouldst cometh to steal the land, so he told them they wouldst stop where the eagle eats the head of the snake...... Wanna know something ironic about that? Well here's proof of that, where the Aztecs now reside, southern Mexico, well Mexico hath a flag, like all have flags... Guess what is on Mexico's flag? An eagle eating a snake head... As chief saidst.... As in old map found in Spanish letters written next to salt lake Utah, read the words ( aztec territory) yet hidden in history purposely, these are harsh truth's, some may not be able to handle this, but when thou calleth one an illegal alien, thinketh who thou art... We art the aliens... as we aren't meant for this land... Though not our fault we were born here... As we must go with the flow as they say... As I loveth this great land, though reality is, I don't belong here.... As tis mine religious  beliefs state anyways, this world is just temporary anyways, noone owns this planet... God does..  Not man...its sickening seeing seeing mine own leader's, building walls to keepeth out ( illegal aliens) as they calleth them, yet were the aliens.... The irony... All for their greedy purposes and power control trip....as the native population hath decreased over fifty percent..Or more then.... Yet we tend to think, this is our place.. . as tis the u.s gvt hath stolen native gold, from their sacred places.... Places not meant to be touched, or dug into, though it's the good warrior's like Geronimo who decided and decides to stand against more such thing's..... As a European, it saddens me to seeith what mine kind hath done... And in this great beautiful sacred land what they still do....... That's harsh truth.... Much truth noone sais . yet I'm one who will......as the man who hath received that map of the Aztec's didst sayeth, he put it perfectly, he saidst ( border's art imaginary, border's art only in ourn mind's) how such truth..... And we wonder why there is differences....

That's harsh honesty.....



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

She’s so cute I wanna eat her face,
like I’m high on bath salts,
she’s vegan,
but takes my tongue like a cannibal,

eat your hearts out Haters,
cut my ear off and send it to her like Van Gogh,
ear off a part of the big picture,
or rather painting we’re painting she gets the first stroke,
we’re wild like animals untamable all in all the time,
into the deep end head first Geronimo cannonball,
Black Swan dive she’s gone alive,
the Pied Piper the Eyed Viper the venom & the antidote,

and I quote a quote I wrote myself,
“She’s the answer to my prayers”, the reason and the hope,

she’s the answer to my prayers,
and I don’t even pray,
okay actually on the low I do pray,
and I’ve seen a lot of amazing things but I’m still amazed,

I’m amazed,
and tomorrow isn’t promised today,
and tomorrow never comes,
but she comes and when she does she comes in waves,

I’m in a daze,
honey glazed and lovely crazed,
my bed’s a mess haven’t made it in days,
bed’s a mess but when we’re together we’ve got it made,

so perfectly misbehaved it’s insane,

lost myself then found my self all up in her maze,
and usually I’m not religious,
but she’s so delicious I must say,
thank you Lord or God Amen to her I give all thanks & praise,

and she’s so cute I wanna eat her face,
like I’m high on bath salts,
she’s vegan,
but takes my tongue like a cannibal…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

Venice, California; 2018

As I lay me down to sleep,
I can't get you
out of my head.

Come run with me
to forever,
I'll hold your hands
till we grow older.

Smile when my eyes
are frozen,
because they're all frozen
for you.

Kisses might be far too soon,
but I'll be waiting,
our hopes and dreams
are ever in our destiny.

Let me take you
to the edge of all heartaches,
and show you
how beautiful it is
to be with.

Take this love of mine
wherever you go,
no, I don't even call it love,
I call it Geronimo.

South West


The breed could walk between both worlds of the white and the Native American even in these
Modern times he was a warrior and there were flashes of his shadow that fell against the sandstone
Walls of these cliffs but here among the portals of two worlds was his territory of necessity and practical
In these shadowed canyons once Geronimo Kit Carson and other giants strode there were times in the
Long midnight hours that you could hear their brusque voices in the stirring wind that could scream as
Loud as any mountain lion not creating fear but birthing fearlessness the bleating of sheep will never be
Heard where the unknown darkness lies to face the beast you must lay aside the desire of keeping
Company with human kind a foreign lodger at the edge of the abyss this was the case of this night the
Breed made camp at a breach in the hard rock wall that made a small cave the stillness outward only
Triggered inward stirrings the make shift fire was placed in the same place that others had used for the
Same purpose the blackened stone had a glowing quality an eye for seeing deeply inward and at great
Distance as the breed pierced with searching eyes this hard surface took on a measure of liquidness
Teaming with sights mysterious as the sea there through this quasar of time and space thoughts began
To invade his mind this cave was a fixed point where a searcher and seeker could roll out the meridian
Of time like a scroll on this barren harsh land and the cave only deepened and made a more ready place
It was like the perfect furnishing empty and austere where a herald of timeless tidings should stand to
Announce his proclamations was it not the Raven that was noted as the holder of secrets for the Native
Peoples what better place to begin a narrative than here on this white sepulcher as the fire has indelibly
Given Likeness to the raven as it spreads its wings within the fire it flutters its wings as the fire flickers
The Vision of men on horses rode and wheeled their mounts rode into glories allegory they plunged into
Darkness as wonder played on their proud tall shoulders Grover Cleveland comes out of a blur into focus
This indwelled darkened sky what does it mean it is a nation remembering its birth pains whites blacks
reds yellow and brown into the ceaseless flow bustling wind cut a dance in and out the noise of riot and
Song the smudged finger prints of many have touched the pages of history in these shadowed lofty
Heights Miss Liberty has had her gown made the fabric is peace and liberty she walks these high walls
The over shadowing parapets alone on the precipice but her burning lamp aglow never failing since
It was long ago ignited there the rays of purist gold does glow out upon the sea of freedom he who
Spills blood outside castle walls determines dominions that will plague or bless under the plunders hand
It will show where the heart is benevolent or capricious of cruel knights of courts of blackened souls
Reside in these seats of power as the Vikings with ribbed ships that floated on Icelandic waters that
Sprayed doom on horrific seas true peril hidden within her wetted folds the breed burst from the cave
Seeking comfort in the dark harbor of night many images were burned into his mind on this fertile night
Of a truth the Raven has shared many a secret thoughts they lay on him like the glistening red  
Blood that drenched Black Beards coat one who played with crowns of kings until his own head
He lost for rubies red and emeralds green did many a shipman lie in heaps dead red cannon fire
Floated across the deep like red saffron rare were any that escaped his cutlass his taste for treasure
And the screams of the dying his pleasure the breed faced many strange tales when he set himself
Up as one who would not only read signs of creatures but he would delve into mystical regions of future
And past but not all can be reveled in one nights setting… he did not reenter the cave for an
Indiscriminate period of time he was propelled into his own changing world his entire family would
Be dissolved in this life other dark lessons would he learn but his yearning to know and share would
Call him back to this familiar ground new visions would attest to the change in the country and it was
Not the change one would want a different landscape laid heavy on the entertainment industry the old
Days of heroes in white hats now replaced with multiplicity of characters without moral content just one
Hook or another good looks had to be at the center little children numerous was better grown daughters
With all the right assets it was mirroring where the culture had fallen too don’t give us values just
Distractions make it fast and mindless that was the best formula our society had suffered scenes likened
Unto Apocalypse now for a sweet but short time we all refer to God and possibly see ourselves as we
Once were then with a short fast few days we forget our true greatness let our liberties slip again
At the first cry of political correctness that comes from the multitude of seekers for American justice
And freedom a better way to live then they see the great weakness and opportunity to make America
A hybrid of their former country and instead of objecting we raise the flag of misguided tolerance and
Score another victory for obscene enemies of all mankind then the saddest folly of all watching the rich
Speak and act with such unabashed pride as they whirl through the night and day being followed by
Reality television cameras as the whole world teeters on the brink of destruction that will consume
Everyone and everything I think the one who heads it all up says I will over looks you if I see the blood
Not your stupid material possessions that are fading with the natural world that is to be consumed the
Outer holds many allusions it is the inner being that better have the goods when the world catches fire
In this cave there is clarity of vision of two worlds fathers and mothers who have gone on unprepared
Have only one desire for their families that remain wake up quit being intertwined deeper and deeper
In a web that is made for one purpose to **** and keep your soul unaware of its true danger truth will
Make you free but you have to listen for this to be so the cave now empty but its revelations are here
Being continued blessing or curse lies in the actions you take or don’t take

Elegy for the Forgotten Oldsmobile**

July 4th and all is Hell.
Outside my shuttered breath the streets bubble
with flame-loined kids in designer jeans
looking for people to **** or razor.
A madman covered with running sores
is on the street corner singing:
O beautiful for spacious skies…
This landscape is far too convenient
to be either real or metaphor.
In an alley behind a 7-11
a Black **** dressed in Harris tweed
preaches fidelity to two pimply ******
whose skin is white though they aren’t quite.
And crosstown in the sane precincts
of Brown University where I added rage
to Cliff Notes and got two degrees
bearded scientists are stringing words
outside the language inside the guts of atoms
and I don’t know why I’ve come back to visit.

O Uncle Adrian! I’m in the reservation of my mind.
Chicken bones in a cardboard casket
meditate upon the linoleum floor.
Outside my flophouse door stewed
and sinister winos snore in a tragic chorus.

The snowstorm t.v. in the lobby’s their mother.
Outside my window on the jumper’s ledge
ice wraiths shiver and coat my last cans of Bud
though this is summer I don’t know why or where
the souls of Indian sinners fly.
Uncle Adrian, you died last week—cirrhosis.
I still have the photo of you in your Lovelock
letterman’s jacket—two white girls on your arms—
first team All-State halfback in ’45, ’46.

But nothing is static. I am in the reservation of
my mind. Embarrassed moths unravel my shorts
thread by thread asserting insectival lust.
I’m a naked locoweed in a city scene.
What are my options? Why am I back in this city?
When I sing of the American night my lungs billow
Camels astride hacking appeals for cessation.
My mother’s zippo inscribed: “Stewart Indian School—1941”
explodes in my hand in elegy to Dresden Antietam
and Wounded Knee and finally I have come to see
this mad *** nation is dying.
Our ancestors’ murderer is finally dying and I guess
I should be happy and dance with the spirit or project
my regret to my long-lost high school honey
but history has carried me to a place
where she has a daughter older than we were
when we first shared flesh.

She is the one who could not marry me
because of the dark-skin ways in my blood.
Love like that needs no elegy but because
of the baked-***** possibility of the flame lakes of Hell
I will give one last supper and sacrament
to the dying beast of need disguised as love
on deathrow inside my ribcage.
I have not forgotten the years of midnight hunger
when I could see how the past had guided me
and I cried and held the pillow, muddled
in the melodrama of the quite immature
but anyway, Uncle Adrian…
Here I am in the reservation of my mind
and silence settles forever
the vacancy of this cheap city room.
In the wine darkness my cigarette coal
tints my face with Geronimo’s rage
and I’m in the dry hills with a Winchester
waiting to shoot the lean, learned fools
who taught me to live-think in English.

Uncle Adrian…
to make a long night story short,
you promised to give me your Oldsmobile in 1962.
How come you didn’t?
I could have had some really good times in high school.

I remember being born
Of daylight and eternal devotion
This all-enveloping warmth
I remember
When you opened your childish eyes
For the very first time
And I found my home
The one I always wanted
A million adventures shared
Sometimes getting into trouble
Before you forgot
And then remembered
"Enough! I'm supposed to be an adult"
So I watch and I listen
From the shadows
A dog abandoned by its master
Cold and alone
"I'm here, can't you see",
I whisper from the darkness
As the silence crushes me
Forever yours
A frozen river of devotion
A time machine that waits
Behind an unbreakable veil
Sometimes bold
Sometimes afraid
This is my battle
A fight that is never really over
But worth every penny
Like that one time
A scrape found itself unwelcome
On your bruised, bleeding knee
And I went and found
Your mother's warm kisses
And that magic band aid
The one that started our next adventure
Remember?
A Geronimo!
We shouted it together
Before you jumped back
Into the fray
Wielding a smile so big
Vulnerable and powerful beyond belief
So I dance with the wind
And tell stupid jokes to entertain the sea
Just to pass the time
Hoping you'll return to me
I'm still the whisper
That guides your pen
And I still believe in
The magic of your beautiful ink.

Winter, snow,
Geronimo!
Racing down the sled hill.

Wind blows,
Frozen toes,
Bring me more hot cocoas!

-by Nathan Porter (age 10)
  with Ross Porter

It was going to be a beautiful Saturday morning - and the wind was still. Wind mattered because Peter and I had borrowed a friend's lime green Fiat and trekked 30 minutes north to play the Lufbery (frisbee) disc course. We teed-off just after sunrise. It’s a beautiful, wooded course. I used to be a frisbee-golf addict and I’d brought my gear to Yale - but only managed to play twice. I finished 8-under (for 18 holes) and Peter earned a little participation, something or other, to be awarded later.

Peter lives in a doctoral frat-house they call doc-house (the 8 guys who live there are all doctoral students). It’s a typical frat house, remarkably dark and filthy. Every surface seems carpeted and there’s a dizzying cocktail of smells - old beer, dust, pizza, cigars, whisky, popcorn, cigarettes and *** - ugg! Yes, If you need to carouse, this is the house. You hear, “You’re in the DOC-HOWWSE!” (said like dog-house) when a group of new girls show up.

In the basement, there are arm chairs that I’m sure haven’t been cleaned since someone in the class of 1955 spilt beer on them. If I sit on one - and I try not to sit on one - I keep my arms crossed in my lap so they don’t even touch the armrests. Peter’s room is clean - I had a service come to clean it (and the shared 2nd floor bathroom) before he moved in. I got him a new mattress and topper too.

My favorite of his roommates is called “Melon” (His real name is Milton). He’s a big guy, 6’3”~ish and probably 450 pounds. He’s the sweetest guy but a slob in the classic, Chris Farley mold. Peter says he already has two PhDs (One in ‘computational mathematics’, a second in ‘mathematical modeling’) and he’s working on a third in ‘decision sciences.” He owns doc-house, having bought it when the owner hinted at moving to Florida.
“Melon makes a bag-and-a-half consulting,” Peter explained, admiringly.

The house is on a wooded hill and the driveway, about 400 feet long, goes straight uphill. One time, I’d brought a couple of bags of groceries and Melon, as usual, came bounding out of the house to help me. The uber could only get half way up the crowded drive and by the time Melon got to the car he was completely out of breath. I half expected I’d have to give him CPR, but he rallied after a couple of minutes - talking non-stop, all the while - and leaning heavily on the Uber which ran up my bill (I found it endearing).

Back to my story (a lot of that was background). Peter and I were going to Geronimo’s (a Mexican restaurant). I was sweaty from golfing, so I decided to shower. I’m showering away and I hear the bathroom door open (I’d absolutely locked it). So, I assumed it was Peter. The next thing I hear is someone taking a loud ****. Then the guy starts humming - and it wasn’t Peter.

There I was, shower running, behind a flimsy, opaque-plastic, flowered shower curtain. What now? I was thinking. “Occupied!?” I said loudly, like a question - standing stock-still naked.

“Fukk” I hear him say, “Sorry, sorry, SORRY - I thought you were one of the guys!” he said, flushing, dashing out and slamming the door.

I waited a moment, killed the water, wrapped up, climbed out of the shower and wrapped my hair in a second towel while leaning against the door. It had been locked - well, the little *** was pressed in anyway. I picked up my stuff and dashed across the hall to Peter’s room.

Peter was propped up on his bed with his laptop as I rushed in, closed the door and leaned on it. “The lock on the bathroom door doesn’t work,” I said in a rush.
“Did something happen?” he asked, looking up.
“No,” I said - thinking about it, “Not really,” and I started to towel dry my hair.
That’s when I noticed that his index finger was turning back on itself in a “come hither” motion. Then it occurred to me that, wound as I was, in a small white towel, I might look like a loosely wrapped participation trophy.

Sometimes you face an army of desires - without armor.

Flames behind me
the smoke blinds me
the fall in front of me
don't wanna jump, not for the life of me.

We've all hit our expiration dates
Johnson dangling, entangled in a wire
he's 68, he was about to retire
a burnt child dreads the fire
and he's a lump of charcoal.

Up many storeys
the planes hit precisely.
News helicopters flying and taping
there's no escaping,
the fire's approaching.

I need to jump,
no slow death here.
Here we go,
Geronimo!

Fire caught me in my fall
God's doing his roll call
pain in my legs as the ground comes closer
I move quick, I cannot breathe, my lungs are squished
Did I tell my kids I love them?
No, but I wish.

When the summer of our youth has passed
and the bane of winter draws near,
we sit alone in opaque rooms
and crack ourselves a beer.

To the north we look with glossy eyes
yet to the south our mind wanders freer
we laugh and smile and grimace and weep
and crack ourselves a beer.

We think of days of wonderlust,
of scenes of timeless cheer
of children playing in the rain
-and then we crack ourselves a beer.

What happened to the upbeat muses?
did they take and destroy their lyre?
we wonder where the bluebird went
as we sit and crack a beer.

We haven't seen him for a time
and because of this we fear.
The gourds of innocence broke and leaked
and so we cracked ourselves a beer.

And with them chipped
we quaffed long and deep and into lands we steered
destined for hate and war and poverty
and so we cracked ourselves a beer.

Instead of honeysuckles and wafers
we feasted on bloodied deer
and watched our parents fight and die
as we cracked ourselves a beer.

Trees of mighty oak that hoisted forts
have fallen in the clear
as have the mounds of Geronimo
while we cracked ourselves a beer.

And so our friends have left us
our lovers are nowhere near
last seen flying away with the bluebird
because we cracked ourselves a beer.

She said our *** life was mundane
and had become routine
so we should spice it up a bit
indulge in the obscene
So I figured what the Hell?
Lets give it a go,
it should be fun to mix it up,
rekindle passion's flow.

Monday we tried dressing up,
I donned a Batman suit
and she Catwoman to my Bat,
we'd thought we'd have a hoot.
I leapt from wardrobe to the light
and swung to hear the crack,
the ceiling caved around us both
and I threw out my back.

Tuesday we tried role-play,
I met her in a bar,
the gangster and the ******
we messed round in the car.
A tap upon the window's glass,
a frowning, outraged cop
who booked us for soliciting
because we wouldn't stop.

Wednesday I surprised her
by leaping in the room
naked as my ***** sprang
'She'll like this' I assume
'GERONIMO!!!' I called out loud
and then began to choke,
her mum and gran were sitting there,
her gran then had a stroke.

Thursday we got *****,
I chained her to the bed,
aroused to see her naked form
and naughty words she said.
a banging on the door revealed
her angry, ranting dad
who called to speak of yesterday
but saw her then went mad.

Friday, naked she sat on
my back atop a saddle
she spanked my **** coz in each hand,
she swung a ping-pong paddle
She rode me round til I was sore,
through all the rooms and halls,
til I collapsed when one mis-swing
had caught me in the *****.

Saturday we calmed it down,
massage with scented oils
to help relieve this week of hell
and all it's *** game toils,
til I felt something part my ****,
was not a nice surprise
"Vibrating ***** 5000"
brought tears to my eyes.
I bit down on the pillow hard,
not much that I could say,
I clawed the plaster from the walls,
a bid to get away.

By Sunday, I had had enough,
and told her 'Please, no more...
I miss mundane, I like routine,
just like it was before...
No more costumes, chains or spanks,
or objects in my ****,
no more surprises you have planned,
or schemes you must surpass.'
'Fine' she said 'I'll call my friend
and cancel our three-way'
I looked at her through narrowed eyes,
my jaw dropped in dismay.
'Don't be hasty by my words'
I grinned and calmly tried
'Good, coz Bernard's on his way'
she said and so I cried...

...And cried... And cried...

A product of an given environment.
A democracy being ran by tyrants
A offer of change..
Jesus Christ is hiring
Spiritually jobless cause the worlds firing..
Only thing worst is death and that fire pit..
But my Lord is a fireman..
With living water..
For you that fire could be a mist..
But know that hell is not a myth..
Know that heaven is at hand come on take sip..
Matter of fact take a gulp.
My Christ the sacrifice his blood
Overflows like a flood...
Talking oceans beyond a gulf..
Move mountains he can swift a coast..
Strength of the uttermost..
My stewardable host..
Came down to earth yes he left his post..
Just to have his flesh left on a post..
A passion that no other being could
fathom ..
the True definition of compassion..
He took  on all our sin Nothing was rationed  ...
His beard striped off..
His bones exposed..
His feet n hands left with holes..
Extreme bleeding..
Yes beaten to his skeletal system no x-ray was needed..
Not one fracture..
He took it all for us our true Master.
Damaged beyond human appearance..
How can u not be down in allegiance
With the Christ of this World
The only being to embody all that is right in this World..
Yet we hold on to  darkness like he not the light to this World..
He died for us Yes he fought the good fight for this World..
We are to be his bride
Yes the church but Look at us yet he still won't pick another girl..
We cheat on him..
Our selfish desires
We beat on him..
Oh how we conspire..
To destroy the truth..
Yet we need to cling to it like Ruth..
Did to Naomi..
And react better when rebuke by a pony..
Stop dancing around the truth like its going to result in a Tony ..
Award..
Too many people are phoney
Randomly comprised like what resides in bologna
I am down with Christ .. Geronimo
See the signs of his coming its almost time to go...













..

On the deck of the HMS Randalls
Were sorry array of antiques
They would amble about in their sandals
To a chorus of ominous creaks
The crackle of bone upon gristle
With a litany grumbled above
Just give them the slip
If you feel a grip
Like a handful of dice in a glove

In the galley of HMS Randalls
Where the tables were ******* to the floor
There’s a chef with a dwarf where his leg was
He was bombed in the Argentine war
If you ask him about his ‘prosthetic’
He just winks and he taps on his nose
But the dwarf will admit
That they make a good fit
And a noteworthy total of toes

At the engines of HMS Randalls
With her overalls smeared with blood
Stood cannibal kind of mechanic
By the name of Veronica Spud
Her hunger has never been sated
Or her eye been the source of a tear
Her teeth have been chipped
Into screwdriver tips
And a spanner protrudes from her ear

On the bridge of the HMS Randalls
Sits the captain, Geronimo Spent
His unblinking and pallid expression
Say he left but he never quite went
But he puts on his hat and his jacket
He fastidiously logs his report
With a secondary list
Of the passengers kissed
As he figures that life’s too short

**

Rapid City wears its patriotism like a shroud.
Corner streets are populated with less than
life-size statues of past presidents
squinting at the distant Black Hills
where the grandeur of Mt. Rushmore
casually crumbles their bronze dreams.

Wax settlers, loggers and gold miners
stake claims with souvenir hunters
touring a mine, panning for fool’s gold.

In nearby Custer, 75 breaths  from Wounded Knee,
shops hawk Chief Joseph, Sitting Bull, Geronimo t-shirts
proclaiming them “ The Original Founding Fathers.”
Mixed in are those in star-spangled letters and fireworks
proudly streaming “Welcome to America. Now Speak English.”

Rushmore was dynamited from a cliff
by a creator who spent the rest of his life
erecting grand Confederate gestures
out of ****** Georgia quartz monzonite—
finished and opened 100 years to the day
after Abraham Lincoln’s assassination.  

Thirty minutes from Rushmore, existing in its shadow
on private land filled with dusty trails,
unfinished after seventy years,
probably still unfinished after twenty  more,
facing away from these great stone faces,
emerging from the side of great Thunderhead Mountain,

on an ivory stead with a mane of flowing river and wind,
exists the Oglala Lakota warrior Tasunke Witko
the worm of Crazy Horse the Old and Rattling Blanket Woman,
sibling of Little Hawk and Laughing One, memory of the spirit of
Black Buffalo and White Cow who walked with an Iron Cane,
all enclosed with him in this massive breath of white stone.

The history of this great Indian space stretches the land,
four times higher than the Statue of Liberty,
extending beyond the warrior frown, the pointing left arm.
The horse’s ear alone is the size of a rusty  reservation bus.
When finished it will be the largest sculpture in history,
bigger than the land, breath and all of Indian memory.

It was the Vision Quest of Chief Henry Standing Bear to show the whites that the red man had great heroes, too.
In a man named Korczak he found a kindred spirit,
a storyteller in stone, a survivor of Omaha Beach,
who when the first wife faltered, found a second
who gave him enough children to carry, sculpt the Bear Dream.  

The big chief’s face is still the only finished part.
Korczak’s wife and children toil with the rest,
struggling to capture the essence of a warrior
who never allowed his shadow to be snared
in the false glow of the white man’s light,
trusting only the rain beams that fall

onto his people, mountains, plains and buffaloes,
onto Paha Sapa, “the heart of everything that is,”
where the Lakota huddled while the world was created,
now a land of broken treaties and dying dreams,
drenched in the dust of tears underneath,
while this white face torn from red gazes East.

When you look into my eyes
can you see the starry skies?
Soaring high above the clouds
as we cut ourselves from earthly ties

With your arms about my waist
we'll leave behind this lonely place
searching for the hidden keys
to unlock the riddles of time and space

So Allons-y and Geronimo
through the unknown vale we shall go
your fingers interlaced with mine
we'll dance the stars 'til they lose their shine

when i met you
i didn't know id be
meeting all six of you.
your personas
spilled from your pocket
like rapid fire kisses.
little by little
trickling out
with casual coolness.
like perfectly stacked dominoes
shot out into the open
by geronimo and his rifle.
and the only thing you expected
was to expect me to not inspect them.
to not hold them up to the light
and investigate the content.

anyway my hands were
too shaky  
and small
to carry them all.
anyway you smiled.
with the same
smile you forgot to
take off from work.

you:
the angry
the riddle
the obstinate
the sweetheart
the confused
the drunk
the person you think you are
the person you are desperately trying to become.

for what its worth,
i hope to meet him
one day too.

Here is to that one kiss
The one that changed it all
Here is to falling like fool
You are now the one I miss

Here is to praying I am right
That you are real and mine
Here is to dreams coming true
In your thoughts by day and dreams by night

Here is to those who jump and yell
"Geronimo" do or die trying
Here is to my beautiful distraction
I'm yours now, one kiss and I fell