Which takes us on a direct path to:
THE  INCIDENT.
Say you are a normal man—whatever that means—
But say it’s late June of 1993 and you’re laying on the couch,
Scratching your *****, trying to intuit your LDL level
Based on the two bowls of the Old Lady’s Cholesterol Chowder.
The Old Lady-- you can call her Peg or Mrs. Bundy—
Served it up in her special legacy china,
An assortment of recycled tin foil casserole dishes &
Vintage melmac handed down by your mother-in-law.
You are on the couch giving digestion your best shot,
Still scratching your agates when Peg comes
In from the kitchen with your second glass of
Two-buck chuck and a smoking fatty she’s just ignited,
Miraculously without burning the house down.
The TV is on—the TV is always on because
The TV has had no off button since 1984
You are tuned to the CNN evening news &
A report comes on that makes you sit up,
Snap to attention, straight up and take notice:
"WOMAN CUTS OFF HUSBAND'S *****!"
The media shrikes in Atlanta have your attention now,
Your complete attention;
Your eyes are riveted to the telescreen &
Your blood pressure spiking at 240 over 140.
During the previous night of June 23, 1993,
John Wayne Bobbitt arrives at the
Couple's apartment in Manassas, Virginia,
Highly intoxicated after a night of partying.
According to testimony given by Lorena Bobbitt
In a 1994 court hearing, he then rapes her.
Afterwards, Lorena Bobbitt gets out of bed,
Goes to the kitchen for a drink of water.
According to a journal article in the
National Women's Justice & Defense
League of Psychotic Castrating *******,
While in the kitchen she notices,
A carving knife on the counter & "memories of
Past domestic abuse races through her head."
Grabbing the knife, Lorena Bobbitt enters the bedroom
Where John is sleeping & proceeds to
Cut off nearly half his *****,
Half his Johnson,
In this instance aptly named.
So you have some schnook who’s named
After the iconic Hollywood superstar John Wayne . . .
Now understand something, John Wayne—
The ******* Duke of Earl--
Personifies everything alpha male:
Physique, animal magnetism & a pair of
Huge ***** swinging in his chaps as
He sashays across the screen.
In real life he’s a bullfight & cigar aficionado,
A big game hunter and sport fisherman, &
A hard drinking Hemingway hero
Who spends most of his time aboard
A customized WWII U.S. mine sweeper
******* to a pier behind his house in
Newport Harbor, California.
He’s the proverbial man’s man, &
There’s no one like him in America
Until maybe Eastwood or Willis comes along.
There’s a statue of him out in front of
The Orange County Airport that bears his name.
I have a photograph of him hanging in my garage
Next to a Mad-Dog 20-20 poster.
But I digress.
We return to the Bobbitt story because
It gets better, keeps getting crazier.
After assaulting her husband,
Lorena leaves the apartment with the severed *****,
Drives around aimlessly for a short while,
Then rolls down the car window &
Throws the ***** into a field.
Only then does the loony ***** realize
The severity of the incident.
She stops and calls 911.
After an exhaustive search by
Volunteers from the local Humane Society,
The ***** is located, packed in the ice-slurry of
A banana-flavored 7/11 Slurpee, &
Taken to the hospital where half-**** John Bobbitt
Gets a short-arm inspection and treated,
Mostly for shock and awe.
His ***** is later reattached by Drs. James T. Sehn &
David Berman during a nine-and-a-half-hour surgery
Filmed by Ken Burns and broadcast in its entirety by
WGBH Boston, a stunning illustration of
Your tax dollars hard at work
At the National Endowment for the Arts.
An abridged version later becomes the season premier of
"Girls Gone ******* ******, Manassas!"
Lorena goes on Oprah to explain herself.

Lorena Bobbitt ((née Gallo) was born in Ecuador.
Her maiden name, ironically,
Means **** in English.
Sheriff Joe Arpaio in Phoenix had this to say:
“Deport the *****. She may have an INS green card
But there’s no way she had a government permit to
Go around lopping ***** off in Virginia or any other state.
Who does she think she is, Janet Napolitano?”
Napolitano could not be reached for comment.
Shortly after the incident, episodes of "Bobbittmania,"
Or copycat crimes, were reported.
The name Lorena Bobbitt eventually became
Synonymous with ***** removal.
The terms "Bobbitt Punishment" and "Bobbitt Procedure" gained
Social cache with a radical break-away sect of N.O.W.
COPYCAT Catherine Kieu Becker, 48 (Garden Grove P.D.)  
Woman Accused of Cutting Off Husband's *****
Pleads Not Guilty/ VIDEO: Watch Jennifer Gould's Report
KTLA News   10:40 a.m. PST, February 3, 2012 /SANTA ANA, Calif.
"A 48-year-old woman accused of cutting off
Her husband's ***** and putting it
In the garbage disposal has pleaded
Not guilty to all the charges against her.
Catherine Kieu, of Garden Grove,
Was indicted earlier this month on
One felony count of torture &
One felony count of aggravated mayhem.
She also faces a sentencing enhancement for
Practicing surgical medicine without a license."
Sign up for KTLA 5 Breaking News Email Alerts
Comments (130) Add / View comments | Discussion FAQ
Happy627 at 10:35 PM January 18, 2012
"So my x-wife is a violent drunken *****?
Never once did I ever think of hurting her
But now I see I was wrong.
Vengeance's is the true answer & payback is hell.
So basically I should put an M-40
In her *** and light the fuse.
I should be acquitted from any wrong doing
Because she was a violent drunken *****.
Maybe all men should do this to their
Violent wives/girlfriends & teach them a lesson.
Cyanmanta at 1:10 AM January 11, 2012
In response to Doreen Meyer:
"So you're assuming that because he was the victim
He must have done something to deserve it
In some small way?
Typical of convenient feminism:
Assume all female victims are innocent &
Pure as driven snow,
While dismissing all male victims
With the idea that 'he had it coming.'
I wish I could pander shamelessly
To the media for preferential treatment,
But sadly, I am male (or as feminists would say)
The Evil Gender."
Westfield at 5:47 PM Jan.09, 2012
She should get her own show on the ***** channel.
(Bravo). KABC radio's John Phillips & his girlfriend
Nathan Baker would love to watch it."
Sluff it off, take a load off, baby.
Take a load off?
“Take a load off Annie,
Take a load for free;
Take a load off Annie, and
Bom bom bom bom
Bom be bom— & Dddddddddd,
You can put the load right on me.”
Send “The Weight” Ringtone to Your Cell

. . . Snipped, fixed, neutered, gelded,
Emasculated, eunuchized, or castrated?
(Castrating Forceps  (www.alibaba.com/
Showroom/castration-tool.html).
Bobbittized!

It was a cold night for a concert. There was frost on the windscreen as we got into the car for the short drive to this city church. We drove because we were going to be late, and it was cold, and would be likely to be colder still when the concert was over. I had wondered if part one would be enough. Could Bach and Rameau be enough? Might the musical appetite cope with Mozart and Beethoven too? Were we about to sit down to a large meal, possibly in the wrong order. Can the cheese course be a transcendental experience I wondered? Bach to begin certainly, a substantial starter with one of the mid period keyboard toccatas and two ‘distant’ preludes and fugues, but then a keyboard suite by Rameau?
 
When I listen to Beethoven though I want to hear a work on its own, unencumbered round about with other musics.  A recent experience of several hours driving to hear a single Beethoven symphony has remained close and vivid, and an experience that brought me close to tears. So I imagine that I might only hear Op.110 to make that opening sequence of chords so ominously special. The introduction seems to come from nowhere and does not connect with musical past, except perhaps the composer’s own past. It is as though the pianist puts on a pair of gloves imbued with the spirit of the composer, and these chords appear . . . and what is there that might possibly prepare the listener for the journey that pianist and listener embark upon?  Certainly not the soufflé of Mozart’s K.332.
 
The audience is hardly a smattering of coats, hats and grey hair. There is another piano recital in town tonight and this is but the artist’s preview of a forthcoming concert at a major venue. Our pianist is equipping herself for a prestigious engagement and sensibly recognizes the need to test out the way the programme flows in front of an audience, and in a provincial church where she is not entirely unknown. I admire this resolve and wonder a little at the long-term planning which makes this possible and viable.
 
Now a figure in black walks out from the shadows to stand by her piano. Coming from stage right she places left her hand firmly on the mirror-black case above the keyboard. She looks at her audience briefly, and makes a bow, almost a curtsey, an obeisance to her audience and possibly to those distant spirits who guard the music she is to play. We will not see her face again until the next time she will stand at the piano to acknowledge our applause after the Bach she is about to play. Her slightly more than shoulder-length hair is cut to flow forward as she holds herself to play; her face is often hidden from us, her expression curiously blank. Perhaps she has prepared herself to enter a deep state of concentration that admits no recognition of those sitting just in front of her. Her dress is long and black with a few sparking threads to catch the careful lighting. Without these occasional glimmers her ****** movement would be unnoticeable. As it is the way the light is caught is subtle and quietly playful, though not enough to distract, only remind us that though in black she is wearing the kind of starry sky such as you might perceive in crepuscular time.
 
Thus, we already sense so much before she has played a note there is a firm slightly dogged confidence and reverence here in her approach to instrument and audience. And in the opening bars of the Bach toccata that is manifest; and not just a confidence born out of some strategy against nervousness, but a ritual of welcoming to this music that now spills out into the partially darkened church. The sonorousness and balance of the piano’s tone surprises. It is not a fine piano, but it has qualities that she seems to understand. There is a degree of attentive listening to herself that enables her to control dynamics and act resolutely on the structure of the music. When the slow section of this four-part toccata appears there is a studied gentleness and restraint that belies any ****** led gesture or manner. Her stance and deliberation at the keyboard remain determined and in control, unaltered by the music’s message. She does not pull her body backwards as seems the custom with so many who feel they have to show us they are stroking and coaxing such gentleness and restraint out of the keyboard.
 
As the final fugato of the toccata flows at almost twice the speed I’ve ever heard it, my concentration begins to disengage. It is too fast for me to follow the voices, I miss the entries, and the smudged resonance of the texture hides those details I have grown over so many years to know and love. This is Glen Gould on speed, not the toccata that resides in my musical memory. I am aware of missing so much and my attention floats away into the sound of it all. It seems to be all sound and not the play of music.
 
In this stage of disengagement I sense the tense quality of her right leg pedalling with the tip of a reddish shoe just visible, deft, tiny flicks of movement. She turns her face away from the keyboard frequently, looking away from the keyboard through the choir to the high altar; and for a moment we see her upturned face, a blank face, possibly with little or no make up, no jewellery. A plain young woman, mid to late thirties perhaps, and not a face marked by children or a busy teaching life, but a face focused on knowing this music to a point at which there is almost a detachment, where it becomes independent of her control, flowing momentarily beyond herself.
 
Then she reins the toccata in, reoccupies it; she is seeking closure for herself and for her audience whose attention for a short while has been, as the Quakers say, gathered. Gathered into a degree of silence, when breathing and the body’s sense and presence of itself disappear, momentarily, and musical listening moves from a clock time to a virtual time. There is a slowing down, an opening out, even though in reality’s metronomic time-field there is none.
 
There is a hesitation. With more Bach to follow, should we applaud? With relief after holding the flight of time’s arrow in our consciousness, just for those concluding minutes and seconds we acknowledge and applaud - the beginning of the concert.

Earth’s sixth mass extinction has begun, new study confirms


How long before the rhino joins the list? Gerry Zambonini, CC BY-SA
We are currently witnessing the start of a mass extinction event the likes of which have not been seen on Earth for at least 65 million years. This is the alarming finding of a new study published in the journal Science Advances.

The research was designed to determine how human actions over the past 500 years have affected the extinction rates of vertebrates: mammals, fish, birds, reptiles and amphibians. It found a clear signal of elevated species loss which has markedly accelerated over the past couple of hundred years, such that life on Earth is embarking on its sixth greatest extinction event in its 3.5 billion year history.

This latest research was conducted by an international team lead by Gerardo Ceballos of the National Autonomous University of Mexico. Measuring extinction rates is notoriously hard. Recently I reported on some of the fiendishly clever ways such rates have been estimated. These studies are producing profoundly worrying results.

However, there is always the risk that such work overestimates modern extinction rates because they need to make a number of assumptions given the very limited data available. Ceballos and his team wanted to put a floor on these numbers, to establish extinction rates for species that were very conservative, with the understanding that whatever the rate of species lost has actually been, it could not be any lower.

This makes their findings even more significant because even with such conservative estimates they find extinction rates are much, much higher than the background rate of extinction – the rate of species loss in the absence of any human impacts.

Here again, they err on the side of caution. A number of studies have attempted to estimate the background rate of extinction. These have produced upper values of about one out of every million species being lost each year. Using recent work by co-author Anthony Barnosky, they effectively double this background rate and so assume that two out of every million species will disappear through natural causes each year. This should mean that differences between the background and human driven extinction rates will be smaller. But they find that the magnitude of more recent extinctions is so great as to effectively swamp any natural processes.


Cumulative vertebrate species recorded as extinct or extinct in the wild by the IUCN (2012). Dashed black line represents background rate. This is the ‘highly conservative estimate’.  Ceballos et al
Click to enlarge
The “very conservative estimate” of species loss uses International Union of Conservation of Nature data. This contains documented examples of species becoming extinct. They use the same data source to produce the “conservative estimate” which includes known extinct species and those species believed to be extinct or extinct in the wild.

The paper has been published in an open access journal and I would recommend reading it and the accompanying Supplementary Materials. This includes the list of vertebrate species known to have disappeared since the year 1500. The Latin names for these species would be familiar only to specialists, but even the common names are exotic and strange: the Cuban coney, red-bellied gracile, broad-faced potoroo and southern gastric brooding frog.


Farewell, broad-faced potoroo, we hardly knew ye.  John Gould
These particular outer branches of the great tree of life now stop. Some of their remains will be preserved, either as fossils in layers of rocks or glass eyed exhibits in museum cabinets. But the Earth will no longer see them scurry or soar, hear them croak or chirp.

You may wonder to what extent does this matter? Why should we worry if the natural process of extinction is amplified by humans and our expanding industrialised civilisation?

One response to this question essentially points out what the natural world does for us. Whether it’s pollinating our crops, purifying our water, providing fish to eat or fibres to weave, we are dependent on biodiveristy. Ecosystems can only continue to provide things for us if they continue to function in approximately the same way.

The relationship between species diversity and ecosystem function is very complex and not well understood. There may be gradual and reversible decreases in function with decreased biodiversity. There may be effectively no change until a tipping point occurs. The analogy here is popping out rivets from a plane’s wing. The aircraft will fly unimpaired if a few rivets are removed here or there, but to continue to remove rivets is to move the system closer to catastrophic failure.

This latest research tells us what we already knew. Humans have in the space of a few centuries swung a wrecking ball through the Earth’s biosphere. Liquidating biodiversity to produce products and services has an end point. Science is starting to sketch out what that end point could look like but it cannot tell us why to stop before we reach it.

If we regard the Earth as nothing more than a source of resources and a sink for our pollution, if we value other species only in terms of what they can provide to us, then we we will continue to unpick the fabric of life. Remove further rivets from spaceship earth. This not only increases the risk that it will cease to function in the ways that we and future generations will depend on, but can only reduce the complexity and beauty of our home in the cosmos.

“The most important scientific revolutions all include, as their only common feature, the dethronement of human arrogance from one pedestal after another of previous convictions about our centrality in the cosmos.”*
Stephen Jay Gould

Give me
vacuum tube torus Lorentz-Klein interference receptors
dual noble-gas maser integration processors
at least one
prosthetic Gaussian carbon-coated ribosomal Tesla coil
an anthropomorphic hierarchical temporal meme-pseudopod
some
support vector k-nearest neighbor algorithms
reverse engineered quantum optic die-cast silica motherboards
self-assembling three dimensional electro-active protein polymers
maybe even
a superconducting spectral alkali resonance analyzer
paired with
harmonizing piezoelectric kinematic thermal modules
dipped in
subzero Kurzweil-circuit nanite neurotransmitters
and voila!
God.

So let us now place monetary value on information.
Let us return to the source,
Mining & prospecting that fertile intel seam.
To wit: WWII and G-2 shenanigans.
Wild Bill and OSS-capades,
Artificial disseminations.
Partial recriminations.
And PSYOPS:
A literary nightmare--
THE CYCLOPS from The Odyssey,
For example,
If you lack your own,
Your own personal Bogey Man.
Or men. For me:
Allen Dulles or Richard Helms.

The Intelligence Community:
It was a small tightly knit crew,
Less than battalion strength in 1942;
A few myopic soldiers,
Who, although could barely type,
Were still too cerebral to
Waste as infantry fodder.
It was a huge converted Army-green warehouse,
Space strategically partitioned,
Sectioned off into cubicle-like spaces,
By giant 4-drawer file cabinets
Standing tall like MPs,
Sentinels & Guardians,
Monuments to pre-electronic storage,
Data relatively comprehensive, and an
Archive secretive & intimidating.

Within the Army-green incunabula,
Scattered throughout the intel landscape,
Here and there a few commissioned officers,
A smattering of college psychology majors,
Personalities with predilections,
And penchants for mind games.
These self same WWII vets,
Would morph into Cold War Mad Men.
Stalwart, stouthearted men of Eisenhower,
And J. Walter Thompson,
De-mobbed, as they say in the UK.
Consumptive.
Self-indulgent,
Particularly when it came to the kids;
Children of the peace,
Called Baby-Boomers,
An entire generation enabled & destroyed.
Who would produce little of value
Except medical marijuana and
Coupons, clipped by that sober ruling class—
Fat interest-bearing college-loan portfolios
Held by that neo-Calvinist Elect: The 1%.
Fat cats one and all,
Loaded dice & canasta cronies--
In concert a stacked deck,
“Una mano lava l'altra.”
The words of my namesake--
My grandfather Giuseppe--
His vowels reverberating,
Rattling in my dreams.
Not friends, but
Fiends in high places, like
The Fed and dark liquid pools.
Thank you, Barack, for
Fooling us again.
For giving us
“Belief we can believe in.”

But I digress.
It was when the Government Secrecy Act,
In all its transnational incarnations,
Embraced capitalism in a big way,
Elevating the ideology to whole-Earth saturation,
Systemizing the ethos of Darwin,
Into one global Moby ****,
One solitary leviathan,
A multi-level marketing labyrinth,
Where wealth is the end game--
Greed: pure, unbridled & unrestrained.
Bond--James Bond—
Did his bit, supplying catchy
Slogans & tag-lines:
“For Your Eyes Only.”
“On a need to know basis.”
“Confidential Information.”
“Top & Ultra-Top Secret.”
“Hush, Hush & a Bag of Chips.”

The sealed letter sits in a locked drawer,
In that stout desk,
In the Oval Office
In The White House,
“To be opened by my VP in the event of my death.”
Another staggering work,
Of achy-achy-heart breaking genius,
The culture commoditized,
A disease containing its own cure,
Assayed, graded,
Portioned & packaged.
Priced accordingly,
To a logic that goes something like:
“Anything this tightly controlled,
Anything the government deems to be
This illegitimate and/or & secret
Must be really, really God-awesome,
Must really be Da ******* Bomb.”

Brother Coolidge was right:
“The Business of America is Business.”
And INFORMATION:
“The Most Valuable Commodity on Earth.”
So said Stanford Stuyvesant Whitehead III,
19th Century robber baron, and
Consummate Fat Cat.
Get the picture:
We were smoking cigars and sipping cognac,
Mighty comfortable in leather armchairs,
Muted billiard clicks,
Punctuating the atmosphere
In this spacious lounge,
His East Side
Downtown & private
Manhattan club.
I, his guest, had not the slightest idea
Why I was there.
"By God, man," he went on,
My eyes speared by his laser gaze,
His bushy eyebrows,
His monocle.
His bulbous nose;
His thick wet mustache.
And those EYES:  
Those crazy,
Insane eyes.

"I am talking about a profound change,” he continued.
“Back when the steamship
Gave way to electronic wireless radio."
He puffed smoke,
Removing the cigar from his mouth,
Holding it,
Examining it critically for a moment.
"I'm talking about communication,
Instant communication
With business associates, &
Cronies far away,
Way out there,
Far beyond the places we know well.
Picture it:
You're running a fleet of
Ramshackle Filipino banana boats,
Out of some nameless cove,
Indenting the south coast of Mindanao.
A cyclone comes out of nowhere.
Good God--there’s sixteen banana-packed
Coal burners lying on the bottom of the Celebes Sea.
Think about it:
You've got telegraph radio.
Everyone else has the post office.
Now, I ask you:
‘Who's going long,
Who’s getting rich on the
Caracas Banana Exchange?’
Good Lord, man, it would be
Like being omniscient!"
“This very conversation,” he went on,
“Could well be a verbatim transcription
Of a conversation right here in this very room,
Between people like: J. Pierpont Morgan
And some lesser Gilded Age nabob;
Some Astor, some Rockefeller,
A Gould or Vanderbilt,
Whitney or Duke,
Some Frick or Warburg--
To name just a few, old sport.”
He stopped suddenly.
He looked down at his hands,
As we both realized he had counted these names
Out on his fat curled fingers.
He looked at me and smiled.
I was afraid.
Why had I been invited to this meeting?
I smiled back at him,
Doing my best to mirror his
Carnivorous menace.

I knew it.
He knew it.
He knew I knew it.
Mr. Whitehead’s growling rabid jowls,
His slobbering canine smile held me steady.
“Okay. Touché. ‘Ya got me.”
He shook off the phony smile,
An absence, accentuating
His stare: lethal, carnal & rare.
“I never had much formal schooling.
I’ve been hungry.
Hungry enough to know for sure
That the correct fork,
Don’t mean ***** from shinola.
When I’m dining out, fancy-like,
Me manners is the least of me problems,
Far less important than
The dinner chit they
Hand me after I slake
My thirst & appetite.”
Again, he stopped suddenly,
Recognizing that, perhaps,
He’d revealed too much of his
Bedford-Stuyvesant pedigree.
He turned again and stared at me.
“None of that,” he said.
“None of that means squat to me, Boyo.
What matters now is I’m rich.
I’ve got mine, By God,
And ******* It!
Tough ***** on the rest of you losers;
The rest of you fecking whiners can go
**** yourselves over at Zuccotti Park.”
He pounded the armrest,
The padded armrest of the rich Corinthian leather—
( . . . ***, Ricardo?
Get your Montalbán
Mexicano ***, back in
Random Access Memory Land,
Where you belong.
**** ya’ Fantasy Island
Hospitality, Mr. Roarke,
Go be wrathful Khan Noon Singh,
Somewhere else.
Now is not the time, or,
Let me rephrase that:
This narrative will not allow your meme here . . .)    

Whitehead pounds the armrest again.
“My point is this:  
None of JP Morgan’s decidedly,
un-nattering lesser nabobs of negativity . . .”
BAM!  Again, he pounded the leather . . .

(Back in your ******* hole, Spiro!
Do you realize just how far back,
Just how far back
Maryland’s reputation
Has been set back by your venality?
Not to mention any shot at ethnic assimilation,
The rest of us grease ball non-Wasps
Have in this country?
You ******* Greek!)

I stopped thinking
When I realized Stanford Stuyvesant Whitehead III
Was reading my mind.
“So that’s what it’s really all about,” he said,
Rank smugness in his voice.
“So, I’m just a nouveau riche upstart,
A socially inept parvenu,
Yet they still let me
Join their tony clubs.
It chaps your ***, Boyo, don’t it?
I’m still Scotch-Irish, and
A WASP, Laddie.
Something your skinny
Greaser-Guinea-****-Spaghetti-*** ***,
Ain’t ever gonna be.”
But I digress, again.

So I joined one of Uncle Sam’s
Lesser-known clandestine services,
An assignment appropriate to my ethnic identity,
Namely GLADIO in Italy,
A NATO stay-behind operation &
Cold-War comedy.
I infiltrated the Brigate Rosse.
I drove the Aldo Moro kidnap vehicle.
I cooked minestrone for General Dozier.
I sliced off J. Paul Getty’s ear in Calabria.
Ironically, I lost my hearing during
The Stazione Bologna bombing.
I am consequently pensioned off,
Off both the radar and the payroll.
Years later now,
I live in one of those gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55, sunny southern California
Lunatic asylums.

Most days I am drunk at 9 AM.
I fill Bukowski mornings,
Conjuring up Jane Fonda,
Jazzercised in camo spandex.
She is high atop a Vietcong tank in Hanoi.
Or Daniel Ellsberg
Enjoying a second act in American politics,
Praising Snowden & Assange,
& Bradley Manning,
I summon up the ghosts of
Julius & Ethel,
Benedict Arnold,
Rose of Tokyo & Mata Hari—
And Ezra exiled at Rapallo,
And John Walker Lindh,
A Yankee Doodle Dandy,
Born in Washington,
District of Columbia,
By way of Afghanistan,
Taliban Americano,
Kangaroo-courted,
Presently residing at the
Federal Correctional Institution
At Terre Haute, Indiana.
Spies.
Traitors.
Saboteurs.
And Poets?
No longer capable of keeping secrets.
Desperate now to tell
The truth.

The sun is awfully mean these days
     and the time for talk is past--
Fades aging, yellowed memories
     reminds nothing ever lasts

I told you once, You did not heed.
Perhaps I spoke too loud.
But I'll speak from the best side of me
If you'll cool your temper down

Who knows where we'll be in 5 years?
I can't have it be here
Can't pierce the brine and murkiness
But today, it's warm and clear.

So let's wreck our heads
     with Red Hook Lager,
Pedal down the road...
'Cause it's all that lies in front of us
that we can ever know

The clouds are overhead, my friend
     but, bleak as this day seems,
We will not came undone because
     we are made with stronger seams

If you tell me once, I'll try and heed
The very best I can
To what tops your list of memories
As we go hand-in-hand

You won't dwell upon next year
If I don't hole up in pride
That starts to seem so easy when
We think back on that time...

When we wrecked our bikes
     on Gould and Brundage,
Laughing, walked back home...
And gingerly cleaned bleeding knees
then watched movies alone

And everything's okay
     I prefer that, anyway
Everything's okay.
     And we're better off that way
It's better than okay

My past time is Warhammer 40k
Collected 12 separate army ranging from 10,000 point to couple hundred.
My personal faction is craft world Eldar,
Since they are space elves of the dying race,
Prideful, arrogant, know it all, psyker gifted, prudes of 41 millienium.
Play with twelve Wraith Knights,
And earning me as "That Guy,"
As known as cheesy player,
Or just a solid Gould cheese.

I am inspired by Marcus Aurelius
Known as the philosophical emperor,
Also known as the last true good emperor of Rome,
Loved by many by the empire,
My favorite quote by him
"Accept the things fate binds you,
And love the people whom fate brings you together,
But do so with all your heart!"

I am a Capricorn,
Driven by amethyst gem stones,
Or a pure ruby so they say!
I have not had the same gravitational pull like Joan Of Arc,
Nor have I become a champion like Mohammad Ali,
Or fought for civil liberty like Martin Luther King,
Or earned the legacy likes of Humphrey Bogart,
But I would do my best to carry even ounce of their torch of greatness.

I know the contours of your face
just like the streets of my hometown
          you'd squint your eyes
                 when laughing
     at the corner of Main and Dow.

Blacktooth Brewery
               on frigid Friday nights
frosted glasses, fogging breaths
and laughs caught up
               in tightening chests.
Kendrick Park can keep its towering trees
                                   and midnight charms
if I can keep your laughter with me
                       when I sail for newer shores

Something in familiar signs,
          buzzing blackened Bighorn skies,
keeps us just above the water line--
          afloat for one more night.

Sheridan Iron Works
Red, rigid lettering a raised, distant hand
Watch it wave from on the hill
above the Kendrick boardwalk,
soak December in our smiles
choking back our April cries.

Snake's head yawning
          from the I-90 exit
slithers down Coffeen and tails
          our icy footsteps
     Rattle. Rattle. Rattle.
Shake this town to its bones
with our Thurmond Street jokes
and our glowing Gould Street hearts.
I hope
          this is enough
          to buoy our ***** up
          against the weighty ballast
          of this tiny, yawning town.

Settlers of Catan
played on a windy Wednesday night
over another drowning round
of clinking Wagon Box pints.

The contours of your face,
icy streets of our hometown,
our squinting, gasping laughter
on the corner of Main and Dow.

Blacktooth Brewery.
               Frigid Friday nights.
Fogged up glasses. Frosting breaths
and laughing, clutching tightening chests.
               This freezing town
               will test your mettle.
               Settle up and bring your friends.

Earth,
Geospace,
Earth-Moon System,
Inner Solar System,
Solar System,
Solar Interstellar Neighborhood/Local Interstellar Cloud,
Local Bubble,
Gould Belt,
Orion Arm,
Slightly Over Halfway to the Galactic Center of the Milky Way,
Milky Way Subgroup,
Local Group,
Local Sheet,
Local (Virgo) Supercluster,
Laniakea Supercluster,
Observable Universe,
Universe.
Boom.

Not the news that was inside of the brain
And the crisscross of what was there before
Dear love who pushes everyone around
They say that slaves are long gone but I see
That love is the one holding the reigns

In speed we know not where the thoughts come from
So whatever is produced seems like truth
Spreading apart time like a deck of cards at a table
The Piper makes sure all the dust is away from the stable
And the brain recollects only what it wishes to

Sister to be so far away from home makes my heart to stone
There was a place I wanted us to go together but now no longer
Singing in song to press the ear to mother earth
Pressing my lips to the bright blue sky kissing God
We poets are nothing but mathematicians with words

To pray in the soft humid light of Middle Europe
Living in solitude away from a life once known
To dance underneath the milk spilt sky of stars
Breathing in serenity once only permitted for the Gods
The table has turned and it is exactly the same as before

Money in the eye of the internet - though I hate to admit it
She once said, "You look good sitting there" and I laughed
The shadows spread across the walls of my mind
And all I have to show for it are thousands of pages
And lacking anything I can honor as time well spent

Piano Gould plays fast and in sync with the madness of men
The madness of the world and the madness of his own mind
Swirling eclipse churning the sea ravaging the natives
Burning the trees with ****** as the ***** of the sea
Suit up their pants, button up their tops, and fasten their ties

Sun on my back like a cape or hot stick of boiling butter
The two together laughed and drank and spit on each other
Leaving the soil black where once it had been white
There is love again, there is Her promise with her fingers crossed
Away from the public one will always think of the door

An lo' the rejection slips that burn in the pockets like coal
The train leaving the station, you on it, knowing not where to go
Sea breeze leaks through your auburn hair as the mistress
Twiddles with her candy cane and combs through her hair
A promise to see the whole world in just one blink

Courtesy forsooth I tell thee that ****** was never a sin
Nakedness was God's wish and the robes must come off
The sheets of our bed are on fire and the windows are closed
I hold my breath but yet still breathe from my own nose
The hare eats its carrots as the fox waits to jump from its own hole

Fingers dance upon the ice covered plain field
The soldiers swords are ready, they've eaten their last meal
The blacksmith's hammer swings and is getting worn down
The queen on her pedestal is presented with a newly sewn gown
We peasants with pens praise Shakespeare for his ingenuity
Lo' in secret with his estate and his money, he truly was one

The hard-workers with their hands and their blades and their resentment
Make anything presented with them show a veil of false sentiment
Writing too long for my trusty pen to hold anymore ink
At times I think I've lost my mind, my heart tips on the brink
Where Lear entrusts his daughters, the chorus readies their mourners

Why make a sound or noise
or do anything to the page?
Unison playing from polyphony,
music evolves toward simplicity.

Gould's assertion that complexity,
NASA, is no more certain than a drunk in his city
weaving, heaving his guts into the gutter;
by any measure, evolution's favored bacteria.

Therefore, the earliest poem taking joy
in abundant crops and the lover's body,
2K B.C., followed by Yeats' Lapis Lazuli
offers the completest hope to us, easily,

for living this life without God's help
or even probability's. We meet
in the meeting house, argue and pray. We sit
with the dead who gave their genes to whelp

ourselves. Today, and then, the one question is
What is the polity's interest in the private soul?
Being free means belonging to the loved ones.
O the individual, alone, cannot be whole.

Governance evolves to democracy,
man accepting sole responsibility
for his thoughts, his wants, his words. Pure,
vibratoless genes from a polyphony of wars.

Every morning while it was dark
He'd wake and pack his boards
With plastic men, his soldiers
To do battle with no swords

He'd put them in his basket
Load them all into the cart
He'd have a tea and bagel
And then, his day would start

He would walk from his apartment
To the park, before the sun
Two miles and a quarter
Just past highway eighty one

There, inside the complex
In the middle of the park
He'd play chess, against all comers
And he'd stay 'till after dark


A prodigy at ten years old
He would beat men three times his age
He would sit there in stunned silence
As they stormed around in rage

A master by his eighteenth year
He hadn't lost on his home ground
He would play and play and nothing else
To the chess board he was bound

Although he had his title
He couldn't leave to play
If he left the country
Then, back home is where'd he stay

He played some competitions
Made his points to climb the list
But, still he kept on thinking
Of the games that he had missed

I saw him in Toronto
Playing for a buck a game
He played against  all comers
The result, always the same

His accent was a harsh one
His beard was slightly rough
With some he'd be a softie
With others, he was gruff

Each day he'd make the journey
Pull his boards down and set off
He'd joke about while playing
And at bad moves he would scoff

"In Russia, they would shoot you"
"If you made a move like that"
Was he lying in the bushes
Should you move or just stand pat?

He moved on down to Yonge Street
When the park land all was sold
No one knew just why it happened
He went there, and it was closed

On a small street down by Eatons
He moved his boards so he could play
He didn't need to walk there now
He could now go by subway

There was more room here for players
To learn at this man's feet
They would line up with their dollars
Knowing full well, they'd be beat

The crowd that came from Yonge street
To see this rock star of the board
Were much different from the park folk
But to this street they poured

College players, bankers
Strippers from the Zanzibar
would come and drop their dollar
Then lose and find a bar

As time went on, his game it changed
He'd take more time for his moves
He would talk more as distraction
And once I saw him lose

His brain was getting fuzzy
Age was now taking a toll
Time, it owned his body
But the board still owned his soul

He'd flirt with the young maidens
Showing cleavage in the sun
One girl even flashed him
Because she thought she'd won

He joked about her actions
Told the crowd that it was nice
He joked that if she showed some more
He'd let her come close twice

As time went on the master
Didn't come downtown each day
He'd stay at home in silence
Downtown was far away

He dreamed of heading home again
But, he knew that couldn't be
Then we saw him on the news one night
On the local CBC

He played downtown for seven years
He last played in 85
He took sick and nearly passed on
Thankfully, the master did survive

His name was Josef Smolij
He was Polish, but we thought
He was Russian from his comments
Made when our bad moves were caught

His absence still is felt there
Gould street it was his space
The area he used to play
Is now called Hacksell Place

He left and went to Europe
Germany became his home
But still down there off Yonge street
The old chess ghosts still roam

I remember playing Smolij
I remember it was hot
I lost and then he told me
"Back in Russia...you'd be shot"

He was 60 when I played him
He'd be 99 or so
I'm glad I got to meet him
The Master known as Joe

protean nucleic processes polemic yield
   explosive diversification
   punctuated diversification
   Stephen Jay Gould
   paleontological hypothesis

   spawning sudden flora and fauna
   competed against diametrically
   opposed diatribe
   pairing diehard religionists
   versus doubting Thomists

   which creationist advocates
   threatened non-believers
   with damnation and eternal punishment
   brethren of god thru tongue did wield

   pompous empiricists
   fire and brimstone sermons
   excruciating punishment of soul
   claimants who refute
   intelligent design theorists
   will meet scimitar and invincible shield!

..slice.by slice..
..piece  by piece..
       ..getting it's form..it's blase..it's
            change of it..

But all we know we come to our mother's metra ..
      ..were blind 4 nano second at least..
                ..same thing..at least the one's that get that..

..how much time too u think that we have thonger out of our stupid..made belive..problelm's..and do you
.              even know true love...
..i do..and it hurts the most of all that I have witness..3/4 of my heart went to love..or what thougt love..i've would have give my life that somebody gould keep living..LOVE..jist a word what we made to oirselfs to survive..to control..to ****..to say something when it feels awkward some **..what ever..but we're not out word's or language..that would be just plain skitso and dumb..yeah th the 10%:t..but still..there's jus another  'fact' that we eat
          without chewin'..ain't the first time to ack like ape..throuing boo as funny business..OR we know why you but us in cage's..


   ..made up words to get along..to explain our simplicity to others....the ******'s that make's us belive that we are in charge..

              ..words that have made all war's exist..and blood spilled..

       ..we need them but it would bea very sunny day..when we
             learned to use them too much..like this my contribution..

..me..myself all alone..again..day by day..
..why haven't i've done nothing..but all..that
          i ever gould find..within..

                 ..no surrender..no retreat..

CONTINUING WITH THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS
HERE IS THE STORY BEHIND THE ENGLISH HYMN:
          “ONWARD  CHRISTIAN  SOLDIERS”

"Onward, Christian Soldiers" is a 19th-century English hymn. The words were written by Sabine Baring-Gould in 1865, and the music was composed by Arthur Sullivan in 1871. Sullivan named the tune "St Gertrude," after the wife of his friend Ernest Clay Ker Seymer, at whose country home he composed the tune. The Salvation Army adopted the hymn as its favoured processional. This piece became Sullivan's most popular hymn. The hymn's theme is taken from references in the New Testament to the Christian being a soldier for Christ, for example II Timothy 2:3 (KJV ) :  "Thou therefore endure hardness, as a good soldier of Jesus Christ."

Now Arthur Sullivan was the son of a military bandmaster, who composed his first anthem at the age of eight, and was later a soloist in the boys' choir of the Chapel Royal. ... To supplement the income from his concert works he wrote hymns, parlour ballads, and other light pieces, and worked as a church organist and music teacher.

    LYRICS OF THE FAMOUS HYMN
“Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war,
With the cross of Jesus going on before.
Christ, the royal Master, leads against the foe;
Forward into battle see His banners go!
o Refrain:
Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war,
With the cross of Jesus going on before.
At the sign of triumph Satan’s host doth flee;
On then, Christian soldiers, on to victory!
Hell’s foundations quiver at the shout of praise;
Brothers, lift your voices, loud your anthems raise.
Like a mighty army moves the church of God;
Brothers, we are treading where the saints have trod.
We are not divided, all one body we,
One in hope and doctrine, one in charity.
Crowns and thrones may perish, kingdoms rise and wane,
But the church of Jesus constant will remain.
Gates of hell can never ’gainst that church prevail;
We have Christ’s own promise, and that cannot fail.
Onward then, ye people, join our happy throng,
Blend with ours your voices in the triumph song.
Glory, laud, and honor unto Christ the King,
This through countless ages men and angels sing.”
……Posted by Raj Nandy of New Delhi.……

Shakespeare is Italy
Melville is Spain
Something in the Way She Moves
And I'm Purple Rain

Only been to New Orleans once
Rode the Taipei Train
Don't notice the Lithium
When it's runnin' round my brain

No conventional Deity
That's what Stephen Jay Gould says
Yah Kurt Wagner
Makes an attempt on the life of the Prez

Aquinas favored tyrranicide
Unlike Martin Luther
No Where to Run, No Where to Hide
When I truly truth her

                     Ruth her?

I'm slowly sliding away from reality,

But something holds me back,

I look around to see friends, standing their pleading for me to be alright,

But, I want to leave and end my rain of pain,

But I can't, I can't leave them on my choice, It is fate to decide,

These are my friends, who are their to hold me up when times are rough,

Remember, that your friends, are their for you

~ For Edward Gould

It was not created for us
It will endure without us
That's what Stephen Jay Gould said
She and I and Life of Pi in our lover's bed

The moon was glowing yellow
Misty clouds above
My son on his way to Magic
Cool grey City of Love

It had to be poetry
Just had to be
Motorcycle taxis
3773

Let it be ambiguous
Let them call me mad
Let her see the truth
Sweet Sir Galahad

    Thank you. Thank you, Dad.

As origin of **** Sapien species surged ahead,
harboring nascent predominance
asper said primate reproductively bred,
(albeit via incremental fits and starts)
evolutionary forebears didst dread
Tom Tom Club former members
an American new wave band founded in 1981
by husband-and-wife team Chris Frantz
and Tina Weymouth
as a side project from Talking Heads,
rocketing them to super stardom
similar to heights of fame and fortune,
where band zeppelin led
exemplifying, fortifying, and glorifying QED
quod erat demonstrandum
meaning "that which was to be demonstrated,"

whence, (since time immemorial) nasty, short
brutish, loutish, and vampish anthropological,
genealogical, and millennial
report card found forebears
precariously perched, pitched, and positioned quart
toured pièce de résistance  purport
head supremacy devastatingly,
heavily, and literally bruited nearly did abort

tentative tenacious status
being supreme species oft times
challenged minuscule leading edge
proto humans rendered
stronghold atop ACME perch
(on evolutionary leading cusp) fund hedge
ching hypothetical bets said simians
nearly toppled off figurative ledge
against being easily uprooted
akin to one weeding out unwanted sedge
imposing fledgling breakfast of champions
clinging to niched wedge

while serial incessant challenges nearly wrote
snuffed out clinched placed viz *** him tote
often at fateful loggerheads,
where survival of the fittest smote
cream of the crop sacrificed for Ares
poised to strike dawn of dusky mankind
viz apish creatures almost got rote
off while chance dominance, eminence grise
pitted, spitted, and got vetted sans un quote
able primal screaming expletives
pitted Neanderthal progenitors note
worthy kickstarter scrum held dim promise,
whether weathered brood
which smattering population comprised
a scattered handful of rudimentary
destined to become a GOAT

contemporary competitive lass or dude,
whence latent talent to net fame and fortune
voluntarily sharing wealth as altruistic,
deterministic, humanistic, and idealistic
amidst looming global warming
legacy of industrial revolutions,
which pointedly wreaked havoc
radioactive Superfund sites still exude
toxins, where dangerous fallout glommed,

rained, and frankly zapped the tocsin
muted, muffled, muddied waters
where pollution never
confronted Wilma or Fred Flintstone
generic Geico caveman/woman respectively,
and aside from external
threatening ecological depredations
violent crime comprises tribal (family) feud
where might versus right,

the deterministic factor aye include
at undoubtedly animalistic behavior
defied being categorized as lewd
since each monkey's uncle
similarly frolicked, gallivanted, and hocked
like a CRO-MAGNON
European early modern humans,
when he flirted in done ****
videre licet dangling modifier
attested courtesy punctuated equilibrium

(the hypothesis evolutionary development
marked by isolated episodes
of rapid speciation
between long periods
of little or no change)
courtesy Stephen Jay Gould
fate didst not occlude
also absence of consciousness rued

until...fast forward to the present day,
when carnal, feral,
and integral leanings attempted
to rope hormonal, gonadal,
and banal found
more recent ancestors (discovered
visa vis like Ancestry.com and/or 23andme)
rolled in the hay
under the natural predilection to lay naked,
especially frisky comb early
May procreative force
engendered the writer of this poem,
when his parents coaxed foreplay
unbeknownst, that their singular heir,
would be afflicted with countless
obsessive compulsive mailer to slay
ritualistic controlling psychic threnody
dominated favored holistic paradigm oy vey
dystopia prevails every which way
Gaia will be declared winner yay!

Teilhard de Chardin
Teleology in nature
******* Stephen Jay Gould
Mario Cuomo did write

Me in Seattle
Who is God?
Reading on my lunch break
Libraries give light

I like grilled salmon
And salmon teriyaki
Miso soup, udon
Puzzling my plight

Train station Kyoto
Bainbridge Island memorial
Farewell to Manzanar
Tokyo - what a sight!

          City at Night! City at Night!

According to Stephen Jay Gould
There is no conventional Deity
Nature was not created for us
It will endure without us

I'm Chicago, not Harvard
I don't rank high in society
I don't possess a PhD
Don't know much about paleontology

But I like the Unconventional
The Unexpected
The Hidden
The need for trust

American Cosmic
Buddhamind in Bangkok
Stranger Than Fiction
Astrobiology

                3733

I was in San Diego once
Sunlit Balboa Park
Darwin trapped on Highway 5
In Sacramento Mark

Punctuated equilibrium
Stephen Jay Gould in Seattle
Stephen Hawking too
In 24 I rejoin the battle

Jose Vasconcelos
Pythagoras in Mexico
Ancient Mayan ruins
Never really been, so I don't really know

Rural North Carolina
Rockabye Sweet Baby James
Satellite Beach, Florida
Holy Names. Holy Names.

                 I aims.

Father Greeley's anguish for the animals
An anguish that I share
Charles Darwin on Highway 5
Highwater Everywhere

The Cambrian Explosion
I think of whales and Wales
I have seen several Welsh dragons
Cam Cam tells me tales

Punctuated equilibrium
Stephen Jay Gould in Seattle
For an unconventional Deity
I true blue join the battle

Nature is not just strange
But stranger than we can imagine
I welcome Stranger Things
He sings with Imagine Dragons

                    Zoe!

Dear Editor
Thanks for sharing Emily Gould's.A great story.

Writing is not about self-pushing--let the ideas and words come in their rightful time.  Zen--stop, listen, be empty, feel and you will find your right voice.

Each writer is different and there is no perfect formula.But writing must be pleasurable and not aimed at making money (unless this is the sole source of income) or achieving fame (only one in 20 million attains this).

Stephen King compels himself to write 4,000 words per day.....amazing! I write only 200 to 500!  Sometimes zero!  My best hours are the morning 8 to 11.

I am quite lazy as a hobby-writer of prose and verse--more of the latter.

I am singularly happy in being myself and laugh at my mediocrity but am unfazed as this is my passion as with music since I am a hobby-composer.

Shall read Emily's as soon as Melb bookshops/libraries open for business.

Thank you for keeping me in your list.  I am learning and have enjoyed much.
              Words are not chased for/              in lingering steps they appear /             none is the same as before /             some are sterile, others are dear-
             too often I have failed--in truth- /            publishers' rejections I no longer fear    /         somehow writing has made me feel good        /     should I have reason to shed any tear?

Warmest wishes
Lim,     failed but happy 'writer',  Melbourne

The shamans can talk
To the Dead and the animals
Believe me, I have tried

Was that my mother on Backstreets?
In 2001 she died

I keep on seeing deer
Steven Jay Gould denied

Sick man suffering
Wounded healer: open wide.

In a leaked memo
It has been disclosed
That nobody has ever
Been assassinated in
Hell, not even ******!
A rumour circulating
In Heaven that a hit
Man is being sent by
Irish TD Thomas Gould
To blow the head off
Benjamin Netanyahu
The minute he crosses
The threshold of Hell.

American atheism is a difficult sell
If all men are created equal

Endowed by their Creator with rights
To take those away would be evil

George Will is an atheist
Steven Jay Gould an atheist too

Princeton, Oxford, Harvard
What would Jesus do?

Probably watch and wait
From his lonely wooden tower

Drowning men appear
But no man knows the hour

Guernica, 1937
**** terror (and one little flower)

It was not made for us
It will endure without us
Said Harvard paleobiologist
Steven Jay Gould
Of the natural world

I do not argue
It often appears to be so
And yet ...

There may well be
A Dragon Scroll
Still to be unfurled