when marco polo sailed to china,
kublai khan was the emperor of china.

or what other privilege can i speak of, if not that celebration
of the bilingual, there rooted, the sword in slavic
and the sheath in pseudo-Germanic;
for what violence is to come
it will always retract in the Germanic
for a time-period of two-faced thespian
pleasantries,
           without the need for pleasantries
already waiting bloodthirsty,
        as said, the common motto
more true now with ***** farms of turnip
donors than ever before,
science has become arrogant, almost religiously,
it's arrogant, it's arrogant, it's arrogant,
and because it's arrogant: it's blind.
       high expectations for words so grand they
fathomed nations to be used in between
kettles, teacups, knives, forks and napkins...
where's the equilibrium economy?
     well, for one this sort of work is deemed "work",
intellectualism is nothing in the post-Germanic
world of English and Americanism -
if you ain't singing (citing the motto): you
ain't thinking... for the quick buck, doctor.
it's sad and almost revealing,
          a cursed fate of our fathers' indentation
on the world...
                 you don't grow a beard to look smart
while holding a book using your upper-body
to wriggle the jig of a song, the vanity of having
a double chin...
       the principle of ensō is to have things intact,
ensō doesn't exist outside of poetry,
      you don't drink coffee in between and
then flick to a sitcom for a "creative" break
to what is: an already generic narrative.
prose is the excess of narration, there are sparks
along the way, but nothing as convincing
as Stendhal's omnus...
                and could i have simply abandoned
that quasi-epic poem of mine that's two days old?
only having realised that all said things prior
and now, subsequently, after are instilled within
the ensō principle that's less axe on the gallows:
and more guillotine; which translates into
symbols and the effectiveness of *less is more,
what's the standardising canvas? alcohol,
i.e. proof.
               a poem can be nearing 100% proof,
something you'd use in a surgical theatre...
i have drank spirits in the 90 - 99% range...
          a poem can be considered to be in the >50%
range... after all... people are able to memorise
poems, or are intended to do so -
which is hard to conceive the Koranic attitude
toward poets, the Koran states an abhorrence
towards poets, in some surah of so-and-so number...
my problem is with the Hafiz: people who memorise
the Quran... as suggested from the above:
prose literature can be considered to be in the <50%
range... hence the need to extract spoilers /
quotes from prose books... something memorable...
and because prose is laden with too much
narrative lead, it sinks to the bottom,
into the unconscious, and is only revised within
dreams, when something synonymously-parallel
happens to us in your daily-narrated lives:
we are more prone to narrate than think
in terms of Jefferson and the light-bulb...
i wish i had the encyclopedic reference point where
the Quran explicitly states hostility toward
poetry... but thankfully the mere existence of
the Hafiz undermines the Quran as: the poetry
to end all poetry; and where does Stendhal
come into this? in the Red & the Black, the protagonist
is also a "Hafiz", in that he can recite the entire
Biblical text: by heart. i retain the this fact even
though the days spent reading that book
extended to many hours on the bus to school...
Julien Sorel / Ewan McGregor (in the realisation
of the book onto the screen)...
if the Quran attacks poets for their fickle-mindedness
i can only say: the mind is very literally fickle
in the first place, given:
a. the number of choices we can make, and
   b. the reversal of where the mind is embedded,
i.e. in the brain, and given the brain's complexity
and foundation in polymathic expressions
from the gymnastics of trivia, to the labours of
  singled-out interests... poets aren't fickle
  minded because they're poets,
   we're universally fickle minded, because the mind
is a fickle thing in the first place...
  to counter the complexity of the brain,
    only when the mind is found migrating into
the ******* region or the heart is there any sense
of determination to be seen...
clearly Muhammad migrated from the brain
   got himself a mini-harem and established a family,
****** Ali over on an empty promise and
immediately established a schism that took much
longer to be established in Christianity...
       i told you: my prejudices are personal,
they're not environment, i did have Muslim "friends",
i did read the Quran and i did sit in a Reagent's Park
mosque in my socks looking at the feng shui
minimalism... obviously the schism would come
from the place where a major element was used
in dressing up the mosques... persian carpets...
   and the fact that the Farsi loved their poetry...
the fact that the Quran is to be sang is basically
one poet, telling all others poets to come:
YOUR WORK IS ****!
                     that's feeble, esp. if you take the sword
out after when people tell you no.
   but that's what i don't understand, if the Quran
is so against poetry, doesn't the existence of
the Hafiz mean that it actually is poetry?
  could you find a team of such plonkers to memorise
a single chapter of Tolstoy's war & peace?
  i ******* well doubt it...
plus the whole mono-lingual attitude toward it
means for me to argue certain points with some
Sheikh Ali-Baba would means years lost
   to hark out a word of arabic...
      point being, any chance to learn a new optical
encoding of sounds is impossible,
the one i already have has eroded such a potential:
plus the fact that it's so different...
plus i spotted some anomalies in the system i'm
using: here's it's saying java, .dos, linux...
               oh don't feel left out from the computer
programming community: turn the cheek and
say in robo-slo-mo: psi-borg     (Ψ-borg):
it's the crucifix of the psychology community anyway (Ψ)...    
        i inherited the difference between
   s & ś                         a & ą -
or as one ironic German phrasing had it, a long long
time ago on a Catholic retreat in the south of France
(Taizé): vey didn't oonderstand my good Inglish aacent,
you know how Arnie sounds, right?
just like that... became the running joke for a few years...
you basically learn an accent having spotted
  diacritical markings... having been raised in
a phonetic-realm where diacritical marks are used,
and then growing up in a phonetic-realm where
they are completely disregarded... well,
it's not hard not sound English and then lurking
in the shadows if someone is calling your ethnic origin
as vermin... having such a kind remark as this one
to further the entertainment... i heard
that in America there's that thing called "white-privilege",
and that you can't be racist to a white person
if you're a white person... well... you won't be getting
any jazz and blues out of me sweetiepie, that's for sure:
politics, unfortunately; and what better way
to state politics than with poetry, or the tact within
poetry: telling someone to go to hell with them
anticipating the trip.

I met her on the road
Exhausted just like me.
I asked her why she's walking
She told me she is free.

I told her I'm a pilgrim.
She warned me, don't forget,
You may be tired of walking,
But your end is 'lejos' yet.

I told her Santiago
Was now my Xanadu.
She laughed and said the Khan awaits.
I laughed and said I knew.

I've seen his horse on hills afar,
He canters while I walk
And Kublai champs his teeth and shouts
His sword spits while we talk.

He wears the forest as a cloak
And chains the wind as breath.
I see him chase me further on
He tracks me to my death.

I asked her where she's going.
To Santiago too,
But I don't seek the spires and peaks
I'm hunting one like you.

He's running as his boots get worn
And I champ my teeth and shout.
He's keeping eyes out to the hills
While my sword point seeks him out.

Her deep black eyes and strong disguise
Bled from her and she stood.
Kublai Khan afore me spoke.
I ran but 'twas no good

She spoke out strong and in a blur,
'You are not my prey.
For many men along the road
Flee demons every day.'

And she roared and drew her breath,
The wind took up her gait.
She took the time to smile before
Her horse flew fast and straight.

I watched her go, still for so long,
The road behind ignored.
I heard the wind blow on before
I turned and saw He roared.

The hill was crowned with forest
Drawn around his back.
He spurred his horse on and the steed
Cantered down the track.

I turned and walked, slow and calm
For I am used to demons.
Though on the road I keep him towed.
The Khan is still the freeman.

Charge forth into Dis-topi
Ah, City of Kanye-esque antics and Oxford commas looking for lovers
Bliss-ful dive and conquer in Shakespearean soliloquies thus
Learned to romance on the breast of Juliet and *** ******* despite plaque
Toe the line, Lady Macbeth, let your murderous rhythm sing harmonic
Matthew 18 rendition on the dias of Gatsby, 1920
Thousand and fifteen we still age inappropriate
Lee, Spike jump rage against God Hates **** yet black lives live without crack
******* Kublai Khan to the sanctified Amazons.

I cannot wait to fill containers with my thoughts and get them shipped away to distant places hidden behind me,
Replace them with a new receptacle whose organic sheen will be a beacon to me in this modern darkness
Where a metaphor can wander free on a range, and learn to be itself
Where new rangers will be hired to scour the tall grass, pull up by the throat any snakes parading as old artifacts
Where new worlds will be built, instead of these failed cities, where famine and mighty winds have kept us from our God-given destiny to conquer
Where the wrath of God will be our own once more, and all within will be pure and flawless, shining gold with the finest inks from all the land, stones of brotherhood and sisterhood stacked within
Where riches wide like Kublai Khan or Charles Foster Kane will stagnate in the basement, gathering more dust for everything we ever duel
All the mountains climbing over people when they reach into the sky and scrape the clouds for their sweet milk
All the deserts flooded in a moment of inattention
The white-hot valleys and dark black peaks enfolded on the canvases of foreign skies, easter-egg shell pieces falling from the stars
Skin of great hands clapping down upon the surface of the sea, stinging flesh and splashing sea serpents from the depths onto the shores of shining cities,
Where young children seek to fly away, and get lost at the precipice of
City life, the streets are shaken, but the people keep on moving, feet unsteady, stumbling along new winding paths leading under basements lain exposed in earthquakes
Underground laboratories sheltering themselves in desperation, they don't know when they'll resume their operation
Satanic possessions buried with the dead and scorched by signals from the clouds that send them sprawling out beyond the old horizon even further to the new one laying vertically against a field of unencumbered time detached from playing fields where rules define the lives of players and their women
Vandalized explosions spreading downward into catacombs where people living in obscurity can see they're just like me and let themselves be herded into tunnels where the darkness is preserved in a more desperate enclosure
Anything and everybody naught but deceiving
Getting to the lessons of our treacherous evening
Watching out for icicles that fall from the ceiling
Knowing that our skin will be removed when it starts peeling
Taking all the batteries so they can't not believe me
Floating all the money down on rafts the beasts are heaving
Quicker down the river while the back seat keeps on weaving
A believable excuse for the aforementioned deceiving
All within the new receptacle which waits for me at home
Believing and conceiving of destruction we pretend to know
When I reconstruct the audience they'll know and start applauding
Now I wile away the time kneading minds in preparation
For the grand beginning of my newest exposition
Where the many riches of disaster and of history
Will stand along with pieces of the funeral we celebrate
On every second Monday of the week of New Year's Eve
And new cases will be sent along with goodwill from hereafter
And together we will party and prevent the next disaster

certain words don't provide adequate
ontological modes,
they provide ontological medians
or means, but not modes,
for example, a good comparison would be
to compare two words, only two words:
a. atheism              and b. apathy.
dissect the words during a syllable
cut as a meaningful prefix, in both
examples that's a-,
what do you get?
a- (without) god (/ theology), contradictory
given that atheism is a type of theology,
a logic to disprove the existence of something,
but it's still a theology of some sort,
now the second example:
a- (without) pathology (/ailments of
range whether phobias or their antonyms,
psychological constructs that are stressed
more prominently than serious pains
that leave everyone psychologically paralysed
by that parasite of pain).
in terms of ontology, in simpler terms simply qua,
which is more important in human affairs?
qua apathetic or qua atheistic?
personally? i think the former - there are more
obstructions in the former's rubric of obstructions
than in the latter's, given that it's a rarity
to be suddenly struck down with plagues
and prophetic ailments of ill fate...
i don't care how cool it looks, to be an atheist,
you could only be a true atheist if you
were illiterate and couldn't use the alphabet
(that old chestnut from the book of genesis,
in the beginning there was word, and the word
was god), or if you were part of that
famous experiment done by frederick ii
hohenstaufen where a bunch of children
were raised in a phonetic celibacy by nuns,
just to prove what language was spoken first;
well the experiment conclusively
produced a bunch of mutes...
i guess extending the experiment's parameters
to animals would never work:
try forcing a cat to bark, as many vanities
of "proven reasons" died when kublai khan
moved the horde east without due respect
for peace-loving mongolians.

those gods like rotten meat
end up in a dump
buzzed over by
flies

scratched and left over by some canine

'cause his master said
"don't eat that rotten **** you fool!"

there are worms
they don't think like that
if they think at all

but be modest, Charlie

give'em some credit

for they never complain for
making a fertilizer

now will you  look down that bridge

there lay a dried up whale
exploding boiling organs all around

and there hides
the entire city
behind the stink

now we wait, Charlie, 'cause we are patient

wait for some Kublai Khan
to interpret as he wishes
'cause, Marco Polo does not speak
the same language

and god is still
an ever rotting meat.

those gods like rotten meat
end up in a dump
buzzed over by
flies

scratched and left over by some canine

'cause his master said
"don't eat that rotten **** you fool!"

there are worms
they don't think like that
if they think at all

but be modest, Charlie

give'em some credit

for they never complain for
making a fertilizer

now will you  look down that bridge

there lay a dried up whale
exploding boiling organs all around

and there hides
the entire city
behind the stink

now we wait, Charlie, 'cause we are patient

wait for some Kublai Khan
to interpret as he wishes
'cause, Marco Polo does not speak the same language

the language, the illusion it is.

and god is still
an ever rotting meat.

It can always get worse
And it most likely will

George W. Lied
So that he could ****

California sun
Mansions on Fire

Suffering, Suffering
Caused by desire

Zen Center silence
Distant is Rome

Hagia Sophia
Kublai Khan pleasure dome

Philosophy fails
All is unknown

Americans make you
Go it alone

           Apophis!

Please help me relax
When anxiety attacks
The sound of flowing water
Safe inside my home

In Xanadu did Kublai Khan
In Santa Fe did I
Silence of the Lambs
In the Y the Life of Pi

       relax. relax. relax.

                     try

1.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge digests his grayish-green anodyne
and dreams of the kaleidoscopic exotica of Kublai Khan.

Orson Welles puffs his cigar between takes, edits and directs
the poet's smoke-thin visions into everlasting, silver celluloid.

Xanadu, palatial complex of Khan's magnificent Mongolian empire,
metamorphoses into the fantasy kingdom of Charles Foster Kane

and his flame-filled childhood. Fumes of sizzling rosebuds streak
traces of gray across his bejeweled grasping after operatic grandeur.

2.
Coleridge pens imagery of high-minded passion, tragic loss,
despair at sea -- an epic Delacroix -- while William Wordsworth

lets loose a clear-eyed revolution in the high flowery stanzas
of England's prettified poetry. Plain diction and the depths

of the self, suckled by the mystic wonders of Lakeland's fells, attune
to the melody of the poet's maturation, nature's marvel of The Prelude.

Chubby, cherubic Coleridge chases after the lean, elegant Wordsworth
to connive an unpatched rupture in poetry's flow: birth of Romanticism.

3.
Kublai Khan's courtly poets conjure impossible imperial feats
to further the wise warrior mystique of China's first conqueror.

Grandson of Genghis Khan, he weaves the calligraphy of his
bravery into the broad shield he uses to rebuff temptation

of all but the serpentine lure of luxury and opulence, his rightful
reward, his cherished spoils, interest compounded daily at Xanadu.

A knock at the door, and Coleridge's dream tears asunder on film,
dissipating with the vapors rising up from Welles’ golden cigar.

4.
Wordsworth wanders lonely as a cloud, watchful of nature's glory
expressed in woodlands, mountains, and the steady wash of the sea.

This all can be praised without ornament, witnessed without
embellishment, an earthy channel for the radiance of the world

to bless us, even though the world is too much with us. How much
splendor can one soul gather into the barns of abundance? Coleridge,

dejected among his odes, seeks ever more film time. Khan, free of worldly weariness, tallies his treasures. Wordsworth waves a daffodil and weeps.

1863 – ginbata ang isa ka duke nga gamhanan
Si Franz Ferdinand sg Austria nga kapungsuran
Nga ang kamatayon kabangdanan sg World War 1…
1271 – gintagna nga itukod ni Kublai Khan
Ang isa ka dalagko nga imperyo sa kasaysayan
Kombinasyon sg Tsina kg Mongolia – ang Yuan…
Tani ikaw man, Juan, gintagna mangin gamhanan!

-12/18/2015
(Dumarao)
*Kaadlawan ni Juan

Please help me relax
When anxiety attacks
The sound of flowing water
Safe inside my home

In Xanadu did Kublai Khan
In Santa Fe did I
Silence of the Lambs
In the Y the Life of Pi

       relax. relax. relax.

                     try

Do I want to live? Not really.
But still i journey on

Not much to do or be
I miss Gamla Stan

What a ******* world!
I seek the Great Beyond

No need for Harvard Square
No need for Walden Pond

                   Xanadu!

Aye dream of Genie (as a lad din)
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania -
keystone state abbreviated as Pea Yay,
this stupid non huge poem
deployed courtesy scholar
really...a boot nuttin
butta an overrated allay
zee good for nothing, bay
sic ****** slob, bray
zing as a ("FAKE") ex pence heave

trumpeting (Don Key Oat Tee),
chutzpah twittering Prez, -
whom stoop “To **** a Mockingbird”
activate hocus pocus “Go Set NRA
as a Watchman,” yepper, hip pip hooray,
whose **** sitters un mensch hen
nib bill, one important,
non binding ***** nilly play
book title, sans how to acquire,
tousled windswept coiffed soufflé

rooted under sworn confidential heady
testimony (top secret only known
between POTUS, FLOTUS,
and hairstylist Tiffany Kaljic)
helped grow "The Art Of The De..." lay
sham (poo poo) headline kept under ray
dar only "How To Get Ri" Dove lousy
tonsuring service, and how easy
to get Head & Shoulders above fray
dee cats - meowing over petty files

versus joining gravy train via tracking
"FAKE" ***** footing
faux Trump wannabes, hence ICE hay
immediately railroad competition
viz, against ISIS speck did
Amazon tubby a root cause
thus resorting to
"Midas Touch: Why...Enter
risk to get scalped, when,

(though periwig poor
hirsute substitute), I belay
burr the point far y'all
(get a Fred – Roger over) to hoist
by one's own petard oye vey,
while channeling das directv gray
gore re: haired (50 shades), and
direct descendent from Kublai
Khan, a moost deplorable display
yellowish, venomous, serpent,

which poisonous scorpion size prey
with deadly fangs straight
(tinned by orthodontists),
a perfect set pearl whites in an array
as daggers hissed ("FAKE")
snaky intergenerational viper, and
true tomb ice elf flave
heard like a pampered baby
(nick named Keebler Khan)
unthinkable alternative little cookie

(forever shunned near and far away)
if this poetaster doth betray
his (my) devout followers, no matter
admirably, dutifully, and gracefully
fulfilling role as sommelier
replenishing wine goblets
with vintage chardonnay,
nonetheless reprimanding recalcitrants,
who opt to breakaway
slamming, shaming, and scathing

rants against brand name
Matthew Scott Harris
finds himself a castaway,
thus unsure, how to write without delay
an insipid poem to pay
(overtime) homage about Labor Day
prepping mental gears
glommed together like clay
while cruising at mach speed
faster then cruising (Tom Hawk)

along the (Al Gore) rhythm information
super highway expressway
axe chilly (sh...don't tell a soul
lest I club burr you -
ha juiced tees zing),
yours truly intends
to play umpteen (close
to a bajillion) rounds of golf
on the Harris fairway
Lest a Tony (nay)

boar hood tiger jumps
out of the woods painfully sinking
sharp teeth into mine flesh for play
jour rising quickly making mince
meat then fillet
mignon before (prestidigitation
i.e.presto) magically
regurgitating my self fully intact
as repurposed slimy trumpeting popinjay.

Looking around,
Pit-Pat Paddy-Wack,
Heart bat-batting to an electronic beat,
Morale swinging like a grandfather clock,
Tick-Tick-Tocking,
One moment serene like a Sholin Monk,
The next rageful like Kublai Khan,
Sweat running like rivulets like some kind of Gatorade commercial,
Vision a-tunneling,
Fists a-tightening.

This inner monster jumpin,
Like a monkey on the bed,
While the outer demon is swayin,
Like a reed in the breeze,
Duality being duplicitous,
And clarity illusive like a cloud in the fog.

We're all specialists at missing appointments,

Rushing there only to find that we're late or discovering that it's not the right date
when the right date was yesterday.

I'm on the jubilee
neither early nor late
and
no matter to me
whatever the date
because it's always today,

There's a smell of Chanel
a faint hint of seduction.

He's got a tablet,
but it's not for a malady
it's just for watching
catch-up TV,

and him
with the lucozade,
looks like he'll
need more than that


She waits for the doors to open
but
it's the other doors and yet she
stays in place
I call her
Miss Stone Face.

Lady laughs and gets the granite stare
from Miss Stone face,
I wonder where she'll get off.

Man reading
Kublai Khan

Girl with mum
going to school
looking glum.

old spice sits next to me
a throwback?
a knockout in history
I don't think
he's
Henry Cooper.

All these people
and myself included
going to somewhere
not being
excluded.

How many?
so many before me
and millions more to follow
on the Jubilee.

Miss Stone Face alights
at Green Park,
it's still dark
perhaps no one will notice.

Yours truly an unfortunate hostage
within **** sapien zoo
looking for unwitting subject(s) to woo,
and albeit impossible mission) to free me,
where within human ******* I stew
more specifically mine personally
custom designed invisible prison self made,
thus wishing to don persona
of such an éminence grise
as Jawaharlal Nehru,
and trumpet courteous helloo
before bidding kith and kin
and fellow humans permanent adieu.

When out of the blue
methinks I hear a voice which intones do
please try a healthy dose - Mister Fitzhugh,
a Louisiana creole speciality touted
as psychological cureall within Hangzhou
capital of Zhejiang sheng (province), China
where amidst bustling businesses as usual
happens to live animated cartoon
caricature, whose modesty peddling
holistic and homeopathic
(interestingly enough) Asian Jew,
who many neighboring residents
thought said long in the tooth occupant loo
duck criss cause he exhibited inhibition,

hence nonestablishmentarian fella
in their (others) netview
hashtagged snake oil salesman
buzzfeeding gullible poo
courtesy legendary secret formula
comprising his mumbo jumbo
chicken gumbo soup,
our mutual friend Dumbo
doth heartily broker
entrancing kickstaring rendezvous
panacea as genuinely true
but aforenamed solitary wordsmith

also incorporates voodoo
to scare away mailer daemons
all the way to Xanadu
located (courtesy Google)
in the modern-day Zhenglan Banner
in inner Mongolia on southeastern edge
of the Mongolian plateau
The city founded as first capital
of Kublai Khan, the leader
of Mongol Borjigin clan
who founded Yuan dynasty that ruled
most of modern-day China,
Korea, and its surrounding areas.

I was given madness
So I'm gonna see it through
54 and forming
Figure out what to do

One eye on Charlotte
Carolina blue
One guy in Chapel Hill
I say 2 prayers for you

My son is turning 17
Baby I'm amazed
I am turning churning
Our politics is crazed

Bought a book on British poets
Coleridge is my man
In Xanadu did Kublai Khan
I proceed without a plan

                And I ran ...

In Xanadu did Kublai Khan
In Taipei did I
In Charlotte Eliade
The smiling statue is Thai

Basketball gives me hope
The Greek Freak on the break
Jokic with the needle pass
Linganore the Lake

Indoor soccer today
Beautiful blue sky
Un Escritor
But I don't know why

Read a lot of books
She broke me and I ache
O those 80s ladies!
Nothin' but love to make

                  Shannon!

Catholic but not orthodox
Bangkok Buddha blue
Contradictions, Benedictions
Horton Hears a Who

Postcards in the mail
Books, movies too
Me in summer Charlotte
Kublai Khan in Xanadu

Lost in Translation
Kyoto in the Fall
She in snowy Denver
We in Wetheral

The poetry of place!
Trains, planes, ferry boats
El futuro Space!
Irish pubs and blue notes

               Chicago ...

Yours truly an unfortunate hostage
within **** sapien zoo
presenting poetic hodge podge
and mish mash to you
looking for unwitting subject(s) to woo,
and albeit impossible mission) to free me,
where within human ******* I stew
more specifically mine personally

custom designed invisible
prison self made,
thus wishing to don persona
of such an éminence grise
as Jawaharlal Nehru,
and trumpet courteous helloo
before bidding kith and kin
and fellow humans permanent adieu.

When free and clear out of the blue
methinks I hear a voice
calling me matt chew
which intones do
please try a healthy dose - Mister Fitzhugh,
a Louisiana creole speciality touted
as psychological cureall within Hangzhou
capital of Zhejiang
sheng (province), China

where amidst bustling
businesses as usual
happens to live animated cartoon
caricature, whose modesty peddling
holistic and homeopathic
(interestingly enough) Asian Jew,
who many neighboring residents
thought semitic rapscallion
long in the tooth occupant loo

duck criss cause he exhibited inhibition,
essentially said reprobate a coward,
who didst udder moo
if you dear reader can bull leave,
hence nonestablishmentarian fella
in their (others) netview
hashtagged snake oil salesman
buzzfeeding gullible poo
courtesy legendary secret formula

comprising his mumbo jumbo
chicken gumbo soup,
our mutual friend Dumbo
doth heartily broker
entrancing kickstaring rendezvous
panacea as genuinely true
but aforenamed solitary wordsmith
also incorporates voodoo
to scare away mailer daemons
all the way to Xanadu

located (courtesy Google)
in the modern-day Zhenglan Banner
in inner Mongolia on southeastern edge
of the Mongolian plateau
The city founded as first capital
of Kublai Khan, the leader
of Mongol Borjigin clan
who founded Yuan dynasty that ruled
most of modern-day China,
Korea, and its surrounding areas.

In Xanadu did Kublai Khan
In Charlotte so did I
What dreams may come
Exoplanet sky

Shamanistic mystic
Why, Judi, Why?
Some good thing to do
Before my time to die

              I Thai Wai

Italy is beautiful
Solitude is calm
In Xanadu did Kublai Khan
In Gilead the balm

City of Ember remembers
So does the Giver
Cambridge nice hotel
Icy Charles River

Ohio childhood
Sacramento too
Jerusalem was brown
Tel Aviv was blue

Reading Robert Frost
Dante, Milton, Blake
3 prayers for Chicago
Lady of the Lake

     Seattle Earthquake

In Xanadu did Kublai Khan
In Vienna so did I
3 young deer
I Thai wai

A little country music
A lot of Johnny Cash
Smoke in the mountains
My body turns to ash

             waiting

Haven't been to Xanadu
Don't know Kublai Khan

Have been with you know who
I miss Gamla Stan

Some poems come from dreams
Some poems come from snow

Some still come from seeking
Atlantis: ay yay yo!

In Xanadu did Kublai Khan
In Charlotte so did I
Something good to do
Before my time to die

          Something Thai

Shooting together, both of us left-handed,
He speaks to me of Mongolia
So I tell him of Coleridge's dream
And recite the fragment I remember:

        In Xanadu did Kublai Khan
        A stately pleasure dome decree
        Where Alph the sacred river ran
        Through caverns measureless to man
        Down to a sunless sea

This fragment and yurts and hunting with hawks is just about all I know of Mongolia.

I wish him well in his studies.
He bids me good night with the hint
Of a southern accent.

                         Basketball
                    It's a small world
                           After all

Italy is beautiful
Solitude is calm
In Xanadu did Kublai Khan
In Gilead the balm

City of Ember remembers
So does the Giver
Cambridge nice hotel
Icy Charles River

Ohio childhood
Sacramento too
Jerusalem was brown
Tel Aviv was blue

Reading Robert Frost
Dante, Milton, Blake
3 prayers for Chicago
Lady of the Lake

     Seattle Earthquake