(Sorry Friends, for posting educational type of poems, I know Haiku are easier to read & comment! But if you happen to like this true story, kindly recommend it to your other friends! Thanks, -Raj)

STORY OF EUROPEAN RENAISSANCE: PART TWO

THE CITY-STATE OF FLORENCE :
The city of Florence lies in the historic valley of Tuscany ,
Along the banks of the Arno river, surrounded by hills
of scenic beauty !
Here during the first century BC , the conquering Romans
established their ‘Colonia Florentina’,
To settle the war veterans of Caesar’s army in Northern
Italia !
But later after the fall of Rome , it became a battleground
for the Holy Roman Empire and the Pope ;
But the independent nature of its people refused foreign
yolk !
They preferred commune rule led by a powerful leader –
called the Signore ,
Just like the city-states of ancient Greece, in those days of
yore !
But unlike Greece , Florence saw no Democracy ,
Since the Medici family finally usurped power in this
city of Northern Italy !
Unlike Venice , Florence is landlocked and not a port
city ;
Relying on banking and trade to prosper economically .
Their gold coin florin became the standard coinage
throughout Europe ;
While through the export of its quality textile and woolen
goods, great wealth got secured !
But to become patrons of art and letters mere wealth is
not enough ,
One must have a refined taste to become a true lover of
letters and art !
And here the Medici carved out a niche for themselves
under the Florentine sun !
Writers like Francesco Petrarca , Dante, and Boccaccio ;
And artists such as Giotto , Lippi, Dontello, Leonardo ,
and Michelangelo , were all born Florentines !
Even classical Athens couldn’t boast of such a vast
galaxy ,
Of artistic talents within such a limited time frame of
History !
These artists embellished their city with their literary
works, sculptures, architectures and paintings ;
Made Florence to reawaken, dazzle, and shine ;
Carving out a proud moment in history for the
Florentines !

CONTRIBUTION OF MEDICI FAMILY OF
FLORENCE :
Giovanni de Medici (1360-1429) :
This Medici family became the Godfather for the Italian
Renaissance ,
And I feel obliged to narrate their story tracing their
historical source !
In those early days Art was considered a lowly craft ,
There were no art galleries, and one couldn’t make a
living out of Art !
Without patronage the artist and his art couldn’t survive ,
So I speak of the Medics, who had originated from the
Tuscan countryside !
Gaining power through wealth and political astuteness,
And not through military force for dominance !
The founder of family’s fortunes was Giovanni de
Medici ,
An educated man with a simple life style , who
traveled on a donkey !
A humble man who had never aroused any enmity .
He established the Medici Bank with innovations
in ledger accounting system ;
And became a pioneers in tracking credits and debits
through a double entry system !
He opened branches of the Bank in Rome and Northern
Italy ,
Facilitated bills of exchange and credit bills, to multiply
his money !
After the return of the Papacy from Avignon to Rome ,
The Medici Bank was made the official bankers of the
Pope ;
And Giovanni became the wealthiest man in Italy , if
not in entire Europe !
In 1421 Giovanni was made the Chief Executive of his
city ,
And he commissioned its leading architect Brunelleschi , -
to glorify Florence city .
The challenging task for Brunelleschi was to build the dome
of the Cathedral of his city .
This was the first octagonal dome in history , a breakaway
from the earlier Gothic structures ,
And even surpassing the Roman Pantheon as a marvel of
Florentine architecture !
It took sixteen long years to complete this huge dome ,
And stands today as an icon of Renaissance Europe !
Giovanni had taught his son Cosimo to follow a simple
life style ,
To patronize art and letters, and to his people be kind !

COSIMO De MEDICI (1389-1464) :
After Giovanni’s death , Cosimo the Elder built upon
his father’s inherited wealth ;
Absorbed most of the 39 Florentine Banks, operating its
branches in London and Bruges as well !
The greatest rival of the Medici fortunes were the Albizzi ,
They plotted against Cosimo and the Medics ;
And in 1433, exiled Cosimo and his family out of jealousy !
But after a year the Medics were recalled back as heroes ,
Since the Florentine coffers without the Medici Bank , -
had become almost zero !
But both peace and prosperity are needed for flourishing
of art and culture ,
So Cosimo engineered the Peace of Lodi (1454) with Milan
and Venice , -
To prevent future wars and misadventure !
Scholars were made to collect precious manuscripts from
the East, and the churches and vaults of Europe ;
And an ensured period of stability , contributed to Early
Renaissance’s growth !
Sculptor Donatello’s bronze **** David stood up as an
unique art form ,
And with paintings of Fra Angelico, and Filippo Lippi , -
the style of art itself began to reform !
Architect Michalozzo built the famous Medici Palace ,
And Cosimo opened the Medici Library for the spread of
classical knowledge !
After the fall of Constantinople in 1453 , the Greek scholars
with their classical manuscripts fled to Italy .
They flocked to Florence where Cosimo established a
Platonic Academy !
Renowned Humanist Marsilio Ficino became its President ,
And complete works of Plato got translated from Greek
to Latin !
Thus the growth of Early Renaissance owed much to
Cosimo’s patronage ,
And the Florentines inscribed “Pater Patriae” on his tomb , –
(‘Father of His Country’) after his death !

LORENZO THE MAGNIFICENT (1449-1492) :
Cosimo’s son Piero the Gouty died within five years ,
Never achieved anything spectacular worthy of tears !
The Medici Bank had loaned large sums of money to
King Edward IV of England and Charles the Bold of
Burgandy,
Failed to recover getting into bad debts and insolvency !
So when Cosimo’s grandson Lorenzo succeeded at
the age of twenty one ,
He focused on other areas of creativity, and the period
of High Renaissance begun !
Lorenzo , a genuine lover of arts, also wrote poetry in the
dialect of his native Tuscany ;
Following the footsteps of Tuscan born poets Donzella ,
Davanzati , and Dante the author of ‘Divine Comedy’ !
On 26th April 1478 , the Pazzi family in connivance with
the Archbishop of Pisa and backing of Pope Sixtus IV ,
Tried to assassinate the Medics during the High Mass, -
in the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore !
Younger brother Giuliano was fatally stabbed , but they
failed to **** Lorenzo .
All the conspirators were hanged including Pisa’s
Archbishop !
Ecclesiastic censure was issued against Florence ,
And Lorenzo was excommunicated by the Pope !
But Lorenzo worked out a treaty of peace with the King
of Naples ,
And became the undisputed ruler of the Republic of
Florence !
Unfortunately , Lorenzo died young at the age of forty-
three ,
At the dawn of the great Age of Exploration and
adventures by sea !
During his rule Renaissance reached its Golden Age ,
And literature, art, and architecture blossomed with
Lorenzo’s patronage !
It earned him the title of ‘Magnifico’, now know to
us as Lorenzo the Magnificent !
Leonardo da Vinci , Michelangelo , Raphel , Giovanni
Bellini ,Titan, Veronese, Correggio , Tintoretto ;
All became superstars of the Renaissance era ;
Their works are cherished, valued and treasured to
this day of our Modern era !
In the year 1492 with Lorenzo’s death , Italy entered
a period of turmoil and instability,
And the Renaissance saw a period of decline in Italy !
But the flames of the Renaissance spread to other
parts of Northern Europe ,
And in the 16th century reached England’s shores !
The Medici Family had also provided three Popes to
Italy, and three Queens to France ;
Besides patronizing the growth of the famous Italian
Renaissance !
Now dear readers, to do justice to Renaissance art ,
architecture, and literature briefly ,
I propose to narrate its story in Part Three !
-- By Raj Nandy of New Delhi .
*ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE WITH THE AUTHOR

To Jenny came a gentle youth
   From inland leazes lone;
His love was fresh as apple-blooth
   By Parrett, Yeo, or Tone.
And duly he entreated her
To be his tender minister,
   And call him aye her own.

Fair Jenny’s life had hardly been
   A life of modesty;
At Casterbridge experience keen
   Of many loves had she
From scarcely sixteen years above:
Among them sundry troopers of
   The King’s-Own Cavalry.

But each with charger, sword, and gun,
   Had bluffed the Biscay wave;
And Jenny prized her gentle one
   For all the love he gave.
She vowed to be, if they were wed,
His honest wife in heart and head
   From bride-ale hour to grave.

Wedded they were. Her husband’s trust
   In Jenny knew no bound,
And Jenny kept her pure and just,
   Till even malice found
No sin or sign of ill to be
In one who walked so decently
   The duteous helpmate’s round.

Two sons were born, and bloomed to men,
   And roamed, and were as not:
Alone was Jenny left again
   As ere her mind had sought
A solace in domestic joys,
And ere the vanished pair of boys
   Were sent to sun her cot.

She numbered near on sixty years,
   And passed as elderly,
When, in the street, with flush of fears,
   On day discovered she,
From shine of swords and thump of drum,
Her early loves from war had come,
   The King’s Own Cavalry.

She turned aside, and bowed her head
   Anigh Saint Peter’s door;
“Alas for chastened thoughts!” she said;
   “I’m faded now, and ****,
And yet those notes—they thrill me through,
And those gay forms move me anew
   As in the years of yore!”…

—’Twas Christmas, and the Phoenix Inn
   Was lit with tapers tall,
For thirty of the trooper men
   Had vowed to give a ball
As “Theirs” had done (fame handed down)
When lying in the self-same town
   Ere Buonaparté’s fall.

That night the throbbing “Soldier’s Joy,”
   The measured tread and sway
Of “Fancy-Lad” and “Maiden Coy,”
   Reached Jenny as she lay
Beside her spouse; till springtide blood
Seemed scouring through her like a flood
   That whisked the years away.

She rose, and rayed, and decked her head
   To hide her ringlets thin;
Upon her cap two bows of red
   She fixed with hasty pin;
Unheard descending to the street,
She trod the flags with tune-led feet,
   And stood before the Inn.

Save for the dancers’, not a sound
   Disturbed the icy air;
No watchman on his midnight round
   Or traveller was there;
But over All-Saints’, high and bright,
Pulsed to the music Sirius white,
   The Wain by Bullstake Square.

She knocked, but found her further stride
   Checked by a sergeant tall:
“Gay Granny, whence come you?” he cried;
   “This is a private ball.”
—”No one has more right here than me!
Ere you were born, man,” answered she,
   “I knew the regiment all!”

“Take not the lady’s visit ill!”
   Upspoke the steward free;
“We lack sufficient partners still,
   So, prithee let her be!”
They seized and whirled her ’mid the maze,
And Jenny felt as in the days
   Of her immodesty.

Hour chased each hour, and night advanced;
   She sped as shod with wings;
Each time and every time she danced—
   Reels, jigs, poussettes, and flings:
They cheered her as she soared and swooped
(She’d learnt ere art in dancing drooped
   From hops to slothful swings).

The favorite Quick-step “Speed the Plough”—
   (Cross hands, cast off, and wheel)—
“The Triumph,” “Sylph,” “The Row-dow dow,”
   Famed “Major Malley’s Reel,”
“The Duke of York’s,” “The Fairy Dance,”
“The Bridge of Lodi” (brought from France),
   She beat out, toe and heel.

The “Fall of Paris” clanged its close,
   And Peter’s chime told four,
When Jenny, *****-beating, rose
   To seek her silent door.
They tiptoed in escorting her,
Lest stroke of heel or ***** of spur
   Should break her goodman’s snore.

The fire that late had burnt fell slack
   When lone at last stood she;
Her nine-and-fifty years came back;
   She sank upon her knee
Beside the durn, and like a dart
A something arrowed through her heart
   In shoots of agony.

Their footsteps died as she leant there,
   Lit by the morning star
Hanging above the moorland, where
   The aged elm-rows are;
And, as o’ernight, from Pummery Ridge
To Maembury Ring and Standfast Bridge
   No life stirred, near or far.

Though inner mischief worked amain,
   She reached her husband’s side;
Where, toil-weary, as he had lain
   Beneath the patchwork pied
When yestereve she’d forthward crept,
And as unwitting, still he slept
   Who did in her confide.

A tear sprang as she turned and viewed
   His features free from guile;
She kissed him long, as when, just wooed.
   She chose his domicile.
Death menaced now; yet less for life
She wished than that she were the wife
   That she had been erstwhile.

Time wore to six. Her husband rose
   And struck the steel and stone;
He glanced at Jenny, whose repose
   Seemed deeper than his own.
With dumb dismay, on closer sight,
He gathered sense that in the night,
   Or morn, her soul had flown.

When told that some too mighty strain
   For one so many-yeared
Had burst her *****’s master-vein,
   His doubts remained unstirred.
His Jenny had not left his side
Betwixt the eve and morning-tide:
   —The King’s said not a word.

Well! times are not as times were then,
   Nor fair ones half so free;
And truly they were martial men,
   The King’s-Own Cavalry.
And when they went from Casterbridge
And vanished over Mellstock Ridge,
   ’Twas saddest morn to see.

Yes, it sure does look that way
When it takes 35 years
to capture 50 criminals
in a land
that claims to be FREE

FREE?
Free of what?
Not criminals

There are 50 crime
families on Garibaldi
Avenue in Lodi, New Jersey alone

Please officer

Oh, that's right

One of those crime families
is not like the other
One of those crime families
Rules the cops
and pretends to rule
everyone else

With bullying
And tormenting
And torturing
And acts in violation
of the Geneva Convention

Oh, but we are not at war with crime

Hey it's a free country
You want to practice crime

People have a right to be
Criminal

It's a free country

Okay

But, why can't it be
A crime family free
Country

Is ******, arson, strong arm assaults, blackmail, grand theft, etc... so glamorous
that a (free?) country
needs them

or even needs to
glorify them in
Movies and Television

Do we need
criminally run Hospitals
criminally controlled courthouses
criminally managed police departments?

I've spoken with
several government
Leaders on this matter
and they all agree
that they will promise
to look into this
as soon as they
can figure out
the economy

I walked down Garibaldi
Ave in Lodi the other
day
The crime families there
are doing quite well

But

They ain't talkin'

It was a magical summer.
Lodi blared as fireflies glowed,
leaves fluttered in the pure winds
of those cool Georgian nights.

We scared them foxes
something good.
You were classic in
your favorite auto.
They peed in their pants
seeing a werewolf and me
driving around the park
in a beat-up Chevy Impala.

You’re gone now,
alcohol took you away.
I still have the mask
somewhere in a box.
I sure miss you,
those good times
and Fogarty.

Mandolin harmonies
trailed up Bear Hair Gap,
echoed between
the chestnuts, hickories
& sweet blackberries.

Lodi & a bad moon rising
stifled the cool air,
wood spirits whispered
secret incantations
to the fairies & sprites
flying amongst the fireflies.

This is the sacred
Coosa place,
where bricks have names,
where the wolf man
drove his Impala
spooking summer campers
& where old blackie
got trapped.

Two are gone now,
one succumbed to the bottle,
the other still stalking hikers
near the Raven Cliffs
o'er near Helen.

The bricks will remain forever
'neath the phases of the moon
beside the maiden Trahlyta,
up from Blood Mountain.

It's cool to just sit
Here and deal with this ****,
But hey, its better
Where the pudding is thick,
Or so they tell me,
Along with
'Don't fall for tricks,'
They'll always get you
If your mind is weak,
Like the obliques
In my side
That've been hurting for weeks,
They're so sore from
The combination
Of boredom
And the conflagration
Of all the
Tinder inside my body
That hinders my
Lodi-Dodi
Outlook
On benders
That have become
Normality,
Like you've become
A malady,
A mother-may-I
Comedy
That keeps me laughing,
Keeps me guessing,
Keeps me passing
Up on
Rafting
Down that river,
But didn't you know
That ocean never comes?
So I'll keep drifting
And counting my ones,
And try to blame
The ones on the run
Instead of the ****
Doing the chasing
And erasing my luck,
While I deface my face
And wait
For this bronco
To buck
Me off
Into the muck
Of eternal loss.
It already happened?
You got it, boss.

***** Jersey
You are unworthy
From the infamous Jersey shore
To the depths of Bergen county
You hound me

Thank god sandy got rid of that cesspool by the way

Anyone ever hear of Lodi?
No?, ok...     Moving on,

New Jersey, the ideal place for parents who have small children

Once they are teenagers
They will rip their parents apart for condemning them to a suburban hellhole

For sentencing them to an infernal purgatory, where if you have no car, you are stuck at home, and unless you walk to a bus stop and take the bus somewhere else, you have no job

So you find your best friend...

Marijuana

And then you start selling it and you now have a job

Drug dealer.

Find a pill counter who works at Walgreens pharmacy and you have now
expanded your market

Oh ***** Jerz, for grey-ish skies
For sewage waves of stain,
for unemployed and worker slaves,
all for minimum wage.

Cent mille hommes, criblés d'obus et de mitraille,
Cent mille hommes, couchés sur un champ de bataille,
Tombés pour leur pays par leur mort agrandi,
Comme on tombe à Fleurus, comme on tombe à Lodi,
Cent mille ardents soldats, héros et non victimes,
Morts dans un tourbillon d'événements sublimes,
D'où prend son vol la fière et blanche liberté,
Sont un malheur moins grand pour la société,
Sont pour l'humanité, qui sur le vrai se fonde,
Une calamité moins haute et moins profonde,
Un coup moins lamentable et moins infortuné
Qu'un innocent, - Un seul innocent condamné, -
Dont le sang, ruisselant sous un infâme glaive,
Fume entre les pavés de la place de Grève,
Qu'un juste assassiné dans la forêt des lois,
Et dont l'âme a le droit d'aller dire à Dieu : Vois !

Le 24 mars 1870.

She broke me down piece by piece
Untill their was nothing left underneath
Jokes on her ive been here before
Still has my exit markings on the door
I have a manual stashed someplace
Itll take me a while to clean up this place.

A muses

The man.                        lady doll
Na ****.                         Lodi da

Na man.                           Not on
Na man.                           Not on

Assume              h.          e  mus task
The muse.                          Her
Position.                     ­       Project
Of noise.                     Sound

I.

À présent que c'est fait, dans l'avilissement
Arrangeons-nous chacun notre compartiment
Marchons d'un air auguste et fier ; la honte est bue.
Que tout à composer cette cour contribue,
Tout, excepté l'honneur, tout, hormis les vertus.
Faites vivre, animez, envoyez vos foetus
Et vos nains monstrueux, bocaux d'anatomie
Donne ton crocodile et donne ta momie,
Vieille Égypte ; donnez, tapis-francs, vos filous ;
Shakespeare, ton Falstaff ; noires forêts, vos loups ;
Donne, ô bon Rabelais, ton Grandgousier qui mange ;
Donne ton diable, Hoffmann ; Veuillot, donne ton ange ;
Scapin, apporte-nous Géronte dans ton sac ;
Beaumarchais, prête-nous Bridoison ; que Balzac
Donne Vautrin ; Dumas, la Carconte ; Voltaire,
Son Frélon que l'argent fait parler et fait taire ;
Mabile, les beautés de ton jardin d'hiver ;
Le Sage, cède-nous Gil Blas ; que Gulliver
Donne tout Lilliput dont l'aigre est une mouche,
Et Scarron Bruscambille, et Callot Scaramouche.
Il nous faut un dévot dans ce tripot payen ;
Molière, donne-nous Montalembert. C'est bien,
L'ombre à l'horreur s'accouple, et le mauvais au pire.
Tacite, nous avons de quoi faire l'empire ;
Juvénal, nous avons de quoi faire un sénat.

II.

Ô Ducos le gascon, ô Rouher l'auvergnat,
Et vous, juifs, Fould Shylock, Sibour Iscariote,
Toi Parieu, toi Bertrand, horreur du patriote,
Bauchart, bourreau douceâtre et proscripteur plaintif,
Baroche, dont le nom n'est plus qu'un vomitif,
Ô valets solennels, ô majestueux fourbes,
Travaillant votre échine à produire des courbes,
Bas, hautains, ravissant les Daumiers enchantés
Par vos convexités et vos concavités,
Convenez avec moi, vous tous qu'ici je nomme,
Que Dieu dans sa sagesse a fait exprès cet homme
Pour régner sur la France, ou bien sur Haïti.
Et vous autres, créés pour grossir son parti,
Philosophes gênés de cuissons à l'épaule,
Et vous, viveurs râpés, frais sortis de la geôle,
Saluez l'être unique et providentiel,
Ce gouvernant tombé d'une trappe du ciel,
Ce césar moustachu, gardé par cent guérites,
Qui sait apprécier les gens et les mérites,
Et qui, prince admirable et grand homme en effet,
Fait Poissy sénateur et Clichy sous-préfet.

III.

Après quoi l'on ajuste au fait la théorie
« A bas les mots ! à bas loi, liberté, patrie !
Plus on s'aplatira, plus ou prospérera.
Jetons au feu tribune et presse, et cætera.

Depuis quatre-vingt-neuf les nations sont ivres.
Les faiseurs de discours et les faiseurs de livres
Perdent tout ; le poëte est un fou dangereux ;
Le progrès ment, le ciel est vide, l'art est creux,
Le monde est mort. Le peuple ? un âne qui se cabre !
La force, c'est le droit. Courbons-nous. Gloire au sabre !
À bas les Washington ! vivent les Attila ! »
On a des gens d'esprit pour soutenir cela.

Oui, qu'ils viennent tous ceux qui n'ont ni cœur ni flamme,
Qui boitent de l'honneur et qui louchent de l'âme ;
Oui, leur soleil se lève et leur messie est né.
C'est décrété, c'est fait, c'est dit, c'est canonné
La France est mitraillée, escroquée et sauvée.
Le hibou Trahison pond gaîment sa couvée.

IV.

Et partout le néant prévaut ; pour déchirer
Notre histoire, nos lois, nos droits, pour dévorer
L'avenir de nos fils et les os de nos pères,
Les bêtes de la nuit sortent de leurs repaires
Sophistes et soudards resserrent leur réseau
Les Radetzky flairant le gibet du museau,
Les Giulay, poil tigré, les Buol, face verte,
Les Haynau, les Bomba, rôdent, la gueule ouverte,
Autour du genre humain qui, pâle et garrotté,
Lutte pour la justice et pour la vérité ;
Et de Paris à Pesth, du Tibre aux monts Carpathes,
Sur nos débris sanglants rampent ces mille-pattes.

V.

Du lourd dictionnaire où Beauzée et Batteux
Ont versé les trésors de leur bon sens goutteux,
Il faut, grâce aux vainqueurs, refaire chaque lettre.
Ame de l'homme, ils ont trouvé moyen de mettre
Sur tes vieilles laideurs un tas de mots nouveaux,
Leurs noms. L'hypocrisie aux yeux bas et dévots
À nom Menjaud, et vend Jésus dans sa chapelle ;
On a débaptisé la honte, elle s'appelle
Sibour ; la trahison, Maupas ; l'assassinat
Sous le nom de Magnan est membre du Sénat ;
Quant à la lâcheté, c'est Hardouin qu'on la nomme ;
Riancey, c'est le mensonge, il arrive de Rome
Et tient la vérité renfermée en son puits ;
La platitude a nom Montlaville-Chapuis ;
La prostitution, ingénue, est princesse ;
La férocité, c'est Carrelet ; la bassesse
Signe Rouher, avec Delangle pour greffier.
Ô muse, inscris ces noms. Veux-tu qualifier
La justice vénale, atroce, abjecte et fausse ?
Commence à Partarieu pour finir par Lafosse.
J'appelle Saint-Arnaud, le meurtre dit : c'est moi.
Et, pour tout compléter par le deuil et l'effroi,
Le vieux calendrier remplace sur sa carte
La Saint-Barthélemy par la Saint-Bonaparte.

Quant au peuple, il admire et vote ; on est suspect
D'en douter, et Paris écoute avec respect
Sibour et ses sermons, Trolong et ses troplongues.
Les deux Napoléon s'unissent en diphthongues,
Et Berger entrelace en un chiffre hardi
Le boulevard Montmartre entre Arcole et Lodi.
Spartacus agonise en un bagne fétide ;
On chasse Thémistocle, on expulse Aristide,
On jette Daniel dans la fosse aux lions ;
Et maintenant ouvrons le ventre aux millions !

Jersey, novembre 1852.

To the unlikely Amtrak ride
the one with people
acting like cartoons.

With an announcer
over the intercom
smushing words together--
saying we'll arrive in Lodi
and then in blah blah location.

To the conductor
whom
speaks to us as children,
because to him
we look like long time
traveling companions.

He plays with our
destinations
and notices that we're going
to two different locations.

We've only known
each other existed from
the 30 minutes we rode
side by side on the bus before the train.  

No matter the time.
We've become limited-less
as it was too easy to speak
and impossible to stop.  

All the truths
we've shared will never be gone
the moment just as we felt in it
can never truly come to an end.
As long as the train keeps moving
our moment will forever trek on.

Even after I have left the ride
and you've finally fallen aleep
without my company to stir you awake.

It may never happen again
just like the dreams you're having
right this moment.
But least we came to speak
for the shortest
of train rides.

Eight years ago in the homeless shelter a loud beep went off in my ear.  It was then that I remembered the time in 1983 that that mob f-word [expletive] slammed a cork ***** in my right ear, twisted it, then ripped out my head guts through my ear.

  Living through the pain, I enjoyed the silence.  Strumming my guitar.  Feeling the vibrations of the neighbors on the floor below me.  The occasional mob cop f-word [expletive] kicking in my door.  Then, silently mouthing nonsense to me as to why I should keep the noise down.  I wish you were there to see the dumbfoundedness when they realised I could not hear them.  But, mostly I would watch the krackles fly, wonderlously sailing.  Perfectly, and without err and without that [idol] awful chatter that drove my girlfriend from the Bronx to move out because (get this) she didn't want to live in a jungle.

  Again my train jumps the tracks.  I'm so sorry, and I do feel the pain of punishment forty-one years after my father taught me how to behave.  Maybe I'll just jump off the train and into a taxi.

Yes, this is much better, now getting back to the story.  The government (Social Security Administration) let me be free of sound for about six months until they figured if they swung for the surgery, they wouldn't have to pay me benefits.  And, when a Lodi mob cop **** shot me because I couldn't hear him yell stop.  I got a lot of money for that.  That is when the government stepped in to rebuild my ear.  I told them no but, they dragged me onto surgery against my will anyway.  Laughing all the while.

  Later I find out that the CIA put a tracer (sender/receiver) in along with a plastic/metal ear drum or whatever part it's called.  Taxi Stop!  40 Dollars!  no tip.

  So, two years ago like I said.  I'm in the homeless shelter and this thing goes off BEEP, BEEP, BEEEEEEEEEEP.  And people are punching me and beating me and telling me to shut up.  And, I'm immobilized because when you have a titanium alloy amplifier in you it hurts your ears even if they are made out of plastic.  And this thing goes on for like SIXTEEN HOURS and I want to reach in and pull it out but, I can't and I scream help and start kicking back until the police come.  But, the thing is still beeping.

  The next day and this is the part that really hurts.  The next day, this slunt that stole my virginity when I was thirteen is there and she still has the thing on in front of all the police and everything and I tell the police DO NOT HELP THAT WOMAN.  She has been blackmailing me for 36 years because I will not have her.  She had me ***** and photographed it and posted photos of this **** everywhere.

  Billboards, grocery stores, places of employment, Yankee Stadium, Florida, the world.  Stop helping this ******!  She should be in jail or the very least5 a ****** ward where they could at least try to help her.

  I have a son and daughter from a previous marriage.  Me, I'm used to being abused.  My family started it when I was six months old.  But, my children really don't have to put up with this garbage because some ***** can't get over me after I rejected her THIRTY-EIGHT YEARS AGO.  ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.  I have a kid who believes this ***** and I have to tell him it's not true and explain what demonic possession is and he says sure dad.  But, then goes ahead and listens to his mother anyway.

He's a good boy.

VII.

Une nuit, - c'est toujours la nuit dans le tombeau, -
Il s'éveilla. Luisant comme un hideux flambeau,
D'étranges visions emplissaient sa paupière ;
Des rires éclataient sous son plafond de pierre ;
Livide, il se dressa ; la vision grandit ;
Ô terreur ! une voix qu'il reconnut, lui dit :

- Réveille-toi. Moscou, Waterloo, Sainte-Hélène,
L'exil, les rois geôliers, l'Angleterre hautaine
Sur ton lit accoudée à ton dernier moment,
Sire, cela n'est rien. Voici le châtiment :

La voix alors devint âpre, amère, stridente,
Comme le noir sarcasme et l'ironie ardente ;
C'était le rire amer mordant un demi-dieu.
- Sire ! on t'a retiré de ton Panthéon bleu !
Sire ! on t'a descendu de ta haute colonne !
Regarde. Des brigands, dont l'essaim tourbillonne,
D'affreux bohémiens, des vainqueurs de charnier
Te tiennent dans leurs mains et t'ont fait prisonnier.
À ton orteil d'airain leur patte infâme touche.
Ils t'ont pris. Tu mourus, comme un astre se couche,
Napoléon le Grand, empereur ; tu renais
Bonaparte, écuyer du cirque Beauharnais.
Te voilà dans leurs rangs, on t'a, l'on te harnache.
Ils t'appellent tout haut grand homme, entre eux, ganache.
Ils traînent, sur Paris qui les voit s'étaler,
Des sabres qu'au besoin ils sauraient avaler.
Aux passants attroupés devant leur habitacle,
Ils disent, entends-les : - Empire à grand spectacle !
Le pape est engagé dans la troupe ; c'est bien,
Nous avons mieux ; le czar en est mais ce n'est rien,
Le czar n'est qu'un sergent, le pape n'est qu'un bonze
Nous avons avec nous le bonhomme de bronze !
Nous sommes les neveux du grand Napoléon ! -
Et Fould, Magnan, Rouher, Parieu caméléon,
Font rage. Ils vont montrant un sénat d'automates.
Ils ont pris de la paille au fond des casemates
Pour empailler ton aigle, ô vainqueur d'Iéna !
Il est là, mort, gisant, lui qui si haut plana,
Et du champ de bataille il tombe au champ de foire.
Sire, de ton vieux trône ils recousent la moire.
Ayant dévalisé la France au coin d'un bois,
Ils ont à leurs haillons du sang, comme tu vois,
Et dans son bénitier Sibour lave leur linge.
Toi, lion, tu les suis ; leur maître, c'est le singe.
Ton nom leur sert de lit, Napoléon premier.
On voit sur Austerlitz un peu de leur fumier.
Ta gloire est un gros vin dont leur honte se grise.
Cartouche essaie et met ta redingote grise
On quête des liards dans le petit chapeau
Pour tapis sur la table ils ont mis ton drapeau.
À cette table immonde où le grec devient riche,
Avec le paysan on boit, on joue, on triche ;
Tu te mêles, compère, à ce tripot hardi,
Et ta main qui tenait l'étendard de Lodi,
Cette main qui portait la foudre, ô Bonaparte,
Aide à piper les dés et fait sauter la carte.
Ils te forcent à boire avec eux, et Carlier
Pousse amicalement d'un coude familier
Votre majesté, sire, et Piétri dans son antre
Vous tutoie, et Maupas vous tape sur le ventre.
Faussaires, meurtriers, escrocs, forbans, voleurs,
Ils savent qu'ils auront, comme toi, des malheurs
Leur soif en attendant vide la coupe pleine
À ta santé ; Poissy trinque avec Sainte-Hélène.

Regarde ! bals, sabbats, fêtes matin et soir.
La foule au bruit qu'ils font se culbute pour voir ;
Debout sur le tréteau qu'assiège une cohue
Qui rit, bâille, applaudit, tempête, siffle, hue,
Entouré de pasquins agitant leur grelot,
- Commencer par Homère et finir par Callot !
Épopée ! épopée ! oh ! quel dernier chapitre ! -
Entre Troplong paillasse et Chaix-d'Est-Ange pitre,
Devant cette baraque, abject et vil bazar
Où Mandrin mal lavé se déguise en César,
Riant, l'affreux bandit, dans sa moustache épaisse,
Toi, spectre impérial, tu bats la grosse caisse ! -

L'horrible vision s'éteignit. L'empereur,
Désespéré, poussa dans l'ombre un cri d'horreur,
Baissant les yeux, dressant ses mains épouvantées.
Les Victoires de marbre à la porte sculptées,
Fantômes blancs debout hors du sépulcre obscur,
Se faisaient du doigt signe, et, s'appuyant au mur,
Écoutaient le titan pleurer dans les ténèbres.
Et lui, cria : « Démon aux visions funèbres,
Toi qui me suis partout, que jamais je ne vois,
Qui donc es-tu ? - Je suis ton crime », dit la voix.
La tombe alors s'emplit d'une lumière étrange
Semblable à la clarté de Dieu quand il se venge
Pareils aux mots que vit resplendir Balthazar,
Deux mots dans l'ombre écrits flamboyaient sur César ;
Bonaparte, tremblant comme un enfant sans mère,
Leva sa face pâle et lut : - DIX-HUIT BRUMAIRE !

Jersey, du 25 au 30 novembre 1852.

I.

Je disais : - Ces soldats ont la tête trop basse.
Il va leur ouvrir des chemins.
Le peuple aime la poudre, et quand le clairon passe
La France chante et bat des mains.
La guerre est une pourpre où le meurtre se drape ;
Il va crier son : quos ego !
Un beau jour, de son crime, ainsi que d'une trappe,
Nous verrons sortir Marengo.
Il faut bien qu'il leur jette enfin un peu de gloire
Après tant de honte et d'horreur !
Que, vainqueur, il défile avec tout son prétoire
Devant Troplong le procureur ;
Qu'il tâche de cacher son carcan à l'histoire,
Et qu'il fasse par le doreur
Ajuster sa sellette au vieux char de victoire
Où monta le grand empereur.
Il voudra devenir César, frapper, dissoudre
Les anciens états ébranlés,
Et, calme, à l'univers montrer, tenant la foudre,
La main qui fit des fausses clés.
Il fera du vieux monde éclater la machine ;
Il voudra vaincre et surnager.
Hudson Lowe, Blücher, Wellington, Rostopschine,
Que de souvenirs à venger !
L'occasion abonde à l'époque où nous sommes.
Il saura saisir le moment.
On ne peut pas rester avec cinq cent mille hommes
Dans la fange éternellement.
Il ne peut les laisser courbés sous leur sentence
Il leur faut les hauts faits lointains
À la meute guerrière il faut une pitance
De lauriers et de bulletins.
Ces soldats, que Décembre orne comme une dartre,
Ne peuvent pas, chiens avilis,
Ronger à tout jamais le boulevard Montmartre,
Quand leurs pères ont Austerlitz ! -

II.

Eh bien non ! je rêvais. Illusion détruite !
Gloire ! songe, néant, vapeur !
Ô soldats ! quel réveil ! l'empire, c'est la fuite.
Soldats ! l'empire, c'est la peur.
Ce Mandrin de la paix est plein d'instincts placides ;
Ce Schinderhannes craint les coups.
Ô châtiment ! pour lui vous fûtes parricides,
Soldats, il est poltron pour vous.
Votre gloire a péri sous ce hideux incube
Aux doigts de fange, au cœur d'airain.
Ah ! frémissez ! le czar marche sur le Danube,
Vous ne marchez pas sur le Rhin !

III.

Ô nos pauvres enfants ! soldats de notre France !
Ô triste armée à l'œil terni !
Adieu la tente ! Adieu les camps ! plus d'espérance !
Soldats ! soldats ! tout est fini !
N'espérez plus laver dans les combats le crime
Dont vous êtes éclaboussés.
Pour nous ce fut le piège et pour vous c'est l'abîme.
Cartouche règne ; c'est assez.
Oui, Décembre à jamais vous tient, hordes trompées !
Oui, vous êtes ses vils troupeaux !
Oui, gardez sur vos mains, gardez sur vos épées,
Hélas ! gardez sur vos drapeaux
Ces souillures qui font horreur à vos familles
Et qui font sourire Dracon,
Et que ne voudrait pas avoir sur ses guenilles
L'équarrisseur de Montfaucon !
Gardez le deuil, gardez le sang, gardez la boue !
Votre maître hait le danger,
Il vous fait reculer ; gardez sur votre joue
L'âpre soufflet de l'étranger !
Ce nain à sa stature a rabaissé vos tailles.
Ce n'est qu'au vol qu'il est hardi.
Adieu la grande guerre et les grandes batailles !
Adieu Wagram ! adieu Lodi !
Dans cette horrible glu votre aile est prisonnière.
Derrière un crime il faut marcher.
C'est fini. Désormais vous avez pour bannière
Le tablier de ce boucher !
Renoncez aux combats, au nom de Grande Armée,
Au vieil orgueil des trois couleurs ;
Renoncez à l'immense et superbe fumée,
Aux femmes vous jetant des fleurs,
À l'encens, aux grands ares triomphaux que fréquentent
Les ombres des héros le soir ;
Hélas ! contentez-vous de ces prêtres qui chantent
Des Te Deum dans l'abattoir !
Vous ne conquerrez point la palme expiatoire,
La palme des exploits nouveaux,
Et vous ne verrez pas se dorer dans la gloire
La crinière de vos chevaux !

IV.

Donc l'épopée échoue avant qu'elle commence !
Annibal a pris un calmant ;
L'Europe admire, et mêle une huée immense
À cet immense avortement.
Donc ce neveu s'en va par la porte bâtarde !
Donc ce sabreur, ce pourfendeur,
Ce masque moustachu dont la bouche vantarde
S'ouvrait dans toute sa grandeur,
Ce césar qu'un valet tous les matins harnache
Pour s'en aller dans les combats,
Cet ogre galonné dont le hautain panache
Faisait oublier le front bas,
Ce tueur qui semblait l'homme que rien n'étonne,
Qui jouait, dans les hosanna,
Tout barbouillé du sang du ruisseau Tiquetonne,
La pantomime d'Iéna,
Ce héros que Dieu fit général des jésuites,
Ce vainqueur qui s'est dit absous,
Montre à Clio son nez meurtri de pommes cuites,
Son œil éborgné de gros sous !
Et notre armée, hélas ! sa dupe et sa complice,
Baisse un front lugubre et puni,
Et voit sous les sifflets s'enfuir dans la coulisse
Cet écuyer de Franconi !
Cet histrion, qu'on cingle à grands coups de lanière,
À le crime pour seul talent ;
Les Saint-Barthélemy vont mieux à sa manière
Qu'Aboukir et que Friedland.
Le cosaque stupide arrache à ce superbe
Sa redingote à brandebourgs ;
L'âne russe a brouté ce Bonaparte en herbe.
Sonnez, clairons ! battez, tambours !
Tranche-Montagne, ainsi que Basile, a la fièvre ;
La colique empoigne Agramant ;
Sur le crâne du loup les oreilles du lièvre
Se dressent lamentablement.
Le fier-à-bras tremblant se blottit dans son antre
Le grand sabre a peur de briller ;
La fanfare bégaie et meurt ; la flotte rentre
Au port, et l'aigle au poulailler.

V.

Et tous ces capitans dont l'épaulette brille
Dans les Louvres et les châteaux
Disent : « Mangeons la France et le peuple en famille.
Sire, les boulets sont brutaux. »
Et Forey va criant : « Majesté, prenez garde. »
Reibell dit : « Morbleu, sacrebleu !
Tenons-nous coi. Le czar fait manœuvrer sa garde.
Ne jouons pas avec le feu. »
Espinasse reprend : « César, gardez la chambre.
Ces kalmoucks ne sont pas manchots. »
Coiffez-vous, dit Leroy, du laurier de décembre,
Prince, et tenez-vous les pieds chauds. »
Et Magnan dit : « Buvons et faisons l'amour, sire ! »
Les rêves s'en vont à vau-l'eau.
Et dans sa sombre plaine, ô douleur, j'entends rire
Le noir lion de Waterloo !

Jersey, le  ler septembre 1853.

get back to the basics busting fat laces running the bases
it used to be cool to obey the golden rule yet that went out the door in 64
open the door for your neighbor then you can chill on a different ice cream flavor
getting fat beats to the rhyme  at the rhyme as a reason in the changing of the season
walk with me talk with me through the passage of time get things in line
went back to the old sand box playing jax bringing along your lunch box sack
have I hit a tender nerve yet the time you'll never will forget
start spreading the disease out living as you please best to get down on your knees
homeboy talk a lot is that what he is doing you bit off more then you were chewing
get back to the basics in flirting faces trading spaces all over each places
remember is was customary to carry your book for your girl that was quite a thrill
take to the limit one more time with Slick Rick & Doug E. Fresh putting you all to the test
there was a lodi dodi in the house where we like to party cause Snoop can do that to
so what's new today getting Eminem to stay free styling on Trump free stylying while the dials on
snap shot moments of the past having so much fun with the hope that it would last
the streets today move faster then ever before some pay a visit to cell block 9 but that is fine
got Pumas on my feet spliff on my sleeve going to the dance hall scene
breaking down rhymes all my critics can kiss my fat behind cause I'm doing fine
Nas, Outcast & Drake never busted a move in such a fake for one step forward then two steps back
turn your radio on to here the words of my favorite song with Akon featured with Fetty Wap
drop it down with fire blowin it up in its purest desire ccause I want to take you higher



this just it so let me begin cause I came here to win in my perfect ten
suckers want to end me to but up the economy but ******* still on me but no I ain't phony
sit back and relax as you bask in the vast expanse between space and time
get back to basics as you remember when you were broke down to your last thin dime
sipping on *** with a hint of sugar for my teeth getting something sweet
your a miracle baby ain't nothing a bit shady working on making that baby
just maybe I get the hook up going stronger then ever before
next you bit kicking it with a two bit ***** screaming out more
get back to basics to set the dial for one more time going to wine, dine & sixty nine
holding my own when my hands on the phone but some insist to stay all alone
life can be a struggle so bartender make my Martini strong like on the double
working together like both Fred & Barney Rubble to stay out of trouble
see ya on the flip side squeeze while you out busy as a bee
going to walk that miracle mile in my hour of power in fullest of desire
until someday you'll see your name up in lights never give up on the fight

Les siècles sont au peuple ; eux, ils ont le moment,
Ils en usent. Ô lutte étrange ! Acharnement !
Chacun à grand bruit coupe une branche de l'arbre.
Là, des éclats d'airain, là, des éclats de marbre ;
La colonne romaine ainsi que l'arc français
Tombent. Que dirait-on de toi si tu faisais
Envoler ton lion de Saint-Marc, ô Venise !
L'histoire est balafrée et la gloire agonise.
Quoi qu'on puisse penser de la France d'hier,
De cette rude armée et de ce peuple fier,
Et de ce que ce siècle à son troisième lustre
Avait rêvé, tenté, voulu, c'était illustre.
Pourquoi l'effacement ? qu'a-t-on créé d'ailleurs
Pour les déshérités et pour les travailleurs ?
A-t-on fermé le bagne ? A-t-on ouvert l'école ?
On détruit Marengo, Lodi, Wagram, Arcole ;
A-t-on du moins fondé le droit universel ?
Le pauvre a-t-il le toit, le feu, le pain, le sel ?
A-t-on mis l'atelier, a-t-on mis la chaumière
Sous une immense loi de vie et de lumière ?
A-t-on déshonoré la guerre en renonçant
À l'effusion folle et sinistre du sang ?
A-t-on refait le code à l'image du juste ?
A-t-on bâti l'autel de la clémence auguste ?
A-t-on édifié le temple où la clarté
Se condense en raison et devient liberté ?
A-t-on doté l'enfant et délivré la femme ?
A-t-on planté dans l'homme, au plus profond de l'âme,
L'arbre du vrai, croissant de l'erreur qui décroît ?
Offre-t-on au progrès, toujours trop à l'étroit,
Quelque élargissement d'horizon et de route ?
Non ; des ruines ; rien. Soit. Quant à moi, je doute
Qu'on soit quitte pour dire au peuple murmurant :
Ce qu'on fait est petit, mais ce qu'on brise est grand.

Last night's luna moon
This morning's garish sun

Guadalupe as I'm sitting
Green this motherly one

Have to fix my glasses
I am no James Joyce

Women with lovely *****
California's Josiah Royce

The Left Coast is quite curious
I lived in Santa Rosa

Reagan, Nixon, spurious
San Francisco knows ya

Balboa park all sunlit
Stuck in Lodi again

Tahoe sparling snowshine
Am I now a has been?

   California Dreaming
          Windmills
           muy bien.