Desde el pie hacia la cintura,
la música alza sus pámpanos
envolventes. Oleadas
de sombra ascienden, girando,
hasta los astros azules,
naranjas, verdes, dorados.

Una nebulosa quema
la sombra. Alcohólicos pájaros
cruzan palmeras de tela,
van a morir a mis brazos.
Y un humo que no es de hogueras.
Luciérnagas que ha inventado
el polvo...

            ¿Qué hago yo aquí?
Estoy, por dentro, llorando.
Como si ante mí pasaran
mudos los desenterrados
Como si solicitaran
todos los muertos mi llanto.

En un instante, se limpia
mi corazón del encanto.
Brazos de mujer, espaldas
bajo los pálidos astros
eléctricos bocas rojas
de carmines falsos.

Amo la vida. Algún día,
cuando esté dormido, bajo
sábanas frescas de tierra,
o en la mar, iré evocando
y evocando, repitiendo
y repitiendo, instantáneos
destellos que eran mi vida;
se derramarán los granos
diminutos de las horas
en mis manos de enterrado.

Ni un instante ha de perderse
siempre que surja sellado
por el triple sello (nada
es mínimo, ocurre en vano):
autenticidad, consciencia,
arrepentimiento...

                  ¿Qué hago
yo aquí? Evoco campos de oro
del estío, soles trágicos,
veredas que van hundiéndose
en el olvido; relámpagos,
arpegios de vida, sobre
los que sonaba mi canto.
Pero en todo estaba yo.
Mundo fugaz, desplomado
ahora en un instante, hundido
en el licor de mi vaso.
(Pasan, giran las muchachas,
fumando o bailando).
El vino recuerdo fue
mosto de instante, pisado
(autenticidad, etcétera...)
por los pies iluminados
de la verdad. Pues no hay nada
mínimo, o que ocurra en vano,
sin una razón...

                  Muchachas,
fumando o bailando,
giran en alas de músicas
podridas. ¿Quién ha inventado,
para vosotras, instantes
sin futuro y gloria?

                Falso
metal rey, enamoradas
de nadie, muertas errando
por la danza, hijas, amadas
por nadie, os estoy soñando
niñas de trenzas con lágrimas
o con risas, ojos claros
para la ilusión, el cuerpo
para la primaveral
muerte, el repentino tránsito
de los elegidos.

                Quiénes
sois, no quiénes parecéis,
las que ante mí vais llorando
o riendo, no las que
pasáis ante mí bailando
y fumando (Mambo)...

            Qué hago,
de qué noche paternal
y dolorosa (fumando,
Mambo), de qué sencillez
arranca mi mano un látigo,
empuña una antorcha, corre
tras de vosotras, buscándoos
en quienes sois, y os arropa
los delgados cuerpos pálidos,
os aconseja, os recuerda
que el tiempo pasa volando
(dicen los viejos, las madres)...
Muchachas fumando, Mambo.

Autenticidad, etcétera.
Debo de estar muy borracho
esta madrugada. O debo
de estar aún poco borracho.
Renuncio a lo que quisiera
para vosotras (fumando,
bailando, Mambo).

                    (No era
así: lavabais -los brazos
duros al sol- en un río
imaginado, o acaso
verdadero...) Pero aquello
que queráis, venga sellado
por el triple sello autenti-
cidad, etcétera...

                    Acato
la vida. Quiero creer
que nada sucede en vano.
Y persigo una razón
que os explique (fumando,
bailando, Mambo), razón
que me dé el descanso.

Cerré los ojos. La música
encadenada al piano.
Negabais vuestro destino
después de cantar el gallo.
Y así noche a noche. Así:
fumando y bailando. Mambo
Noche a noche así, Dios mío,
recitando vuestro falso
papel, hijas mías, lluvia
de juventud, de verano.
Bailando. Mambo. Riendo.
Mambo. Cantando. Bailando.
Sin un sueño roto
que valga la pena llorarlo.

Stay away from the voodoo, love.

Resist

the swamp music
the bells on her ankles
her feathered fan

and when she sways
at the hip—

goddess of sudden changes
patroness of prostitutes
and abandoned lovers—

chanting Mambo, terrible beauty.

Say nothing

when she leans close
(cinnamon, tree bark and, faintly, smoke)
and breathes

If you have no altar,
I am your altar.

Stay away from the voodoo, love—

her drumbeats and cypress trees,
her hocus pocus
honeylocust.

for Nave*

Busyness makes one idiotic and forgetful.  And we nearly sunk the night
didn’t we darling, leaning on the wrong swing.  

(It is always the peach tree.)   Katrina doing her Harpy on Fullblast thing
with such deftness and professionalism she leaves us no room to respond

to legs and offers of spread cheese.  And poets cave in like lonely black holes
if they cannot response as fully as they have peaches in their coffers to do so,

or at least they think so and so do we so I escaped to shower, and tried to make
the water hot enough to round me straight again, but my skin still gets in the way.  

I wanted to peel off everything and douse my soul straight in the hot and the lavender, questing
for a readiness beyond the pale, some state rare, and infinitely usuable.  

It was only when, and this is true, when I decided to make a list of
why I love you that the water went in

and the lavender grew instantly between my toes.  And Rosemarey Clooney
danced you in to me and you were a happy Papa at last, and we knew enough.  And there
was finally room enough to
mambo home.

We heard there are poor people with money
And as Republicans, we don’t find that funny.
At first we thought it was a horrible joke
They’re supposed to be broke.
A kind of liberal poke.

We’re the elite, the complete package.
The blue ribbon, the absolute cream.
Don’t say we’re not or we’ll scream.
We know we’re right
Because we’re white.

So, dance the Republican Mambo
We’re the real Americans by Jingo!
Just like Billy Rose’s Jumbo
We dominate the dance floor
But that is what we live for.
We mow down opposition like Rambo.
Don’t question us again
Just send your money in
Get paper and pen quickly
And send money to the RNC!

Yes, we let a few of the other kind in
But only when we have to now and then.
They are exceptions of note
Designed to get the vote.
They’re each a Judas goat,
And they speak by rote.

Darwin said it well, even though he’s a fake
Survival of the fittest means we can take
Everything and everyone we may see
And knock them to their knees;
Grind them up mercilessly!
We get everything we see.

So, dance the Republican Mambo
We’re the real Americans by Jingo!
Just like Billy Rose’s Jumbo
We dominate the dance floor
But that is what we live for.
We mow down opposition like Rambo.
Don’t question us again
Just send your money in
Get paper and pen quickly
And send money to the RNC!

I have an issue
One that weighs heavily upon my heart
One that, if left unchecked, threatens to tear our social moral fiber apart
An issue I will express in English, with some help from my old friend Swahili
Hii imenisumbua akili, kwa hivyo kuiongelea ni kitu tunastahili
Hii story ya immorality tunaichukulia so so light
Dem akiji'expose kidogo mbele ya kamera haina mseo, tunampandisha cheo kwa society, all of a sudden ye ni socialite
The new cool, eti ‘good girl gone bad’
Hiyo njaro siyo polite
We have a lot more to live for than that which we seem to be aware of
It’s not always about a good time, or lack thereof
Our reputation as a culture I believe is something we badly need to take care of
Siyo game
Siyo Jokes
Si eti mambo na fame
It shouldn’t just be about who drinks, who smokes, who vomits and who chokes
Hiyo lifestyle siyo dope
Na siyo right
Six hundred and seventy something ways to die… choose one
I refuse to go… speeding down a highway, drunk out of my mind, on another booz run
However, I may not exactly be the right person to point out how messed up you are
On a scale of one to ten?
I’m probably as guilty as you are
*******!

He didn't listen hence he did stumble
He lost all his stake in one big gamble
For he called my advise mere mambo jambo
Till he finally saw the game end at an angle
for he no longer watched, his heart did rumble
He's now silent with regret and humble
for they who think they know the jungle
meet with uncertainty, and get eaten like mango
He lost all his stake in a giant gamble
chasing after the big win,the bundle
Now even in sleep all he does is mumble
his regret and stress, though he says he can handle
I see despair in him as hope does dangle
For the future's a locked door, a dark tunnel
After he lost all his stake in one big gamble
he wears gloom as beautifully as a bangle

To be fair, this superstitious stuff
Goes a helluva long way back.
It was around the time of Babel
That the Israelites lost all track
Of logic and reason in the books
They were peddling as God’s word.
Oh, okay, they were just passing on
Mesopotamian stories they heard
But then to start calling it all
The voice of the spiritual over-mind
Means we are expected to be
Sort of intellectually deaf and blind.
Even if one can accept things like
A snake that talks and wheedles
I think accepting talking bushes
Requires stuff in hypodermic needles.

I think you have confused
Your Jehovah with Santa.
They are not the same thing.
Let me hear you say hallelujah!
Some of your traditions are
Verging on the weird and funny
When you peddle stories
About an egg-laying bunny.
And that basket of fishes
To feed a thousand was dumb.
In prehistoric Israel, just where
Did those freeloaders come from?
That strange ‘water into wine’ thing
Would be banned by law today.
Jesus, as evangelical moonshiner?
The authorities would put him away.

But that’s all fine and good if
One personally deems it to be so,
This claiming to run daily life
By words memorized long ago.
Since some of it makes sense
It may be easier to just ignore
Things like wizards and magic
As something from long before.
Evidence today says nobody lived
For eight hundred years and such.
But things like facts don’t seem
To bother religious people that much.
So, have at it, you spooky folks
With your symbols and mystery
Just save your breath if you think
You’ll get acceptance from me.

Do not bother me with your absurd theories;
Reason, logic, and evidence have no place
In the heart of the true and righteous believer.
Faith in holy texts should be your guide,
Your faith should be blind, unadulterated, and quintessential, or
Risk a dreadful and eternal damnation.

If Einstein knew so much
Why do they call his premise the “Theory of Relativity”?
If Darwin was so sharp, why is it the most
He could up with was the “Theory of Evolution”?
The answer is simple, they really had no clue,
They simply did some scientific research and, in the end,
They came up with nothing more than theories.
And, what about all those archeologists
Claiming the earth is billions of years old, or
Cosmologists with their “Big Bang Theory.”
Everything is nothing more than
Theories, theories, theories.

Turn your back on these absurdities;
Trust, instead, the ancient, sacred texts
That offer immutable, unquestionable truths.
How ludicrous the idea that
The world is more than 10,000 years old,
(Carbon dating of fossil rocks is just mambo-jumbo)
The universe and all creation
Were made in six days,
God, tiring after all that work,
(Wouldn't you after working 24/6?)
Rested on the seventh day.
It's there in black and white,
For everyone to see.
(Assuming you've read the right version)
Men were created from a clod of clay,
(Or mud, but you get the point)
Women from the rib of man
(Which is why they should be subservient to men).

What nonsense from biologist and paleontologist
That claim we evolved from micro-organisms and apes,
This notion is total sacrilege, a blasphemy.
Life is too complicated, too complex to just evolve,
Intelligent Design is the only answer,
All the talk to the contrary is nonsensical hyperbole.  
God made everything happen.
Read the holy texts, the truth is as obvious,
As plain as the tip of your nose.
Everyone knows that all the anthropological data,
All the purported archeological digs,
With reports of dinosaurs and missing links,  
Are fabricated to fit nerd scientists' preconceived notions of
What they would like everyone to believe.

When in doubt, refer to the holy texts,
You will see all the unsubstantiated, ludicrous claims
For what they really are:
Trash, trash, and more trash.
Do not bother me with your facts, or
Your scientific data or findings;
In the end, everything boils down to more idiotic theories.
Have unquestioning, blinding, and total faith,
Read the holy texts and they will set you free.
So, the next time someone questions your beliefs,
Claiming there is no merit or facts to support them,
Remind them that to question the word of God
Will send them, along with their theories,
Straight to hell.

Amen!

while we wait for dinner,
you talk
& i
just stare at your lips
cause
they’re the only thing
i want to eat

i wonder,
is it bad
i want to order
off the menu?

i want
bottomless refills
of your kisses
& a side of your hands
on my thighs

until i’m full
enough to wait
for one more
serving

i think i’d like to order now.

how soon
can a full plate of you
be ready
to go?

Al Shabab having terrorist fits
while Nairobi is taking the hits.
An attack calculated
by gunmen, frustrated
for lack of Somalian *****...

So if you want to know upfront,
Then, you should know
That a reasoned selection process was used,
The music was cherry-picked,
Three perfect compact discs,
Hanging there from the branch,
(Actually CD stack storage)
And me, with a sativa buzz,
Working nicely, grazie mille.
I sit down to write another one of my “fakakta” poems.
The music?
Three crystal gems
Liquid pearls, all of great price.
To wit: (1) “The Best of Joe Cocker,”
(Joe died last year, and
Don’t we/Shouldn’t we
Consider him a close associate,
A kid we grew up with?)
(2) “A Twist of Marley,”
A “Verve Music” product,
Brilliant conception!
Montego Bay gone South Chicago,
A sweet instrumental miscegenation--
A potent, wicked fusion of reggae & jazz--
Manifested by Dave Grusin,
Gerald Albright, Lee Ritenour, & Others.
And last, but not even close to being least,
(3) “MILES DAVIS Kind of Blue.”
Lest we forget Norman Jewison’s
Homage to Mambo Brooklyn Italiano
Cher & her wacky greaseball family:
The Castorinis.
The Cammareri.
The Cappomaggios.
Did I hear someone say “*** Stereotype?”
Bam! A double “Moonstruck” slap,
Just to remind you:
“I’m talkin’ here.”

Lest we forget:
Coltrane blew tenor sax
Both March & April 1959 sessions,
Columbia 30th Street Studio,
New York City.
And if you've heard
"Freddie Freeloader," a
Sizzler solid 9 minutes & 49 seconds,
I think it’s probably a good time
To go check to see if you
Left the garden hose on.
BAM!
Now do I have your attention?

We pensive Boomers--
We take stock.
We ponder the clock, a
Vexatious tick-tock
Arctic soundtrack,
Music in the key of winter of
Our discontent/content.
YOU MUST CHOOSE ONE!
Time to script your buggering off,
Time to settle in
On an exit strategy.
“Yes, hurry up, it's time.” screams T.S. Eliot,
From an English major’s
Vast wasteland archive.
The scoreboard reads 4th Quarter now.
We ruminant Boomers,
Facing up to it at last, are we?
To be or not: a serene letting go, or
“Rage against the dying of the light?”
Dylan chimes in:
Thomas, meet Thomas.
Oprah, Uma.

So you should know upfront,
I got a great buzz on.
The music is groovy.
This poem ends here.

Their eyes locked glances at the club
and both knew that, very soon,
their horizontal Mambo starts
back in his suite of rooms.
A hot, slow dance,
One night's romance,
a glass ( or two) of wine.
He's first ballot Hall of Fame
and she is very fine.
Avoiding Paparazzi
they slip out a back door
The famous baseball player
and the girl called Belle Dejour

The other night I snuck into the Grammys
It really wasn't that hard you see
I was dressed as the Daft Punk dude on the left
My own mother wouldn't have recognize me

I was on the elevator at the Ritz-Carlton
When one of those robots stepped in by himself
So I knocked him out then tied him up
And left him bundled up in the stair well

I put on the suit and the helmet
It's not hard to fake a french accent in those
The only problem I encountered that evening
Was the strong desire to scratch my nose

You know I was the life of the party
Mingling with all of the stars
For awhile I sat in the row with Shawn and Yoko
Still don't know which ones from Venus and which ones from Mars

I'm sure in the circles that those two hang with
They are as normal as all of the rest
Of course most of the rockers I met that night
Put normality to the test

I was a little nervous about preforming
But I just put my boogie shoes on
The only one there who would notice my radical rhythm
Was Stevie and he couldn't see what was going on

When we went up to accept our award
I waved and mumbled under my breath
I must of made it sound mighty profound
As the crowd all clapped and nodded their heads

I really had the best of times that night
Partying like it was 1999
Prince wasn't there but who really cares
When your behind Beyonce in the Mambo line

I learned to listen
By playing your
Words
On repeat

By lapping the taste
That your anger
Morphs into when
Under a sheet

Tonight, tonight,
This rumble won't
Take place in
The street

Rocket in your pocket,
Shark boy, little Jet,
Do you feel pretty?
Or have I not relieved
You yet?

Now something's coming,
Checkmate, game and set,
But maybe you'll indulge me
With one last cigarette?

Boy, Boy,
Crazy with regret,
Let's sing a song to conjure
The evening that we met

How suddenly my name
Became a sweet refrain
That you could not
Forget

It's only you,
Everything I'll ever be,
Don't matter if you're tired,
Come refresh yourself in
Me

Waves snap along
the moonlit shore
as a T-Rex bass line
carries ’The Mambo Sun’
through my soul and out
across the dream crested
Atlantic

Right here

Right now

I am free

Nirvana is made up
of moments such as
these

Tonight, the midnight wind
offers a nostalgic rush
of something I’m unsure ever existed.

I’m transported back the late 1800’s,
deep in the New Orleans south.
Sweaty, I can smell the rain approaching.
The rustling oak tress with Spanish moss sway
in the gray skies.
I’m assisting a powerful Mambo,
chopping her fire wood
Finding certain plants.
Cooking her meals
when she feels too drained.

Cause of my help, she’s made sure
I’m protected
from all the seen and unseen
mysteries of the world.

As thunder strikes in the past
I can’t help but think of the ceremonies—
Dancing,
The drums echo
Our feet shake the wooden planks.
The drums echo
And we are dancing—
dancing ‘till our legs throb
dancing ‘till our lungs explode.
We scream ‘till our ears bleed—
‘till our head hurts.
Anxiously we await possession.

That seems like my life once.

At least, that’s what the wind tells me.

You've got to have some rhythm if you're going to boogie down.
At the latest tango hotspot at the Roxy in the town.
The principles of foxtrot and the sways of swing will show.
That dancing with your heart will always make your passion flow.

When the bossa nova starts and the lady sings the blues.
The time is now to shake your hips and don your dancing shoes.
You trip the light fantastic, your shoulders shake in time.
Your fingers snap and feet will tap along to mambo rhyme.

The rumba stirs the frenzy of your heart in Latin beats.
You feel the crazy samba in the footsteps on the streets.
Your ready for your spotlight doing cha cha cha and jive.
You can never stop the lindy hop to keep your soul alive.

****** is so subtle in english society
that you almost seem to enjoy it
as if a comeback, but instead
what you should be expecting
is finding Las Vegas in a can of sardines;
those G.I.s were really thirsty on **** juice,
at war they used to drink the preservative oils
keeping the sardines hardly handy, thinking
of their girlfriends... mm meow moo oo.
spoke the tongue for 22 years and they still
think i have a Romanian accent...
lucky *******... i too thought i was sending
the Brits back to the concentration camps
of construction sites... no wait... there's
an office argument: we need new toasters among
other digital applications to push the button...
send in the chemical brothers... and a few Jamaican monkeys
should you have forgotten your riff of:
oom sah la la... sa la la see'h mambo'h;
hey, keep the bald eagle handy on your shoulder,
you never know when it might become a skin eagle.

it's like they're feeding themselves the line: things i should have said / thought about / cared about... me? bring on the woodwinds and saxes and violins... like the other day, they really wanted to make the classical music scene pretty by enforcing a weird post-colonial theory of how composers and musicians should be black once in the while, i dig that the japanese just love chopin, but come on: john coltrane, sonny clark, miles davis, cannonball adderley? who the hell wants it to look pretty, like a half-wit beauty of a woman: i want it mandible, not porcelain... next thing you'll be telling me is that a donkey can moo... jazz is an impromptu get-together, it's not an impromptu scribble scribble scribble readying a bunch of ponce ******* to sit it out stiff in a grand music hall - when i went to see swan lake by tchaikovsky the crowd clapped so frequently without a clear moment of aspiration to feel the music... plus i think ballet ruins the music, all that stomping, it's not an art-form, but an encircling stampede: plus i think it's also a sadism; rumba cha cha cha mambo cha cha cha tango cha cha cha foxtrot cha cha cha.*

after qualifying to be listening
to b.b.c. radio 4, after all the ponce
of classic f.m., i find that
people listening to radio 4
are craving a schizophrenic simulation,
they're the ones who never
cried listening to a piece of music,
they want company...
honest to god, schizophrenics (ego shrapnel)
complain about the symptom of
"hearing" voices (yes, the sense needs
ambiguity)... while those on
the b.b.c. radio 4 diet always want
company, they're not prone to liking
thinking... the world's weirdest simulator;
i'll admit it, even the cheesiest pop
music makes me feel like candy floss
in comparison to middle-age depth of talk.

among the people that i hold accountable to suggest
someone has lost touch with reality:
    well, apologies for not engaging in your
  cinnamon-laced *** life - i sought other spices:
as in chilli for the tongue, and salt for my eyes,
and pepper for my nose - because that's what's
being debated: when philosophers come back
from their adventure i'll let you know what reality
actually is - then the cathedrals will crumble,
   then the neo-Babylonian extracts from modern
architectural preferences will become less neo-Babylonian
English and more: Glaswegian dialects
surrounded by Croat diacritical markings -
    as if drawing hunting antelopes in caves
   giving us "more" clues about the one inhospitable earth:
or are we truly surrendering to Darwinism
rather than carpe diem? i'm i'll ******* chirpy
given a dinosaur bone, and the timescale -
             and given that we turned Cartesian duality into
a dichotomy, everyday seems challenging:
a blimmin' boxing match 'n' all...
                                    i can't remember how many times
i've been k.o'ed (knocked out) in my waking moments
(conscious or, rather mourning? don't know).
      i still find it staggering they (no paranoia collective:
simply scientists) came up with the fact that the sun
(or any star) is a reaction of helium and hydrogen:
do people really explode into chipmunk joviality when
   doing a b.b.q. of their bodies on a beach?
             (asking questions becomes a ****** syringe
after a while) - and yes, use the term joviality before it
becomes archaic, you never know when it might
unearth a wormhole of Hades and **** the fact out
and flush it into oblivion.
              and some don bowler hats and use folded
umbrellas as walking sticks, perhaps the monocle,
but definitely the bow-tie: and make rhetoric of language:
airs, courtesy (court-t'eh-c vs. curt-see): herr chirurg!
how do you insert the scalpel into the rhythmic expression
of dribbling that kauczuk? (rubber ball).
      (cow- -chook).
           i mean in Cockney: how do you juggle that word
properly while balancing an oyster on your tongue?
and yes, i'm starting to believe Polish (as a language)
borrows too much from German - of the few slavic languages
i also say Kaiser bun -          she's called a variant of
antoinette, i.e., a kajzerka, or Wilhelm (dressed as a little
girl, all hurly burly) akin to philippe duke of orléans;
someone say lace stockings?
      i could write out this ******* in chauvinistic bravado
aesthetic: or i could smoke a cigar...
     and sooner we realised that crows never prayed
but croaked -
        that pigs grunted and never prayed -
that pigeons cooed, and never prayed,
       that monkeys did the mambo knock-knock joke -
that woodpeckers were the original carpenters and
                invoked the existence of the machinegun
and the rattler.
so there are people (sophists) who wear
bowler-hats, smocking, monocles and disdain:
rather ardently -
                 and then there are those that spontaneously
explode, from out of nowhere,
and dress themselves in rags and never rags to riches
sort of attitude - because appearances are deceptive
and too can be gambled with and neglected and seeing
a decay of a royal house: is much fancier than seeing
autumn...     because aren't the Windsors
                                         vacating Buckingham?
as in: from rot -                 apple and pear sweetness.
(at this point the poem should end) -
       not always the case of: less is more...
speaking on behalf the man who read the karamazov
brothers and stuck a leaflet on the back
of the book that read: the hash marihuana & hemp
museum - oudezijds achterburgwal 130 amsterdam
                    (next to the 'sensi seed bank' grow shop
   www.hashmuseum.com).
i mean you have read something equivalent of a brick
these days, at least one brick within that distractive
paradise of poetry - either the already mentioned book,
or war and peace, or in search of lost time,
or bolwesław prus' the doll - and they said
that life's short... not with these books being read it is...
life becomes a snail-paced traffic jam -
            it's what mystics aim at, across all religions:
the carpe diem momentum.
            it's not even boring, it's just a tedium-ladden
misanthropy: that suggestion is mainly aimed at seeing
an afternoon sitcom about 0-hour contract jobs...
       which is applauded by the terminally ill who
might say: thank **** it's not me.
            so we're all agreed - what the collapse of
communism left behind was a chance of a pension,
        given that all the western countries sold their remnant
versions of tribalism to stealth upper-tier formulations
         of "we're in this together" as otherwise know: companies...
we're not accompanied -
                   cold and wet and ***** -
                            which is odd why we'd think it
necessary to cause upheaval in iRaq...
                           given that the origins of communism were
in England, tested in Mongolia and then ingrained elsewhere...
ah, but of course, the profit margin: it's hard to
automate people surrounded by machines
        it's like olympians competing with para-olympians
where's talk of golf and the handicap?
              not here...
                       but i'm wondering, how can i redeem myself
after having stretched the poem for too long?
     point being: i can't change the status quo, and don't
intend to - and is that hypocritical or simply being
honest? well: if i managed to fit the concept of the big bang
into my little head: i'd choose the bullet every single time -
   we've established a majority, we've become as deluded
in our hopes for individuality: as was once deemed worthy
of the idea of god; we simply have established a constant
supply & demand parameters;
or what Heidegger calls: the perpetuated "ineffectual"
(well, not really him, my wording) -
                  basically a state of panic and
how different does concern compare with anxiety?
   a woman would tell a man that crimson is very different
from burgundy, as man would use the crude sigma:
red, red. n'es pas?

*i wish i could write something within the framework
of universal appeal; something simple
   and easily digested: like baby pulp, or simple
pulp of any fruit, mashed up and regurgitated
as if a seagull feeding its chicks... alas! not to be.

It came so unexpected
the call of music low
'for I knew I was affected
I started soft and slow

It moved within my chest
as though another heartbeat
a command behind my breast
brought me rising from the seat

and sent my body swaying
to the plucky, steady tone
of mambo music playing
resounding through my bone

my foot stepped sideways
the movement flowing through
forsaking the ballets
of angels that I knew

And in that moment when
the world was mine alone
I found myself again--
the sacred truth unknown

tell you why your kite is dead. i'll tell you why you sing flat.
this is what i do gently even though the tide against me, is Sparta on crack.
you don't recall our fierce love, the oblivion mambo of our singular act !
are you sure you don't forget      too better remember how
you wish you felt about that ?