hinahanap ko ang iyong liwanag
gustong masilayan bawat sinag
ilawan ang mundong puno ng pagkabagabag

dagat na puno ng kapayapaan
dampi ng hangin sa aking kalamnan
dulot nito'y kapanatagan ng kalooban

sa akin ay may bumubulong
wag hayaang puso'y makulong
sa hinagpis na nakalululong

ikaw ang tala na aalalay at gagabay
sa paglalayag kong walang humpay
ningning mo'y tila walang kapantay.

Ozzie Smith, Yazstremski,

Dave Stieb and Robin Yount

these men were of a special group

It's one I'm proud to count

There's players who achieve a goal

While others just achieve

They set a standard for the rest

In their heart they just believe

The game is full of heroes

Men depended on each game

They all have certain attributes

And we all know them by name

Kaline, Ripken, and Wade Boggs

The Carters, Joe and Gary

They're men who inspire us

They have a reputation tough to carry

To be a man of character

You must be better than the rest

You have to be a leader

If you ***** up, you must confess

Baseball doesn't make you one

For character's within

You just learn how to channel it

Bring it out from where it's been

Now, Cobb, Ruth and McLain

Were characters as well

But, not the kind of characters

That we are here to tell

They had a reputation

One that is not lost upon the game

But, to say that they had character

Then you would not speak their names

Tom Seaver and Clemente

Thurmon Munson, Sparky too

Were men who set examples

Of exactly what to do

To build a reputation

One that shows character and heart

Is something time consuming

It's built of many parts

To do the right thing once

Is not the thing I want to see

But to do it right consistently

That defines character to me

There are so many examples

Of players in this group

But there are ten times as many

Who miss the homer with a bloop

Baseball brings it out in you

It doesn't put it there

You show what you are made of

By definition....to be fair

Williams, Maris, Dimaggio

Robinsons, Jackie and Frank

They played with an integrity

You could take it to the bank

If you want to be a winner

Please do this if you can

Be a man of character

Not a character of a man.
..

My father, gone fifty years,
A transplanted German,
Arrived early, in the 1920's,
Fleeing the worldwide depression,
That decided to follow him to America.

Traveling salesman, raconteur,
A busy man who decided he
Found the right girl at age forty,
But by the time I was teen,
He was, then uncommon,
An older man, an older father.

Raised three kids,
Working six days a week.
Unlike the other fathers,
White shirt and tie every day
Even Sunday.

No backyard in the city,
To toss a base or football to his son,
Though he wouldn't, couldn't,
While his son grew,
Grew up worshipping
Three Gods:
Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, and
The bold, the bald Y.A. Tittle,
Heroic sports figures.

The son who went to Yankee Stadium
For the first time,
There he saw the color
Emerald  Green in the Bronx,
In The House Ruth Built,
Whispered Hallelujah,
There, courtesy of someone else's dad.

Goatee he wore, and on Saturdays,
Wore a black jacket, striped pants
And Homburg hat to the synagogue.
Custom of his Hamburg upbringing.
The only one, the only dad,
Of course, dressed that way.
Proud of his style, his heritage,
Helping me not to fit right in.

Yet twinkle twinkle did his eyes sparkle,
Such that all the other children loved him,
Better and best.

But I was the son with the unlike,
The father, unlike any others.
Age thirteen, he's asked me this:
Now you are a man, I wish of thee this,
Accompany me to synagogue every day,
As is my custom, and all your father's,
Twenty generations before me.

When he passed, the stories of
His saintly deeds, his help,
How he saved, brought many to
The United States of America,
Including his five sisters and their families.
During, after WWII, became legends,
all the while, trying to make a living.

One time, I was listening to
Rock n' Roll, on the radio,
In the den, study, his home office,
Where
The Stereo,
proudly sat.

Chased me out,
Paperwork to do,
But stopped me first,
Listening to the song.
That happened to be next.

When this old world starts getting me down
And people are just too much for me to face
I climb way up to the top of the stairs
And all my cares just drift right into space

On the roof, the only place I know
Where you just have to wish to make it so
Let me tell you now

When I come home feelin' tired and beat
I go up where the air is fresh and sweet
Up on the roof
I get away from the hustling crowd
And all that rat race noise down in the street
Up on the roof

On the roof, the only place I know
Where you just have to wish to make it so
Let's go up on the roof
Up on the roof

At night the stars put on a show for free
And darling, you can share it all with me
I keep a tellin' you

Right smack dab in the middle of town
I've found a paradise that's trouble proof
Up on the roof
And if this world starts getting you down
There's room enough for two, up on the roof
Up on the roof

Up on the roof
Up on the roof
Oh, come on, baby
Up on the roof
Oh, come on, honey
Up on the roof
Everything is all right
Up on the roof
Say that, "It's alright"
Up on the roof
Oh, we gotta go up on the roof
Up on the roof
The Drifters - Up On The Roof

He listened carefully,
Pronouncing with an austere smile,
"That I like, now go."

Now fifty years later,
Having failed spectacularly as a
Father, family man, having never saved a
Soul or life, I remember the outcast days
Of my growing up years,
With a different kind of father
Than all the kids who
Played catch, had big suburban homes.

I never understood much,
Always struggled to be one
Unsuccessful in fitting in,
In my high school yearbook,
They outed my anomie,
"Either apart or ahead of us,
Nat stands, uniquely individual."

So here is a poem, an apology,
No, more an anthology, an anthem,
Of, and,
To my pop, for resenting, misunderstanding,
How
You were more than unique,
How you were special, in ways
No teenager could see.

I am have written some of this before.
Tender apologies, but when I awoke this
Post Thanksgiving Day, at
6:00 Ante Meridiem,
In not my bed,
In not my city,
Pandora surprised me
Real Good,
With an old song,
Up on the Roof.

These words,
The ones you are reading did not drift,
Nay, they spilled out in shades of
Tearful regretful guilt-filled,
Pooling tears that cannot n'ere erase
Prior youthful errors, grievous sins.

Of course,
They like to surprise you,
At the end of their song,
Twisty surprise ending.

I will say it, not you,
In some ways, not all,
I grew up to be just like him,

And for that,
I will give thanks,
Not just one day, every day,
Until it is among,
My last thoughts passing,
Proceeding me,
Preceding me,
As I depart this globe.

You can rate me,
You can bait me,
You can freight me,
You can strait me,
Simulate me,
Even better
Drop a roofie,
Game a debtor.
You're so groovy, misbehaving,
Misbehaving,
Give it to me,
Trouble waiting,
Fascinating,
Always mating,
You can wake me,
You can slave me,
You can grade me,
You can shave me,
Integrate me,
I pulsating
A new navy,
All the skimmings,
Underpinning
Jehovah's witness,
Keep on stalking,
Better fitness,
Keep on shocking,
Shell is thinning,
Gettin' gotten,
Rot 'n' reeling.

Don't touch my bikini.
Better smile when you see me,
You can stare
That's a freebie.
Don't touch my bikini.
Looking is free,
But touching's gonna cost you
Something.

Smooth and lanky,
Hanky panky,
Got no treat or
New York Yankee,
Super leader,
Count to seven,
Go to Paris,
Break the leaven,
Roger Maris,
Bleed the Czar,
Shooting star,
You're so levy,
You're so sunny,
Getting ready,
Here's the money,
Socking heady,
Making honey,
Toasting herons,
That's not funny,
Waiter Betty,
Way too ****,
You're so on it,
You're so honest,
You can fool me,
You remold me,
All the preachers never told me,
Heavy breathing
Punting reason,
Welcome season.

Don't touch my graffiti.
Smile if you dare,
Oily oinkers everywhere.
Keep watching, you graffiti.
Next time you'll learn
That touching's gonna cost you
Something.

Sea-Flower
you were never one of us
not really
I think you drifted
perhaps we cut you loose
I cannot remember
anyway we meant no harm
we had the shallow callow charm of youth
a cruel chant
which slays the slayer in the end
how could we comprehend your need
or the way that it would end
one cold October day among the ****
pale as apple blossom
Sea-Flower indeed

« Amis et frères ! en présence de ce gouvernement infâme, négation de toute morale, obstacle à tout progrès social, en présence de ce gouvernement meurtrier du peuple, assassin de la République et violateur des lois, de ce gouvernement né de la force et qui doit périr par la force, de ce gouvernement élevé par le crime et qui doit être terrassé par le droit, le français digne du nom de citoyen ne sait pas, ne veut pas savoir s'il y a quelque part des semblants de scrutin, des comédies de suffrage universel et des parodies d'appel à la nation ; il ne s'informe pas s'il y a des hommes qui votent et des hommes qui font voter, s'il y a un troupeau qu'on appelle le sénat et qui délibère et un autre troupeau qu'on appelle le peuple et qui obéit ; il ne s'informe pas si le pape va sacrer au maître-autel de Notre-Dame l'homme qui - n'en doutez pas, ceci est l'avenir inévitable - sera ferré au poteau par le bourreau ; - en présence de M. Bonaparte et de son gouvernement, le citoyen digne de ce nom ne fait qu'une chose et n'a qu'une chose à faire : charger son fusil, et attendre l'heure.

Jersey, le 31 octobre 1852.


Déclaration des proscrits républicains de Jersey, à propos de l'empire, publiée par le Moniteur, signée pour copie conforme :

VICTOR HUGO, FAURE, FOMBERTAUX.


« Nous flétrissons de l'énergie la plus vigoureuse de notre âme les ignobles et coupables manifestes du Parti du Crime. »

(RIANCEY, JOURNAL L'UNION, 22 NOVEMBRE.)

« Le Parti du Crime relève la tête. »

(TOUS LES JOURNAUX ÉLYSÉENS EN CHOEUR.)



Ainsi ce gouvernant dont l'ongle est une griffe,
Ce masque impérial, Bonaparte apocryphe,
À coup sûr Beauharnais, peut-être Verhueil,
Qui, pour la mettre en croix, livra, sbire cruel,
Rome républicaine à Rome catholique,
Cet homme, l'assassin de la chose publique,
Ce parvenu, choisi par le destin sans yeux,
Ainsi, lui, ce glouton singeant l'ambitieux,
Cette altesse quelconque habile aux catastrophes,
Ce loup sur qui je lâche une meute de strophes,
Ainsi ce boucanier, ainsi ce chourineur
À fait d'un jour d'orgueil un jour de déshonneur,
Mis sur la gloire un crime et souillé la victoire
Il a volé, l'infâme, Austerlitz à l'histoire ;
Brigand, dans ce trophée il a pris un poignard ;
Il a broyé bourgeois, ouvrier, campagnard ;
Il a fait de corps morts une horrible étagère
Derrière les barreaux de la cité Bergère ;
Il s'est, le sabre en main, rué sur son serment ;
Il a tué les lois et le gouvernement,
La justice, l'honneur, tout, jusqu'à l'espérance
Il a rougi de sang, de ton sang pur, ô France,
Tous nos fleuves, depuis la Seine jusqu'au Var ;
Il a conquis le Louvre en méritant Clamar ;
Et maintenant il règne, appuyant, ô patrie,
Son vil talon fangeux sur ta bouche meurtrie
Voilà ce qu'il a fait ; je n'exagère rien ;
Et quand, nous indignant de ce galérien,
Et de tous les escrocs de cette dictature,
Croyant rêver devant cette affreuse aventure,
Nous disons, de dégoût et d'horreur soulevés :
- Citoyens, marchons ! Peuple, aux armes, aux pavés !
À bas ce sabre abject qui n'est pas même un glaive !
Que le jour reparaisse et que le droit se lève ! -
C'est nous, proscrits frappés par ces coquins hardis,
Nous, les assassinés, qui sommes les bandits !
Nous qui voulons le meurtre et les guerres civiles !
Nous qui mettons la torche aux quatre coins des villes !

Donc, trôner par la mort, fouler aux pieds le droit
Etre fourbe, impudent, cynique, atroce, adroit ;
Dire : je suis César, et n'être qu'un maroufle
Etouffer la pensée et la vie et le souffle ;
Forcer quatre-vingt-neuf qui marche à reculer ;
Supprimer lois, tribune et presse ; museler
La grande nation comme une bête fauve ;
Régner par la caserne et du fond d'une alcôve ;
Restaurer les abus au profit des félons
Livrer ce pauvre peuple aux voraces Troplongs,
Sous prétexte qu'il fut, **** des temps où nous sommes,
Dévoré par les rois et par les gentilshommes
Faire manger aux chiens ce reste des lions ;
Prendre gaîment pour soi palais et millions ;
S'afficher tout crûment satrape, et, sans sourdines,
Mener joyeuse vie avec des gourgandines
Torturer des héros dans le bagne exécré ;
Bannir quiconque est ferme et fier ; vivre entouré
De grecs, comme à Byzance autrefois le despote
Etre le bras qui tue et la main qui tripote
Ceci, c'est la justice, ô peuple, et la vertu !
Et confesser le droit par le meurtre abattu
Dans l'exil, à travers l'encens et les fumées,
Dire en face aux tyrans, dire en face aux armées
- Violence, injustice et force sont vos noms
Vous êtes les soldats, vous êtes les canons ;
La terre est sous vos pieds comme votre royaume
Vous êtes le colosse et nous sommes l'atome ;
Eh bien ! guerre ! et luttons, c'est notre volonté,
Vous, pour l'oppression, nous, pour la liberté ! -
Montrer les noirs pontons, montrer les catacombes,
Et s'écrier, debout sur la pierre des tombes.
- Français ! craignez d'avoir un jour pour repentirs
Les pleurs des innocents et les os des martyrs !
Brise l'homme sépulcre, ô France ! ressuscite !
Arrache de ton flanc ce Néron parasite !
Sors de terre sanglante et belle, et dresse-toi,
Dans une main le glaive et dans l'autre la loi ! -
Jeter ce cri du fond de son âme proscrite,
Attaquer le forban, démasquer l'hypocrite
Parce que l'honneur parle et parce qu'il le faut,
C'est le crime, cela ! - Tu l'entends, toi, là-haut !
Oui, voilà ce qu'on dit, mon Dieu, devant ta face !
Témoin toujours présent qu'aucune ombre n'efface,
Voilà ce qu'on étale à tes yeux éternels !

Quoi ! le sang fume aux mains de tous ces criminels !
Quoi ! les morts, vierge, enfant, vieillards et femmes grosses
Ont à peine eu le temps de pourrir dans leurs fosses !
Quoi ! Paris saigne encor ! quoi ! devant tous les yeux,
Son faux serment est là qui plane dans les cieux !
Et voilà comme parle un tas d'êtres immondes
Ô noir bouillonnement des colères profondes !

Et maint vivant, gavé, triomphant et vermeil,
Reprend : « Ce bruit qu'on fait dérange mon sommeil.
Tout va bien. Les marchands triplent leurs clientèles,
Et nos femmes ne sont que fleurs et que dentelles !
- De quoi donc se plaint-on ? crie un autre quidam ;
En flânant sur l'asphalte et sur le macadam,
Je gagne tous les jours trois cents francs à la Bourse.
L'argent coule aujourd'hui comme l'eau d'une source ;
Les ouvriers maçons ont trois livres dix sous,
C'est superbe ; Paris est sens dessus dessous.
Il paraît qu'on a mis dehors les démagogues.
Tant mieux. Moi j'applaudis les bals et les églogues
Du prince qu'autrefois à tort je reniais.
Que m'importe qu'on ait chassé quelques niais ?
Quant aux morts, ils sont morts. Paix à ces imbéciles !
Vivent les gens d'esprit ! vivent ces temps faciles
Où l'on peut à son choix prendre pour nourricier
Le crédit mobilier ou le crédit foncier !
La république rouge aboie en ses cavernes,
C'est affreux ! Liberté, droit, progrès, balivernes
Hier encor j'empochais une prime d'un franc ;
Et moi, je sens fort peu, j'en conviens, je suis franc,
Les déclamations m'étant indifférentes,
La baisse de l'honneur dans la hausse des rentes. »

Ô langage hideux ! on le tient, on l'entend !
Eh bien, sachez-le donc ; repus au cœur content,
Que nous vous le disions bien une fois pour toutes,
Oui, nous, les vagabonds dispersés sur les routes,
Errant sans passe-port, sans nom et sans foyer,
Nous autres, les proscrits qu'on ne fait pas ployer,
Nous qui n'acceptons point qu'un peuple s'abrutisse,
Qui d'ailleurs ne voulons, tout en voulant justice,
D'aucune représaille et d'aucun échafaud,
Nous, dis-je, les vaincus sur qui Mandrin prévaut,
Pour que la liberté revive, et que la honte
Meure, et qu'à tous les fronts l'honneur serein remonte,
Pour affranchir romains, lombards, germains, hongrois,
Pour faire rayonner, soleil de tous les droits,
La république mère au centre de l'Europe,
Pour réconcilier le palais et l'échoppe,
Pour faire refleurir la fleur Fraternité,
Pour fonder du travail le droit incontesté,
Pour tirer les martyrs de ces bagnes infâmes,
Pour rendre aux fils le père et les maris aux femmes,
Pour qu'enfin ce grand siècle et cette nation
Sortent du Bonaparte et de l'abjection,
Pour atteindre à ce but où notre âme s'élance,
Nous nous ceignons les reins dans l'ombre et le silence
Nous nous déclarons prêts, prêts, entendez-vous bien ?
- Le sacrifice est tout, la souffrance n'est rien, -
Prêts, quand Dieu fera signe, à donner notre vie
Car, à voir ce qui vit, la mort nous fait envie,
Car nous sommes tous mal sous ce drôle effronté,
Vivant, nous sans patrie, et vous sans liberté !

Oui, sachez-le, vous tous que l'air libre importune
Et qui dans ce fumier plantez votre fortune,
Nous ne laisserons pas le peuple s'assoupir ;
Oui, nous appellerons, jusqu'au dernier soupir,
Au secours de la France aux fers et presque éteinte,
Comme nos grands -aïeux, l'insurrection sainte
Nous convierons Dieu même à foudroyer ceci
Et c'est notre pensée et nous sommes ainsi,
Aimant mieux, dût le sort nous broyer sous sa roue,
Voir couler notre sang que croupir votre boue.

Jersey, le 28 janvier 1853.

Christoúgenna parable: “from the third tusk that remained behind the underside of the Bedouin of the seventh dream, Mariah's nativity path is touched, hearing in the sieve ears of the dried fruit of the Achenium in the hemlock, near her mother Hanna who always tease the bird visions feeding Mariah's fertility. Hanna's progenitor slipped into the third parchment, being a fruit of infertile destiny not being a dried fruit, but rather of his lord that in a female a male will be born and that he will resurrect healing adjacent patients in the neo-testamentary and in his biblical canon, in seventy-three keys of the old testament that will be used to open a new crown ”. The Bedouin wrote with the drops of the sea that exuded from the compendium of Stella Maris, while this nomad brought them closer to a son in their fellow men and in the plurality of individuals, expanding on the announcement of an unborn son acclaimed Jesus.

They ran the lines of the nativity and in it would rest the arms of his father of Mariah; Yhoyaqim in memory of predecessor Imram as Hanna's father. He had wine for two in their wineskins, and in the nuptiality of carnality, for more siblings of a betrothal and of only one unpolluted and not carnal, full of Gratia Plena, as a factual verb in the Vulgate or Hebrew Bible for the purpose of whom He writes like Jerome of Stridon or just like a Bedouin with the tooth of a viper in a holy narrative of the matzo and its annunciation in its sixth month.

The Bedouin continues: “Mariah was born to engender the grace that nothing disturbs in the majesty of her heart…, it will take me a while to reach your nativity, but here I have to be before the reactions of going where my desires that cut through the impulsiveness of arriving now more than ever to Mariah's birth of the only child. Here in the foggy Judean night with the fathoms of the bush and stone substitutes, clay with mother-metal on the vegetable fibers that I carry in my donkeys. I will come to finish and rub the planks and crossbars that will support our new home in conifers of cypress and fir, up to the beams and balustrades of his coming. Cedar antisepsis and its aromatics will fill you up on arrival with cypress resin to caulk the Capernaum vessels that will ship you by the Aramaic word. Do not die waiting for me with the door open, where I will wash your feet with the gold of Ophir, which on the laden ***** of my donkeys I will carry natron to whiten the fabrics of its dressing, among any scented and refined lyes of light. With beryl, topaz, and ruby I will also seal the footsteps that reach her as far as her mother Hanna, I will continue to happen among the mystery of Simún that includes me in her life project, I am Imram, Hanna's father, and grandfather of this precious gem, who between acts they stand in the concession of his body-soul and mother-son as a venerable spirit, as anticipation more than a life of pain, joy, and martyrdom, piercing the soul to whoever disintegrates the desert of silica with blood in the prophecies of Simeon "

While the immaculate is adorned with flowers and oracles of ovation, Imram's shepherding bequeaths us in the vicinity of Nazareth, in all things that have their order and more than others must be prescribed for the births of those who fly the spiritual cities, which in itself brings us with its placenta. Mariah in her nature constitutes the first fractal of light of the One-Dimensional Beams, where she is born doubly into a body of peace and a prized winged spirit. Knowing that her sacred breaths do not become full or in twentieth dawn of the topaz nor less of the ruby, in which no sunset dies of all the venerable benefits that are born with God, nor before the visit to her cousin Elizabeth and in her Magnificat, nor less in a resentment in twelve years of his son already put on a tree, from the very dialogues of a son with a father, leaving them as patriarchs, before the convenience of engaging in the tasks of his father, being the son of his chosen Mariah, and that in the womb of his mother Hanna there was no one to whom it would not be, not even when his son Jesus told him in units of his father that he did not understand, in the naivety of the flesh made of the divine verb and in the existence of the mediate mystery.

The Bedouin continues: “as gospel, I have transcended my paternity beyond the ministry of the relief of virginity of the maternal conscience of a divine son, but of resolution of the word from mother to son, still not understanding him…, but speaking for generations that they will never remove the word of God and his mystery from my soul. I will always be a Bedouin of Galilee, as in the amount of Simún and in the values of the disciples who are also my children of the fertility of a woman in all living beings, as a family line that is born from the ruins of Eve, to be reborn in the beginning of the clamorous genesis of Mariah "

Imram, visibly exhausted, traveled in the row of Simún, which was endowed with a being that creator of everything, as a spirit that engenders family love to reunite them at the nativity of his descendant, always with the existence that embodies the infinite ***** of the star. that skewed and guided him, taking out the entrails of the universe that did not fit in the world, to lead them in the exploits of an orthodox nihilism, to protect with their heralds and sustain them from such motherhood, in the de facto conception and mother-granddaughter, preceded by the archangels who guard everything until their appendages are lost in the confines that have no consummation. Before the holy dormancy of the fire of love, ramshackle yielded by the rosary and the Simun, where promontory praises are noticed about the good adventure of a perennial nativity, from those hours that continue to be subjects for the times of time as the immortal reign of the centuries, and the apostolates sponsoring their worthy catechesis in their filial course, from reverend mother in evident assumption taking him away from his sufferings.

Imram continues: “Wine for servants and kings, in a chalice for one, in a family that does not skimp on glasses to include, for more brothers to offer to have them closer than writing with other literary legions warned, rather alive in canon lines from the bible, in perpetuity as an existential ****** of an advent community, which is nothing more than a Christmas sermon, for it came in two being born into a mother and child, in the seventh dream and in its Christmas tirade. I will run closer to where I will be able to fall outside the walls of his holy house, to bring him all my offerings, for a very purified mother, who smells of roses and lilies adorning herself with cousin gifts from God, in the dispute of venerating him without time or saves opportune works of formerly bad deeds, but because of an urgent visit that I compensate at the end of intention and murmur, like his Messiah, only twelve years old, rising from the cliffs and also from the Apsid, avoiding the discursive center in the masses of his assumption, lining traces and returns from a crown like a dying star king, with a fearful stain in the vicinity of perihelion and as proximity to its orbital of Faith. "

His aphelion is more distant from a greater lost lot, always luminous in the night to reach the lap of the nativity of Nazareth, in an eternal dream that makes us be welcomed and transfigured by Mariah, in cosmopolitan frequency, in the liberations from herself. apotheosis, and those that deprivatize the internal idylls of a son and his wasted mother, only leaving us in the middle of a desert and their gifts separated, between points where it is intended to arrive by offering the doctrine in its sacramental figure, and manifesting its supernatural presence in melted nascent sheets and eternity that flees down from its equivalent marquee, becoming carved from the One-dimensional Beams..., being first-born, mother and multi-believer in the same hope and in the halo of Holiness of John within his wood and within his Nazarene halo.

Con los brazos cruzados, con sus cofias de lino,
Y de lana vestidas, o sencilla percala,
Las mujeres, de hinojos, junto a la vieja cala,
Mirando están las olas bajo el sol vespertino.

Y sin temor los hombres a vendaval marino,
Con todos los de Audierne, de Paimpol y Caneala,
Hacia el Norte partieron, para remota escala.
¡De cuántos ese día será el final destino!

Y sobre el oleaje que en  la costa se estrella,
Un canto va subiendo para invocar la Estrella
Del mar, que cual consuelo fulgura esplendorosa;

Y el Ángelus, de pronto, que esas frentes inclina,
De torre en torre vuela, de colina  en colina,
Y se extingue en el cielo de azul pálido y rosa.

Teachin' ancient ***** tricks to enthusiastical pukers on diets more
ketogenical drills me hermetically heretical to my Moslemical core,
'cause not for a sick chick could I slam Islam on an Atlantical shore
whereat bare is Nixon before Maris Wrixon on The Ape movie tour

The season is a marathon and that one, more than most.
The travel was exhausting with two trips out to the coast.
Mickey was the favored son to wear Ruth’s home run Crown
But a ****** abscess in his thigh had taken Mantle down.

Roger Maris was exhausted if the truth were to be told.
He raced Ruth’s ghost all summer; now the air was turning cold.
With the **** down with an injury, the tension only grew,
as the calendar turned another page and at bats dwindled too.

No pitcher wished to be the one to yield that needed hit,
even if it would be marked down with an asterisk.
The count ran two and “OH’ with Barber in the catbird seat
Tracy Stallard toed the rubber as the catcher called for heat.

Some moments are forever, though, sadly, far too few.
Roger turned upon the ball; towards right field it flew.
It landed in the lower deck as Roger rounded third
It proved to be the winning run as the Yankees blanked the Birds.

I have the photo on my wall as Roger dropped the bat;
the consummate professional, no showboating or act.
He defined grace under pressure; he showed what must be done.

The shadows reach out towards the mound when you hit Sixty-One.

I never saw Teddy,
Rudy York was just a coach,
But Fenway was my Mecca
Back when Boston was a
Sad sack team.
I have to laugh,
I traded Yogi,
Traded him,
And Roger Maris
Too,
Traded them for
Tracy Stallard!
What New Englander
Would want a Yank?
Yes Fenway folks
Were not the brightest,
Back before the Sox
Were good.
Now Red Sox nation's
Nation wide,
The Sox are always
In the mix,
After all,
To love a winner,
Isn't strenuous,
I guess.

But,
There was a time,
A half century,
Or so,
Ago,
When,
That legendary jewel,
It didn't seem so small,
At all,
To me,
A kid,
Of only ten.
She was a great,
And green colossus,
Astride Van Ness,
And Brookline Ave.
To get inside,
You'd need your Dad,
And once inside,
She was a mighty
Castle of concrete
And steel,
With boxes for the
Jimmy fund,
Everywhere the eye
Could see,
She was a dark
And dingy cavern,
***** too,
Not much to see,
But when you  walked
Into the sunshine,
There was magic
Everywhere.
The famous sign
In center field,
"Hey Bosox, sock one here,"
And just the color of the grass,
That field was perfect,
Everywhere.
Back then
You could get a ticket,
Any time you wanted,
Just drive right up,
What section,
Please?
But now,
She's a celebrity,
She's all sold out,
The whole year through,
But those of us,
With memories,
Don't need a
Reservation,
For we all recall
The ghosts of Fenway Park.

Le poète naïf, qui pense avant d'écrire,
S'étonne, en ce temps-ci, des choses qui font rire.
Au théâtre parfois il se tourne, et, voyant
La gaîté des badauds qui va se déployant,

Pour un plat calembour, des loges au parterre,
Il se sent tout à coup tellement solitaire
Parmi ces gros rieurs au ventre épanoui,
Que, le front lourd et l'œil tristement ébloui,

Il s'esquive, s'il peut, sans attendre la toile.
Enfin libre il respire, et, d'étoile en étoile,
Dans l'azur sombre et vaste il laisse errer ses yeux.
Ah ! Quand on sort de là, comme la nuit plaît mieux !

Qu'il fait bon regarder la Seine lente et noire
En silence rouler sous les vieux ponts sa moire,
Et les reflets tremblants des feux traîner sur l'eau
Comme les pleurs d'argent sur le drap d'un tombeau !

Ce deuil fait oublier ces rires qu'on abhorre.
Hélas ! Où donc la joie est-elle saine encore ?
Quel vice a donc en nous gâté le sang gaulois ?
Quand rirons-nous le rire honnête d'autrefois ?

Ce ne sont aujourd'hui qu'absurdes bacchanales ;
Farces au masque impur sur des planches banales ;
Vil patois qui se fraye impudemment accès
Parmi le peuple illustre et cher des mots français ;

Couplets dont les refrains changent la bouche en gueule ;
Romans hideux, miroir de l'abjection seule,
Commérage où le fiel assaisonne des riens :
Feuilletons à voleurs, drames à galériens,

Funestes aux cœurs droits qui battent sous les blouses ;
Vaudevilles qui font, corrupteurs des épouses,
Un ridicule impie à l'affront des maris ;
Spectacles où la chair des femmes, mise à prix,

Comme aux crocs de l'étal exhibée en guirlande,
Allèche savamment la luxure gourmande ;
Parades à décors dont les fables sans art
N'esquivent le sifflet qu'en soûlant le regard ;

Coups d'archets polissons sur la lyre d'Homère,
Et tous les jeux maudits d'un amour éphémère
Qui va se dégradant du caprice au métier :
Voilà ce qui ravit un peuple tout entier !

Bêtise, éternel veau d'or des multitudes,
Toi dont le culte aisé les plie aux servitudes
Et complice du joug les y soumet sans bruit,
Monstre cher à la force et par la ruse instruit

À bafouer la libre et sévère pensée,
Règne ! Mais à ton tour, brute, qu'à la risée,
Au comique mépris tu serves de jouet !
Que sur toi le bon sens fasse claquer son fouet,

Qu'il se lève, implacable à son tour, et qu'il rie,
Et qu'il raille à son tour l'inepte raillerie,
Et qu'il fasse au soleil luire en leur nudité
Ta grotesque laideur et ta stupidité !

Molière, dresse-toi ! Debout, Aristophane !
Allons ! Faites entendre au vulgaire profane
L'hymne de l'idéal au fond du rire amer,
Du grand rire où, pareil au cliquetis du fer,

Sonne le choc rapide et franc des pensers justes,
Du beau rire qui sied aux poitrines robustes,
Vengeur de la sagesse, héroïque moqueur,
Où vibre la jeunesse immortelle du cœur !

I'm lost in the heap of the unfound.
Tossed away, as an old garment.
Within me, there's an untold story.
While I lived and listened to you
Never surrendering my own misfortunes.
Castaway in some box, or clutter.
Never being told.
My silence grows.
In time, I will not be remembered.
Just an old story.
Another tale.
Once vibrant and compassionate.
Heart strong and mighty.
Now frail to another.
Just another lost manuscript never to be read.
Thrown away.
A journal of a  lifetime.
George Maris

Celle, de qui l'Amour vainquit la fantaisie,
Que Jupiter conçut sous un Cygne emprunté ;
Cette sœur des Jumeaux, qui fit par sa beauté
Opposer toute Europe aux forces de l'Asie,

Disait à son mirouer (1), quand elle eut saisie
Sa face de vieillesse et de hideuseté (2) :
« Que mes premiers Maris insensés ont été
De s'armer pour jouir d'une chair si moisie !

« Dieux, vous êtes jaloux et pleins de cruauté !
Des Dames sans retour s'envole la beauté :
Aux serpents tous les ans vous ôtez la vieillesse. »

Ainsi disait Hélène, en remirant son teint.
Cet exemple est pour vous : cueillez votre jeunesse :
Quand on perd son Avril, en Octobre on s'en plaint.


1. Mirouer : Miroir.
2. Hideuseté : Laideur, répugnance.

Quelqu'un qui jamais ne se trompe,
M'appelle juif... Moi, juif ? Pourquoi ?
Je suis chrétien, sans que je rompe
Le pain bénit à son de trompe,
Bien qu'en mon trou... je reste coi.

Je sais juif, ah ! c'est bien possible !
Je n'ai le nez spirituel
Ni l'air résigné d'une cible ;
Je ne montre un cœur insensible.
Tout juif est-il en Israël ?

Mais si juif signifie avare
Économisant sur le suif,
Sur l'eau qui pourtant n'est pas rare
Sur une corde de guitare,
Je me fais honneur d'être juif.

Je prends pour moi seul cette injure,
Quoique je ne possède rien ;
Je me l'écris sur la figure
En trois mots, sans une rature ;
Voyez : je suis juif. Lisez bien.

Regardez-moi : ma barbe est sale
Comme en chaire un prédicateur
Qui vide une fosse nasale,
Et j'ai l'aspect froid d'une stalle,
Dans le temple où prêche un pasteur.

Moi, juif, je mens, je calomnie,
Comme un misérable chrétien,
Lorsqu'à tort il affirme ou nie,
Ou qu'il dispute, ô vilenie !
En parlant du mien et du tien ;

J'adore un veau d'or... dans ma bague,
Le veau qu'on débite en bijoux ;
Au seul mot d'argent, je divague,
Comme le catholique vague
Qui ne se passe de joujoux ;

Moi, fils de ceux qui portaient l'Arche,
Je ris, et je laisse périr,
Je perds la foi du patriarche,
Comme tout un peuple qui marche
Vers l'ombre où le corps doit pourrir.

Moi, juif, je doute de mon âme,
Moi, juif, je doute de l'Amour,
Je ne suis sûr que de ma femme,
(N'est-ce pas étrange, Madame ?)
Comme bien des... maris du jour.

Car elle se fout de la vogue
Qu'a tout argument inventé
Par notre science un peu rogne ;
Elle aime mieux la synagogue
Si fraîche, dès l'aube, en été.

Elle est blanche, elle a sur les tempes
Une perruque où rit sa fleur ;
Faite à souhait pour les estampes ;
Quand elle adore sous les lampes
Dans ses voiles d'une couleur ;

Elle se consume en prières,
Conservant, sans en rien verser,
L'eau de ses croyances entières,
Car... une douzaine de pierres
Ça suffit pour recommencer.

Jérusalem les garde encore,
Salomon les reçut du Ciel
Qu'avec des larmes elle implore ;
Comme une juive que j'adore,
L'épouse de Nathaniel.

Ce qu'on admire fort sur elle,
C'est l'honneur de faire de l'art
Par une pente naturelle,
Pas pour vendre son aquarelle,
Ni pour manger un peu de lard.

J'ai pu contempler sa peinture,
Dans une salle au Luxembourg :
C'est très bien peint d'après nature ;
C'est avec l'eau, sous la toiture,
Ça me semble, un coin de faubourg.

Sur la cimaise elle est sous verre,
Je puis donc y mettre un baiser
**** des yeux du gardien sévère ;
Bref, l'art charmant qu'elle sait faire,
C'est, comme il sied, pour s'amuser.

Cela ne fait l'ombre d'un doute
Pour tous, dans la société ;
Oui, ma belle Mignonne, écoute,
Elle pourrait épater toute
La pâle catholicité.

Tiens ! En veux-tu rien qu'un exemple ?
Que le sultan soit décavé,
Et trouve sa poche bien ample :
« Vends-les-nous, ces pierres du Temple »,
Et Notre-Seigneur a rêvé !

Je suis juif ! ah ! ce nom m'inonde
De sa plus sainte émotion !
Souffre que pour eux je réponde :
La plus noble race du monde,
Ce sont les juifs de nation.

Eux, au moins, ont du caractère ;
Ils sont, oui, par les traits de feu
Du Décalogue salutaire,
Le plus grand peuple de la Terre !
N'est-ce pas vrai, ça, nom de Dieu !

Sotte habitude, oui, sur mon âme,
Bonne au plus pour les ateliers ;
Excusez moi, si je m'en blâme.
Et si vous m'entendez, Madame,
Que je me prosterne à vos pieds.

we started school during
the Korean "police action"
like extra syllables made
murderous mayhem more
palatable than calling it
another dreadful WAR,
half a decade after we won
the last one

those of us who survived yet another
crazy Asian WAR are now fading fast

I take in news of our passing
with my morning coffee, reading
the obits like they were the sports
scores

and every one I see whose numbers
are smaller than mine remind me I
am playing Russian roulette with the clock,
every hour

were it within my power,
I'd spin those hands backwards
to a day before cybertime

when Donny, Johnny and I went
to the park to toss a hardball into
well pocketed gloves, and discovered
the delights of peanut butter and
marshmallow cream sandwiches

back, back to a day Ike was pres,
and I would watch The Twilight Zone
with religious fidelity--back, to a time
so ancient Maris had not yet slammed in
number 61, chipping away
at the Babe's immortality

some told us the end was near,
and death by fierce fire was a reasonable fear
long before the missiles of October
and JFK's intrepid blockade

but the mushroom clouds never did appear,
and here I am with Medicare card in hand,
living in the same land where men with funny
hair make ominous "tweets"

and Manchild dictators with tiny peckers
lob missiles into the sea

wishing Clark Kent were still around
ready to don his cape and take a leap
and a bound, and save us
from ourselves

but first he would have to find a phone booth
in which to change...

Traduites du latin d'Audoenus (Owen).

Liv. I, . Ép. 30.

Jeanne, toute la journée,
Dit que le joug d'hyménée
Est le plus âpre de tous ;
Mais la pauvre créature,
Tout le long de la nuit, jure
Qu'il n'en est point de si doux.

Liv. I, . Ép. 145.

Les huguenotes de Paris
Disent qu'il leur faut deux maris,
Qu'autrement il n'est en nature
De moyen par où, sans pécher,
On puisse, suivant l'Écriture,
Se mettre deux en une chair.

Liv. II, . Ép. 47.

Catin, ce gentil visage,
Épousant un huguenot,
Le soir de son mariage,
Disait à ce pauvre sot :
De peur que la différence
En fait de religion,
Rompant notre intelligence
Nous mette en division ;
Laisse-moi mon franc arbitre,
Et du reste de la foi,
Je veux avoir le chapitre,
Si j'en dispute avec toi.

Liv. II, . Ép. 88.

Depuis que l'hiver est venu
Je plains le froid qu'Amour endure,
Sans songer que plus il est nu
Et tant moins il craint la froidure.

Liv. III, . Ép. 65.

Dans les divers succès de la fin de leur vie,
Le prodigue et l'avare ont de quoi m'étonner ;
Car l'un ne donne rien qu'après qu'elle est ravie,
Et l'autre après sa mort n'a plus rien à donner.

Liv. III, . Ép. 124.

Lorsque nous sommes mal, la plus grande maison
Ne nous peut contenir, faute d'assez d'espace ;
Mais, sitôt que Phylis revient à la raison,
Le lit le plus étroit a pour nous trop de place.

i never write "anything"...
i'm claustrophobic when its comes to
exploring cognizance...

'wow! what a fancy word!'

i hardly beg to differ...
i hear of people fathoming the novel...
and...
i'm a monolith monstrosity...
some bourbon, some german:

ich bin gut zu gehen: ja!

spucke bourbon au zu mein gesicht!

i will never write a novel,
i deal with butchering an animal
for: ein stück von fleisch...

"a novel" und barockarchitektur:
sounds similar?

oh but it's a freel available tattoo
in the anglophonic frame of ref....
Hastings, 1066...
hard to come by when the tattoo reads...
ahem...

Tannenberg, 1410...
Vienna, 1683...

clear-cut... almost safe-net catch-em
while you can...
the Hastings folk were pagans...
don't you know?
don't you know that only white
people can be racist?

pst... ask the russians "about that"...
see what you come back with...
i will have to...
S'****** at the reply...
no... honestly: "because" it's forbidden for
us former iron curtain "roma" folk...
**** dastardly's dog: muttley... S'*******...
giggles in...
we former folk from the eisenvorhang...
coming across the californian:
siliziumvorhang?!
where are we... polacks...
hunagarians... czechs... estonians...
lithuanians... ukranians...
yugolz... at?!
we don't fit the narrative... do we?

it's the 27th of december...
and i'm "thinking"... it's mighty fine...
to celebrate something with the aestigermani!

the children of ***** sought a father...
the children of gomorrah were akin...
i do not know whether i am
a father figure or whether:
there's that pointless safety question
to mind: did i wear a ******?
i was assured! i was assured there were
contraceptive pills involved!

i'm tired on the usual steaming-heap
pile of warm ******* and ****
to give a psychoanalyst his rhetoric
elevated status of disinhibition...

cocktail! madonna's papa don't preach...
dusty springfield: son of a preacher man...
and any other formidable calypso
study of salsa... should this sugar baby
this sugar baby be my baby
and if i would never become a sugar daddy...

and because i was only ever looking
for the six oops-stones of womanhood...
infinity: eh... bag 'em one weekend...
forget 'em the next...

god... let me this one type of racist...
Jefferson keeping "green things" akin
to Zoe Saldana in some variation
of a "basement"...
i'm good with green...
use enough cumin, coriander or
cinnamon powder in your cooking...
you'll ask: what's wrong with green?
i'd **** green! i'd **** green sitting down
i'd **** green of the sort sleeping!
i'd peacock myself in many variations
of drunk to stage:
that one sober sort of **** with her
and... it's no samantha 38g and...
classics come to mind...
homer, horace... and plump models
of: extra cushions!

ha ha... i make myself laugh:
i make myself laugh because:
there's about zeo chance of me...
conjuring up a novel ambition...
me and a novel...
a "supposed" schizoid and a novel...
ha ha! Noel! Noel!

there was a time where i grew a beard for a reason:
i.e. exercise less..
grow a beard, hide the pride of a walrus
minus the harem...
double chin and the...
Zoe Saldana in green skin...
octopus fucky-fucky or what?

- never mind -

grow a beard... hide the shar pei...
i figured over time...
my beard became a giza pyramid
focus of my eyes...
it took some persuasion...
namely 4 years and my grandmother
finally pointing out:
oh look how thick it is...
she wanted to play g.i. joe with...
prior to: my hair...
like some thor meets barbier universe
dolls extravaganza...
a hard-on waiting...
with an ava lauren limp twist...

"oops".

now the beard is all about...
being 34 years old... while donning
the *** leftover skivvy look
inflating the organic body for a media
frenzy to "compenstate" it to be aged:
49!
ha ha...
i keep forgetting why i'm in such a good mood!
today is today! and i'm...
and i'm not allowing myself to succumb
to an anglophonic seriousness
of staging an elvis costello seriousness
of: everyday writing the novel...

pst: sounds better than that obvious...
"nook 'n' cranny"...

my alternatives!
minnesang - neidhart:
meie din liechter schin!

weihnachten ist erledigt!
weihnachten ist erledigt!
weihnachten ist erledigt!
weihnachten ist erledigt:
lassen uns singen!
lassen uns geben loben!
lassen uns männer verlassen
der mutterleib!

ensemble für frühe musik augsburg -
mayenzeit one neidt...

jetzt kommen der lieder:
zu gesungen! für alle das jahr!

i guess i grew a beard to hide a shar pei...
then again:
perhaps i grew a beard to pretend to
fiddle with a throng of violins?
perhaps i found growing my hair long...
i had to compensate!
i had to exfoliate in the downward
spiral and exchange...
oi! baldy! baldy!
i can juggle! i can juggle!
i can grow long hair and a beard!

but never the two at the same time!
germany and the nazis...
i just can't stiop thinking about
the lucky... those frivolous drunks
of the holy roman empire...
esp. when peering via their folk songs...
i call it: having to succumb to
english prune and pristine pressures...
even these days...
being wholy saxon is to be:
most unwholesome when it comes
to the german federation...

it's called cheating:
eatin saxon white soy
and not... riddling oneself
with Bavarian rye!

i'm drunk! it's the 27th of december!
the little ******* is born!
now i can celebrate!
chevalier, mult estes guariz!
on the 27th of december i can sing
german, and french crusader songs!

on the 27th of december i can celebrate!
nothing has to be left so innocent
and passive! so coddled!
and if they weren't singing byzantine
chants... prior to this day?!
let them sing no more!
i have found my happiness! once more!

Ö dies freude!
jetzt ich können: singen!
einst die kinder und engel...
ar legen zu bett!

if i am to be the integrated kind...
now i rejoice!
for i have all the reasons to rejoice!
i do no have to pander
to a babe!
i do not have to force myself
into elevated expectations with
a pre- litany of the omni- suitor...

now i can champion the romance
of the crusade...
i am... freed from the utopia...
that only one heart is allowed
to feel... and its feeling is to be contested...
solely by the sacrifice of a crucifixion...
not by iron maiden outlets "etc."...

now muttererde...
ihr liebhaber: wind - seine unterschrift!
weihnachten ist erledigt!
weihnachten ist erledigt!

it's the 27th of december and i can finally
celebrate with songs...
that... celebrate the sort of christianity
i am accustomed to...
french crusader songs...
german folk...
that i can stomach...
not this... pandering...
expecting the nuns to not...
somehow, not, become...
the ****** of the christ-harem!
a nun is a nun is a nun is a nun...
is a nun...
but i very much like...
being considered...
for... the better part of the feminine whim,
outside the realm of:
the usual rejection tactics of:
the aborted... i like my exercise of yielding:
DAS WORTE... ooh... chisel that
with a base goosebump strut to be worth
being added!

em... it's almost like that...
time-travel question of:
why not travel back in time...
and **** the baby adolf ******...
dunno... no point doing that with a jesus...
since... m'eh... his cross is our
genuflexion... yes: kind sir...
yes mr. greek and mrs. hebrew...
esp. in this script...
esp. when its alive and "we" debate...
the pronunciation of:

nil admirari prope res est una, Numici,
solaque, quae possit facere et servare beatum...
hunc solem et stellas et decedentia certis
tempora momentis sunt qui formidine nulla
inbuti spectent: quid censes munera terrae,
quid maris extremos arabas ditantis et indos
ludicra, quid plausus et amici dona quiritis,
quo spectanda modo, quo sensu credis et ore?

there's nothing to be surprised by, Numicious,
in this life's mainstay, peace of soul and happiness;
others, onto the sun, the stars, azure bodies...
on the round year of orbital changes, look with
a calm... and you would, upon the gifts of earth,
pearls of the sea, what of the distant Arabs,
Indians beyond the Arabs,
on the Kwiritow (googlewhack...)
Quiritus' honours, questionable plaudit: peer
raptured in awe without measure?

a very ******* bad a very ******* terrible
translation... as you do...
as you do... sinking into bourbon...
thinking about... maritza mendez...
sylvia loret... samantha 38G...
and all those lost plump classics of *****...

i would have sunk the Potemkin!
drunk... i wouldn't even require
a sober catch / scrutiny of "character"...
because now i am yet to translate
some latin, use this... ahem...
pseudo-cuneiform text:
"LATINE QUOD MORTUS EST"

perhaps that's mis-translated as:
qua: i.e. "as being"...
perhaps MIT... some runic...
or glagolitic... we AWAIT: the revival!
of the grand h'american protestant church
of apocalyptic wonder!
maybe, perhaps... "then"!

but it's the 27th of december...
the... "messiah" is born!
now we can reroute and go back to our...
current year... ***** and gomorrah type
of *******...
the cosmopolitan whoop-t'd'ah is 'ere!
come easter, come spring....
come the crucifixion! come the resurrection!

À François Coppée


Don Juan qui fut grand Seigneur en ce monde

Est aux enfers ainsi qu'un pauvre immonde

Pauvre, sans la barbe faite, et pouilleux,

Et si n'étaient la lueur de ses yeux

Et la beauté de sa maigre figure,

En le voyant ainsi quiconque jure

Qu'il est un gueux et non ce héros fier

Aux dames comme au poète si cher

Et dont l'auteur de ces humbles chroniques

Vous va parler sur des faits authentiques.


Il a son front dans ses mains et paraît

Penser beaucoup à quelque grand secret.


Il marche à pas douloureux sur la neige :

Car c'est son châtiment que rien n'allège

D'habiter seul et vêtu de léger

**** de tout lieu où fleurit l'oranger

Et de mener ses tristes promenades

Sous un ciel veuf de toutes sérénades

Et qu'une lune morte éclaire assez

Pour expier tous ses soleils passés.

Il songe. Dieu peut gagner, car le Diable

S'est vu réduire à l'état pitoyable

De tourmenteur et de geôlier gagé

Pour être las trop tôt, et trop âgé.

Du Révolté de jadis il ne reste

Plus qu'un bourreau qu'on paie et qu'on moleste

Si bien qu'enfin la cause de l'Enfer

S'en va tombant comme un fleuve à la mer,

Au sein de l'alliance primitive.

Il ne faut pas que cette honte arrive.


Mais lui, don Juan, n'est pas mort, et se sent

Le coeur vif comme un coeur d'adolescent

Et dans sa tête une jeune pensée

Couve et nourrit une force amassée ;

S'il est damné c'est qu'il le voulut bien,

Il avait tout pour être un bon chrétien,

La foi, l'ardeur au ciel, et le baptême,

Et ce désir de volupté lui-même,

Mais s'étant découvert meilleur que Dieu,

Il résolut de se mettre en son lieu.

À cet effet, pour asservir les âmes

Il rendit siens d'abord les cœurs des femmes.

Toutes pour lui laissèrent là Jésus,

Et son orgueil jaloux monta dessus

Comme un vainqueur foule un champ de bataille.

Seule la mort pouvait être à sa taille.

Il l'insulta, la défit. C'est alors

Qu'il vint à Dieu, lui parla face à face

Sans qu'un instant hésitât son audace.

Le défiant, Lui, son Fils et ses saints !

L'affreux combat ! Très calme et les reins ceints

D'impiété cynique et de blasphème,

Ayant volé son verbe à Jésus même,

Il voyagea, funeste pèlerin,

Prêchant en chaire et chantant au lutrin,

Et le torrent amer de sa doctrine,

Parallèle à la parole divine,

Troublait la paix des simples et noyait

Toute croyance et, grossi, s'enfuyait.


Il enseignait : « Juste, prends patience.

Ton heure est proche. Et mets ta confiance

En ton bon coeur. Sois vigilant pourtant,

Et ton salut en sera sûr d'autant.

Femmes, aimez vos maris et les vôtres

Sans cependant abandonner les autres...

L'amour est un dans tous et tous dans un,

Afin qu'alors que tombe le soir brun

L'ange des nuits n'abrite sous ses ailes

Que cœurs mi-clos dans la paix fraternelle. »


Au mendiant errant dans la forêt

Il ne donnait un sol que s'il jurait.

Il ajoutait : « De ce que l'on invoque

Le nom de Dieu, celui-ci s'en choque,

Bien au contraire, et tout est pour le mieux.

Tiens, prends, et bois à ma santé, bon vieux. »

Puis il disait : « Celui-là prévarique

Qui de sa chair faisant une bourrique

La subordonne au soin de son salut

Et lui désigne un trop servile but.

La chair est sainte ! Il faut qu'on la vénère.

C'est notre fille, enfants, et notre mère,

Et c'est la fleur du jardin d'ici-bas !

Malheur à ceux qui ne l'adorent pas !

Car, non contents de renier leur être,

Ils s'en vont reniant le divin maître,

Jésus fait chair qui mourut sur la croix,

Jésus fait chair qui de sa douce voix

Ouvrait le coeur de la Samaritaine,

Jésus fait chair qu'aima la Madeleine ! »


À ce blasphème effroyable, voilà

Que le ciel de ténèbres se voila.

Et que la mer entrechoqua les îles.

On vit errer des formes dans les villes

Les mains des morts sortirent des cercueils,

Ce ne fut plus que terreurs et que deuils

Et Dieu voulant venger l'injure affreuse

Prit sa foudre en sa droite furieuse

Et maudissant don Juan, lui jeta bas

Son corps mortel, mais son âme, non pas !

Non pas son âme, on l'allait voir ! Et pâle

De male joie et d'audace infernale,

Le grand damné, royal sous ses haillons,

Promène autour son œil plein de rayons,

Et crie : « À moi l'Enfer ! ô vous qui fûtes

Par moi guidés en vos sublimes chutes,

Disciples de don Juan, reconnaissez

Ici la voix qui vous a redressés.-

Satan est mort, Dieu mourra dans la fête,

Aux armes pour la suprême conquête !


Apprêtez-vous, vieillards et nouveau-nés,

C'est le grand jour pour le tour des damnés. »

Il dit. L'écho frémit et va répandre

L'appel altier, et don Juan croit entendre

Un grand frémissement de tous côtés.

Ses ordres sont à coup sûr écoutés :

Le bruit s'accroît des clameurs de victoire,

Disant son nom et racontant sa gloire.

« À nous deux, Dieu stupide, maintenant ! »

Et don Juan a foulé d'un pied tonnant


Le sol qui tremble et la neige glacée

Qui semble fondre au feu de sa pensée...

Mais le voilà qui devient glace aussi

Et dans son coeur horriblement transi

Le sang s'arrête, et son geste se fige.

Il est statue, il est glace. Ô prodige

Vengeur du Commandeur assassiné !

Tout bruit s'éteint et l'Enfer réfréné

Rentre à jamais dans ses mornes cellules.

« Ô les rodomontades ridicules »,


Dit du dehors Quelqu'un qui ricanait,

« Contes prévus ! farces que l'on connaît !

Morgue espagnole et fougue italienne !

Don Juan, faut-il afin qu'il t'en souvienne,

Que ce vieux Diable, encore que radoteur,

Ainsi te prenne en délit de candeur ?

Il est écrit de ne tenter... personne

L'Enfer ni ne se prend ni ne se donne.

Mais avant tout, ami, retiens ce point :

On est le Diable, on ne le devient point. »

insomnia
the cold on the other side
of the pillow

Written by
Anna Maris

Un bonhomme de mes parents,
Que j'ai connu dans mon jeune âge,
Se faisait adorer de tout son voisinage ;
Consulté, vénéré des petits et des grands,
Il vivait dans sa terre en véritable sage.
Il n'avait pas beaucoup d'écus,
Mais cependant assez pour vivre dans l'aisance ;
En revanche force vertus,
Du sens, de l'esprit par-dessus,
Et cette aménité que donne l'innocence.
Quand un pauvre venait le voir,
S'il avait de l'argent, il donnait des pistoles ;
Et s'in n'en avait point, du moins par ses paroles
Il lui rendait un peu de courage et d'espoir.
Il raccommodait les familles,
Corrigeait doucement les jeunes étourdis,
Riait avec les jeunes filles,
Et leur trouvait de bons maris.
Indulgent aux défauts des autres,
Il répétait souvent : n'avons-nous pas les nôtres ?
Ceux-ci sont nés boiteux, ceux-là sont nés bossus,
L'un un peu moins, l'autre un peu plus :
La nature de cent manières
Voulut nous affliger : marchons ensemble en paix ;
Le chemin est assez mauvais
Sans nous jeter encor des pierres.
Or il arriva certain jour
Que notre bon vieillard trouva dans une tour
Un trésor caché sous la terre.
D'abord il n'y voit qu'un moyen
De pouvoir faire plus de bien ;
Il le prend, l'emporte et le serre.
Puis, en réfléchissant, le voilà qui se dit :
Cet or que j 'ai trouvé ferait plus de profit
Si j'en augmentais mon domaine ;
J'aurais plus de vassaux, je serais plus puissant.
Je peux mieux faire encor : dans la ville prochaine
Achetons une charge, et soyons président.
Président ! Cela vaut la peine.
Je n'ai pas fait mon droit ; mais, avec mon argent,
On m'en dispensera, puisque cela s'achète.
Tandis qu'il rêve et qu'il projette,
Sa servante vient l'avertir
Que les jeunes gens du village
Dans la cour du château sont à se divertir.
Le dimanche, c'était l'usage,
Le seigneur se plaisait à danser avec eux.
Oh ! Ma foi, répond-il, j'ai bien d'autres affaires ;
Que l'on danse sans moi. L'esprit plein de chimères,
Il s'enferme tout seul pour se tourmenter mieux.
Ensuite il va joindre à sa somme
Un petit sac d'argent, reste du mois dernier.
Dans l'instant arrive un pauvre homme
Qui tout en pleurs vient le prier
De vouloir lui prêter vingt écus pour sa taille :
Le collecteur, dit-il, va me mettre en prison,
Et n'a laissé dans ma maison
Que six enfants sur de la paille.
Notre nouveau Crésus lui répond durement
Qu'il n'est point en argent comptant.
Le pauvre malheureux le regarde, soupire,
Et s'en retourne sans mot dire.
Mais il n'était pas ****, que notre bon seigneur
Retrouve tout-à-coup son cœur ;
Il court au paysan, l'embrasse,
De cent écus lui fait don,
Et lui demande encor pardon.
Ensuite il fait crier que sur la grande place
Le village assemblé se rende dans l'instant.
On obéit : notre bonhomme
Arrive avec toute sa somme,
En un seul monceau la répand.
Mes amis, leur dit-il, vous voyez cet argent :
Depuis qu'il m'appartient, je ne suis plus le même,
Mon âme est endurcie et la voix du malheur
N'arrive plus jusqu'à mon cœur.
Mes enfants, sauvez-moi de ce péril extrême ;
Prenez et partagez ce dangereux métal ;
Emportez votre part chacun dans votre asile ;
Entre tous divisé, cet or peut être utile ;
Réuni chez un seul, il ne fait que du mal.
Soyons contents du nécessaire
Sans jamais souhaiter de trésors superflus :
Il faut les redouter autant que la misère,
Comme elle ils chassent les vertus.

Pépa, quand la nuit est venue,
Que ta mère t'a dit adieu ;
Que sous ta lampe, à demie nue,
Tu t'inclines pour prier Dieu ;

A cette heure où l'âme inquiète
Se livre au conseil de la nuit ;
Au moment d'ôter ta cornette
Et de regarder sous ton lit ;

Quand le sommeil sur ta famille
Autour de toi s'est répandu ;
O Pépita, charmante fille,
Mon amour, à quoi penses-tu ?

Qui sait ? Peut-être à l'héroïne
De quelque infortuné roman ;
A tout ce que l'espoir devine
Et la réalité dément ;

Peut-être à ces grandes montagnes
Qui n'accouchent que de souris ;
A des amoureux en Espagne,
A des bonbons, à des maris ;

Peut-être aux tendres confidences
D'un coeur naïf comme le tien ;
A ta robe, aux airs que tu danses ;
Peut-être à moi, peut-être à rien.

Vents, souffles du zénith obscur et tutélaire,
N'éveillerez-vous pas quelque immense colère
Là-haut, dans le ciel sombre, en faveur des humains ?
Puisque deux nations vont en venir aux mains
Parce que les deux rois se sont pris de querelle ;
Puisque la plaine verte où court la sauterelle,
Où rit l'aube, où se chauffe au soleil le lézard,
Va tout à l'heure voir passer l'affreux hasard
Secouant dans la nuit ses mains pleines de flèches ;
Puisqu'aux torrents taris entre les pierres sèches,
Vont succéder demain de longs ruisseaux de sang ;
Puisque le grand lion qui pour boire descend
S'arrêtera pensif, surpris de ce flot rouge ;
Puisque le paysan va trembler dans son bouge ;
Puisque, si ces deux rois, le numide et le ***,
Ne sont pas soudain pris aux cheveux par quelqu'un,
On va voir éclater pour leurs folles chimères
La désolation lamentable des mères,
Et les deux camps courir l'un sur l'autre acharnés,
Et, lorsqu'ils se seront entre eux exterminés,
Les durs vainqueurs, pareils aux bêtes des repaires,
Tuer les hommes, fils, frères, maris et pères,
Et les femmes, tordant leurs bras, cachant leurs seins,
Fuir devant les baisers de tous ces assassins ;
Puisque deux peuples vont tomber dans cet abîme,
Vents, ne ferez-vous rien pour empêcher ce crime,
Et, vous qui pénétrez dans les profondeurs, vous
Qui vous réunissez ou vous dispersez tous
Plus vite que l'éclair, là-haut, quand, bon vous semble,
Vents, noirs avertisseurs, sur la terre qui tremble,
En ce moment funeste, en ce champ odieux,
N'amènerez-vous pas les formidables dieux ?

Le 28 juillet 1870.

Who we think we are, if we fail to define our own terminii,
Meum et Tuum, as we are, if we take full consideration

of our pose, relative, to the point of you, on which your
homeostasis hangs by the thread of sense we share
in mindspace dominated by English, no longer,

I can read poetry in Hausa, like a native born earthling,
after Hiroshima and before the peak radiation winds,
in the season of Maris and Mantle, and
The Days of Wine and Roses, and
social influencers promoting actual
bowling leagues,

"Lake Charles Calculators
facing off against Texas City Lo-rollers,"
- in the novel, the summer of '61, unshipped.

when this version of America, as remembered on TV,

shall never before
be gotten but by the free and brave, trusting geology,
can prove we all know
if hell breaks loose,
we all die, but the earth is resilient,

As Kritias recited all he knew
of what the lawgiver said of the reproof
he humbly received as a Sais priestly
admonishment to learn to hold
thoughts secure for disasters
are considerably common

"– all such events are recorded since the old days
and are preserved here in our temples.
Yet your people and
the others are but newly equipped, every time,
with letters and all such arts as civilized cities require
and when,
after the usual interval
of years, like a plague, the flood
from heaven comes sweeping down again
upon your people, it leaves none of you but
the unlettered and uncultured.
So you become as young as ever,
with no knowledge
of all that happened
in old times
in this land or in your own." Plato, Timaeus
_
remember, we once believed in giants,
then we learned of dinosaurs,
then we saw whales cry.

They wept for the loss of the cod.

Then we got the internet of things,
and things developed was to solve

the original division using co-op gnosis,

we see our follies on YouTube, and realize
we have abilities, should we agree, we never

lie, but do know of instances, when unbelieving
worked wonders while lying about waiting
for this exposure
to your final frontal lobe
remyelinating, to offset dementia.

It's a prophylactic tactic peace of mind allows.

Gods of Horcondising

Previously Vernarth takes his head resting on the ceramic that supported him between the Hydor photo duct, rather than approaching his hand to the Klismós that Saint John the Evangelist had given him when he passed through Ephesus. In such a way that when he makes the first impulse to get up from the chair he was already beginning to leave the conventional Universe for the first time, then when he sits down again in the chair inaugurating the crystalline body that was looming over himself, he continues to be the Duoverse as if outside the Klismós with its curved legs resembling supporting pilasters of the Megaron diverging to the conical ones that projected concavely supporting the hollowness of its pectoral, which was already transparent like its Invisible Eclectic Portal. In this meanwhile he gets up again holding onto the Mashiach who came to take him in his arms and place him in the klismoi that interpreted the elevation of Hellenism to the Greater Heavens and the Itheoi of the Duoverse; that is, the spiritual deities of Vernarth in the classification of the starting rank and projection of the abandonment of the Golden Himation. In such a way that the Astragalus was integrated; his floral company that rooted in his hands and roots that cooperatively took root in those of Kashmar. Thus, Vernarth with the Ibic Rings would begin to syncretize the quantum and its hyper-accelerated mobilization of physics, and sub-atomic particulars that would later unleash from Alef to Tav to Astragalus and Aionius, beginning his omnipotence.

The sidereal distance began to unlink towards the Calypso air that was twinned with large portions of the sea in the same enamel, making Patmos the union of the speed of reacting in a chain with valleys of the Dodecanese with the Transversal Valleys of Sudpichi unifying Vernarth with Apollo, Smintheus and Befos; that is to say, three sketches of Apollo himself for the theological genealogy chart of the deity Scarabaeidae with species that multiplied together with Vernarth to become the metalloid Azophar, as the main guideline from the knowable to the unknowable, being Apollo the same in the corporality of Vernarth previously rising to the iridescence of Mashiach.

Astragalus: His primary Itheoi or theological picture would be composed and forming part of his feet and the environment of his ex-voto to take to all the summits of the world in the essence and the gift of eternal life represented by the root of the madrigal curdled by his feet, with the root of the Astragalus in flower when it represented the zero hours by getting rid of his Himation and meeting the Mashiach.

Scarabaeidae: God of the modality of the subsoil of wandering souls destined for the physical and spiritual decline, Scabaraeidae Aphodiinae as subtractors of all the waste of souls that have boiled in malignancy, and the Scabaraeidae Dynastinae as the righteous larvae that rise from the imaginary soil to feed on the roots of the Astragalus and all the flowers and leaves of the Dynastiae. Increased the taxonomic genus of the species that would have to remain in the underworld to aspire to a better one like these Dynastines or Heracles beetles in honor of this hero carrying the peg that Vernarth would place on all the gardens once he was in Aorion, leaving him in a larval state, before being sponsored by Hera's family for the life cycle of the Horco-Olímpico.

Nothofagus: God phoneme-photon of divine mass light to build the Áullos Kósmos. From here the purification will rise in synchrony through the final growth medron of the Ibix of Wonthelimar, to the millimetric assembly shoulder of the square meters that will illustrate the Acrotera of the Megaron, and the Iridescent Nimbus that percussed between the Áullos Kósmos and the Vas Auric ” in total synchrony with Patmos, at the same level of luminosity and growth revelation of the Scabaraeidae Dynastiae to transform inert matter into another fertile one compared to Poseidon.

Lepidoptera: Like the sixth piece of crowns of Kafersesuh bringing the fertilizations of the Lepidoptera in the Ibico Ring 6, for the central stage of investiture under the shadows of Hellenika and Theoskepasti, where everything will be endowed with the greater Ibix called Wonthelimar "that together with Leiak they would be transmuted to Horcondising.

Azofar: This metalloid god and support of the bed will take and bring Vernarth back to navigate through the cosmos towards the fifth element that would contract the universe and the Hyperdisis galaxy, to extol him from the neurological hyper brain of the Duoversal of Vernarth twinned with the Mashiach, exemplifying duplicity of Apollo as Azofar device of the new interstellar ships beyond all that is knowable.

Ibicus: god of the antlers of Wonthelimar, here they will carry the Oikos or Orphi Gold threads for the Himation and investiture to anoint the body of Vernarth bringing the aerial atmospheres of the Alps and the Ida as a Mycenaean-Valdaine complement, thus they were inaugurating the solemnity and honorability. Here the quadrature will be the perfect Heliacal Rise of the fourth Ibico with the quadrature of Aurion commanded by Leiak in the cardinal Dyticá.

Vélus: from Ibico 4, from where the goddess Artemis will evaporate in the waters for the healing of the tormented in initiatory processes of elevation of the four Arrows of Zefian, to indicate the zenith of the Megaron as if they were surrounding a Castalia for such solemnity.

Spilaiaus: from Ibico 3 in the center of the ministry with chiropterans, and others from the mercurial ambrosia invoking the Cinnabar of Tsambika, having all the protocol of Transylvania and eternity with the waters of the Antiphon Benedictus”. Here is one more bastion of Hades' underworld dressing for the Speleothemes that will take you to the heart of all the dens of the Faith.

Aionius: from Ibico 1 Wonthelimar who brought purity to all who needed him and went to visit in the dark, then he would find the light when he came out of the cave alive” here Kaitelka and Borker, in total harmony with Demeter, Persephone, and Hestia, bringing them from the labyrinths with the rusty chains of Prometheus and Vertnarth wandering through infinity.

Semi  I Theoi

The semi-deities and the greatest memories in the world that would derive the denotation that would reformulate the Apoinandros that would move along the spikes of the didactic Ego or the teaching of the authentic apostles that would crystallize with Zefian, Borker, Leiak, Kaitelka, and Ezpatkul .

Zefian: Reformer of the Universe-Duoverse, possessor of the four Arrows that will illuminate Heaven and all of earthly Greece every time Vernarth circulates linearly through the seas of the Vóreios of the Aegean. Ruled North: Vóreios (Zefian Boreal)

Borker: Demiurge and caretaker of the Duoverse, warden of the Forests of the World and of the Transversal Valleys of Sudpichi. Ruled South: Nótos (Austral de Borker)

Leiak: Omnipresent demiurge, the vague spirit of the docile water dancer who lives on the water with his slimy Chin, his playful back is seen breaking the lines of wells between flesh and silhouettes. Before the First station, first of the three remaining nights before reaching the Joshua de Pétra crater” directed to the West: Dyticá (Ocaso de Leiak)

Kaitelka: Down Whale ruling the Psychic Trisomy of the Duoverse and the seas surrounding Patmos in the Apokálypsis ruled to the East: Aftó (Kaitelka's Equinoctial)

Ezpatkul: Dóntiakul or prominent Augrum or Oro teeth will rotate through the Scarabaeidae demarcating the Vóreios Vóreios throughout the Horcondising region, bilocating it in the Patmos oaks borers, with such frenzy…!, that from there they would draw the strength of the Mapuche winds from the north of the Meli Witran Mapu, beginning with the Pikún-kürüf.


Distinctive Horcondising

Horcondising or Horkondising: mountain massif where the bodies that claim to dwell in the definitive Heaven are consecrated and evaluated, multidimensional transaction of honorable and spiritual acts to continues life in a more astral and subjective plane.
Hyperdisis: Edenic Galaxy for the postulants, the sky of Joshua of Pétra.
Pólemistes Mapu: Knight of Joshua de Pétra, he used to walk barefoot and leave no footprints; and if he left them, they were the traces of Puma, incessantly seeking to reach Patmos.

Theía Trueno: Female Sister of Joshua de Pétra, she is seen walking in the wheat fields and grasses that surround the Kosmous of the only Duoverse.

Humus Sofós: Human beings degraded and feces of the anthropomorphic brete.

Kosmous Zigzag: Super Nova from the Hyperdisis Galaxy.
Adelympia: Female parent of Bernardolipo, master of the Tarot and catechist of all the classrooms of the Mashiaj.

Vátos Cantarina: Subterranean messages between both families of Joshua de Pétra and Bernardolipo.
Viologiki zoí Pichiensus: Entity of low thermal of the Gods of the Forests.

Toíchous Pirkas: Hill ridges similar to asphalted sheepskin hills.
Kryo Aqua: Host and Eucharist of the mountains that run through the estuaries on winter nights.

Vounó: Mountains of blankets or Matakis that fall on Pichiensus lands in the form of rainbows in the Iridescent Nimbus.
Vráchos Talamita: Galactic ship, a dolmen of the Talamita where they do their astral rituals.

Polyagapiménos: Joshua of Pétra's Bungalow, Incense of God, Child's Feet in the Kafersesuh, Mariah's Contemplation to Guide Everlasting Lives.

Thor's Stella Maris Metrica: Vas Auric who guides the Norse stars commanded by the Norse Deity.

Ekató Taurus: Medium troop of a hundred bull men in charge of stirring up the storms of the deluge of the Apokálypsis.

Karrenios Margaritódis Petrels: Massive defenders of the near sky in Kala Nera, masters of unfortunate land but of high media cordiality with the last fragmented souls.

Horkón: Cuirassier of the skit for non-believers, rosary for believers

Orphilía: Sylph that gives brightness to the dim stars every night.
Australdisis: Intermediate relay galaxy before aspiring to the Coelum.

Hyperdisis: Horcondising material galaxy towards the Duoverse.
Albalalhue: Cacique frightening the Demons of Horcondising and Patmos, recoverer of the Gold of Tychaios.

Talamies: Landowners of the Esteros de Fýlla or Hojas de Talami and Patmos.

Negeshon: Personality or Prosopon of the Mapu God of rancid hierarchy, director of the ears of the scared and nested Gerakis.

Diákolus: Morbid God and creators of theological hesitation in the slaves of evil.

Ramathís: Theologian who strengthens the vibrations of Lord Joshua.

Alcanphor Xórki : Macro transport of the spiritual masses to be transported at the end of the spell of the Himation Ceremony.

Wuaso: Great teacher of great proportions, they are seen at night surpassing all the Toíchous. He is commonly seen with a bullfighting pole in his left hand.

Pooja Nykterinós: Bandurria that travels through entire towns at night when they have been threatened by the evil pestilence of the cold.

Sudpichiana: Region populated by specters of archaeological lands, it is the farthest of all and the most spectral of the Horcondising.

Analpha Alpha: first illiterate in the Sudpichian land and the wisest in the refining of the Forest lineage of him.
Sacraverbial: Edenic lyricism that dances through the heights of Joshua's meditation in dialogue with Hashem.

Getsemani  Sudpichiano: Set of sacred trees of the Sudpichiano sector.

Jesuslight: representation of Krishna, Light of the shadows of the shepherd with his music of birdseed and sonorous of the lyrical flute. He sings and enchants when night falls he is filled with green colors, and when the night dissolves into the beginning of the day he is filled with solar colors.

Pirkas: delimiting the arteries of the highlander.
Slimy Herb: Lamprey's stomach herb, acid, and complement to Ha-Shatan.

Zenón: ox of the good harvest and the sunny day. Strong as a storm of Love of a healthy animal.

I Eikosi: the twenty fluffy felines agglutinated in the dark hell of Horkondising..

Konófora Analfagamas: high genetic range forest. Their voices are heard by the jet-black voices of the night.

Protograss : Mineral of the great universal heart that turns into mold.
Trisolado odogéfyra: access routes to the great Energy of the Duoverse viaduct.
Pre kalésete: Anticipatory doors before opening the soul that has to enter the Universe of Saint John the Apostle.

Ramireaux Astós: Joshua de Pétra's hemiplegic recorder, Selector of those who crossed the preferential threshold.
Mass Parameters: Kafersesuh of Light that adds to that of Hope and Faith.

Ingratia mol petal: Ultra-fragrant and liquidating molecules of the carcinogenic aureoles of the hollow of the chest of the Lymphoma of Vernarth, purifier of life.

(En lui envoyant les Amour de Psyché.)


Lisez et relisez, ma sœur,
De Psyché l'admirable histoire :
Vous y verrez que le bonheur
N'est pas toujours avec la gloire.

Vous y verrez qu'assez souvent
La plus belle est la plus à plaindre ;
Et qu'un succès trop éclatant
Est moins à désirer qu'à craindre.

Vous y verrez que les maris
Ont parfois l'humeur trop farouche,
Et qu'il n'est pas toujours permis
De savoir avec qui l'on couche.

Psyché veut connaître une nuit
À quel homme elle avait affaire ;
Son époux s'éveille et s'enfuit :
Je crois qu'il aurait pu mieux faire.

Qui dormirait entre vos bras,
Si le jour frappait sa paupière,
À coup sûr ne se plaindrait pas
D'être éveillé par la lumière.

Écrit le Ier janvier 1803.

If life had made up a mind,
in the neighborhood I formed from
communally, we might all notice, we'ld agree,
we might not be the first to say, we know.

But you know, life, or the active agents of it,
makes up our minds willingness to look, see if it

might be meaningful when seen another way.

The flipside of freedom to choose, what may
be taught
to children, and what must not,
under any circumstances, be allowed known,

before a child has reached the bloom of youth,
the useful strength age, draft age,
pulled into the slipstream
of easy will
to prove worth, true grit, traction,
hobnail boots, true secret weapon, stick
and stay, and make it pay, the exploitation
unwinding wars perfected reasonings,
to the victors go the spoils, boys,

discomplication has begun, the unraveling
of ever, once again, the stories tell, the tale,
told in tapestry since Carol King, at least,

during the era of top-forty aimed at boomers,
the largest cohort of like-minded consumers,
ever propagated using pride of new knowing,
to push the value proposition
in Alcoa over Kaiser.

What local tax-base funded schools,
were required to do, in Massachusetts,
as Brahmin first intention to mass convert,
depended on a deluder, and a deceiver,
to do the work,
first make believe God can hate you,
for knowing what Eve knew, some how.

Original disconnection from the wisdom,
sin leaves no mark, but in the faith abused,

to aim, and miss, leaves no stain, aim right…

use the logic words prove, knowing one
is not enough, each can mean so many-
possible provables, using patience, truths as
developed the rules for inclusion in the deme,
the select few among the many called, whom we
deem among the elect, to whom much is given,

from whom much is required, as noblesse oblige,
indeed, duty to God and Nation, County, if you will,

Natural words twist across old sores
from bully brothers, mollified by battle buddies,
those who bore the brunt,
those Bonus Expeditions,
those dust bowl pawns,
those road builders, and bridge builders,
that made the old days look real good
on television… Dizzy Dean,
and ***** Mays, and that one year,
there in the story that took us through
the Sixties, right up to 2024, the summer
any boomer alive in 1954 remembers,
Maris versus Mantle, and the tub scene in ******…
make up the mind that remembers Beatle Wigs,
And Whammo everything, every fad we had,
let that mind never really
recover after the exposure to war, from inside…
that few,
those boys, men, now,
this wedom, tuned to my signal, thinking, dams

break, eventually, all the dams doing damage,
to the original intention allowing letters to work,
break free and wild,
as magi slowly brought back wit,
the bit of branching used
to make us think once
more an old idea, we
think slow, like a all day sucker…
make an image, I, mage of my own eyes,
Lo', I see, and say, hey, you, can you see,

does that flag,
still hold the dowery,
those stars in field of blue
above the BEIC stripes of red,
on a background as white as this?

This vast empty white space,
white wall between us now, you
and we the instigating impulsive wills

to know, sublime, beyond simple,
serious knots to learn to tie,

turbans telling Sikhs, the ontology,
why we are we, the chosen ones, and

the others, those we, must imagine,
have another reason for being, as we

have crossbred, or so it seems, as we
continue using old war reasoning schema

constantly trying to find the art official.

Riches and ease of existing, does, in fact,
lead to slavery, the will is made subject
to the feeding power, always, the owner
owns the user's fees, this is only right, see

first come, first served,
woe be the Juans who come late,

get one shot,
blow it, and you blow it for as long as
the will you failed to do was yours as

in the holy scriptures, all versions, common
thread, the planet we became on,

common, clean enough to make use,
we use raw letter A formt secret intent
to think, we used to say, no word wasted,
to the t we cross and the I we dot. or don’t/
recall each inflection in the fashion shown
courtly, while
in judgment found being wanting,
will to make a way to reimagine, a we to
think the original intention taught to you, for your
attention paid, intently, learning, we who read,

know more than they who can, but don't.

Some learn late, some never learn.
Fools make children laugh, who pays the fools?

If I die before you read this, did the words feel flat?

I trow not, letting this mind found made up, be
just right, among unnaturally neighborly bears,
some thing lingers from first intentions,
it truly can be imagined, just so.

After all the amendments needed.
To undo the original malintentions,

tie your hopes to those whose riches came
from ancient forms of diversion during deciding

the fate of the functioning laboring classes.

This is now the zone f-
from Gol'ilocks, original intent.

fsure, strue, suptyou
step on a crack, breaks yo momma back.

As it begins
All those tiny raining drops
Wherever they fall
Inside a symphony
Toward a glorious  lull
The maris the mate
Inlockatude
we wait
Never recede
Openly embrace
We're one and the sane
Not peering back
to all that never was
There's only now
Here together
There's us
To drift closer to
the  beautiful Inbetween
Of every  cascading drop
Sheltered by
Your opening hand
We cross
In flow
to a narrowing glide
An emerging life
It beckons
It calls
I know you hear it
I'm sure I can too
To all that ' ll be
For ever how long
Its welcomed
Embraced.


(Leif 2018)

I'd like to live in libraries
Maybe she studies my story
Maybe she smiles twice
Maybe a little glory

I think my green eyes matter
Hey batter batter
Pescatarian platter
Hakeem the Dream and Robert Horry

Europe was quite wonderful
Stockholm, Helsinki, Paris
Commander Jason McTaggart
Overcoming Sarris

I'm awake at 5:03
Dublin meant to be
Taco truck? Si. Si!
Rickey Henderson and Roger Maris

Diana Rigg was big but it doesn't matter anymore about her Mongolian lids, her trusty fertility that delivered no kids, her estate sale that garnered million-dollar bids because she's deader than forgotten American author Winston Churchill's tedious tomes of revolutionary-war fiction and Bohemian Grove darling Richard Nixon and leggy B-movie starlet Maris Wrixon and ***** actor Ivan Dixon.