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John Landry Nov 2013
"They're selling postcards of the hanging" Bob Dylan


Frolicking in the Hague festooned
as if some monarch's golden jubilee
not a room left empty in all the land
queues for miles to get a ringside seat
at what is billed as The Trial of Man
as W, ****, and Rummy sit chained
to the bionic calves of barstools while
Condo Lisa bears witness atop a piano
ferreted throughout the conurbation
breadlines and circuitous routes
recalling the Nicaraguan case
low on the radar of short-term
the disunited states of disarray
vetoes its own trial's outcome
and it is business as usual
Paul Sands Apr 2015
this grind breathes a fist
of sublime roast allure
as the Nicaraguan Black Bull

surrenders it’s fat cojones
to the blade and the forced steam
fixes me, dilated,
but still only grooving at 70bpm

I feel so very disco
ConnectHook Apr 2016
My idol walks. Behold her beauty
born of Nicaraguan night
summoning poetic duty:
tremors of volcanic light!
Clouds of ash and lava dropping:
I come back… I going shopping.

Sounding her primeval waters
crater lakes, her green lagoons,
fabulous—this diverse daughter’s
humid palms and storm-tossed moons;
ascending up her jungle mount:
Transfer dinero to my account!

Stone-faced idol, pre-conquista;
rice with beans or sacred maize
labyrinthine Latin vista,
cumbias and sacred lays.
Hurricanes and quaking earth:
******, what’s your dollar worth?

She who left her quaint dysfunction
reeking of colonial woes
for the multi-culti junction,
holy in her *****-pose;
scowling like exploited nations:
How you say… congratulations!

Gushing like a flow of lava
running down her placid gaze,
ripened flesh; the scent of guava,
passion-fruit in paraphrase…
Monkeys howling, torrents pouring:
Poetry to me is boring…

Rubén Darío’s wonderland:
Flor de Caña the anesthetic.
Marx’s tropic reprimand:
Sandinismo as emetic.
Verses don’t impress this lass:
Please—the car need fill with gas.

Lost in hurricanes of thought,
pounding the roof, God pours, it rains.
What was it, really, that I sought
In her land where the poetry reigns ?
It’s love. At times I long to shoot her:
Why you waste time on that computer?
∅☯✰☠
a  poem a day for NaPoWriMo2016
            ✿
www.connecthook.wordpress.com
            ☮
softcomponent Aug 2015
You come out of the dark, and a young Japanese schoolgirl--couldn't be any older than 19--is standing in a heavy-lit archway, the blinkered 'sort-of's' of her eyes only visible in corners due to the convex glare rebounding from the heavy light and onto a parked Miyata windshield, right back into the bloodshot lower-left cleft of each eye, sleepless veins like miniature pipelines slogging her fossil fuel blood to the energy markets of her face (but it ends in death, hopeless economy! it begins in death like OPEC!)

There's concrete, and there's stone: the former a collection of synthetically compiled chunks of the latter. In either regard, it might just be the end of the World, tho just an intermission during an afternoon matinee for the world. There are a lot of things you don't understand. There is plenty more you do, and yet you believe your own humility when it whispers, "You don't," tho you are entirely unaware this is delusion and not humility, but some unconscious form of ascetic worship of WONDER!! You're going coocoo for cocopuffs WONDER! We can remember what J.B.S. Haldane once said: "I have no doubt that in reality the future will be vastly more surprising than anything I can imagine. Now my own suspicion is that the Universe is not only queerer than we suppose, but queerer than we can suppose."

I was born at the edge of the Cold War. 4 years after America's Operation Just Cause deposed Nicaraguan dictator Manuel Noriega using heavy metal music and heavy metal weapons, loaded to capacity with heavy metal bullets. 4 years after the slow-dissolve tablet of the Berlin Wall finally faded upon the German palate. Brian Mulroney was my Prime Minister at birth. I was also alive (tho not 'conscious,' per se--intellectually conscious, that is) during the Prime Ministership of Canada's first female Prime Minister: Kim Campbell (she was only leader for just over 3 months and thus I cannot give her time in office the full credibility it would have deserved had she been a fully elected candidate instead of an inter-election Prime Ministerial appointment; when, for godssakes, will we have a Fist Nations' Prime Minister? I would like to believe the only reason there has been none is because the indigenous people have categorically rejected the game-fantasy we have stomped upon their land and the world and self-righteously crowned as 'realistic, sober, objective;' tho maybe I'm wrong, whispers Humility: "I don't know").

There is the endless and omnipotent consensus that the world's about to end. For those who study history, they will often notice that when 'then' was 'now,' it was often and always the end of history. 'Now' is the always-result of 'then' and it will never change unless we neglect its consideration. That's really all theory takes to disappear: stop thinking about it. (as if that were possible, ha!)
Because the impression has been one of pollution and confusion, our wide un-thought idealization as children has often led us to emulate all the bad habits we witness growing up, even if at one point we cloudlessly rejected them because the damage didn't seem clear, it was clear.

I was 8 years old when I took my mother's cigarettes from her bedroom while she slept, and proudly announced to her the next morning that I had thrown them out. She had become furious, tho I had done it out of a militant concern for her well-being. During my years of primeval arrival on this planet, mom had almost lost her life to breast cancer. I can't remember understanding much as it happened, nor do I recall fully understanding the implications of death until my grandmother died and I watched my dad fight back tears as he read aloud her eulogy, recalling a story I can pick through scattered memories stored in grey matter to resurrect only one fact about it: they were on a boat, pulling up to shore. My grandfather--the cheeky Briton-optimist he is--made some silly joke, and my grandmother pitched in. The rest is somewhere else in space.

However--regarding death-- I feel that even then we never understand the full implications of death in witnessing another's death, but only through dying ourselves. Which is fine. None of us need to understand these implications until the time comes (and even then, it may just drip away once you've reached the Light. Which is fine).

Returning to the cigarettes: I had absorbed the common knowledge they were awful for you. 'Death-sticks' indeed, just like that scene in Attack of the Clones. Tho I understood nothing of the chemistry, a box or a video or an authority explaining their potential 'results' or 'consequences' was enough for me to righteously desire to save my mother from her own acquired vice.

14 years later, I skulk through the streets of Victoria with Chris, high on ******* and chain-smoking Export-A Gold on the subconscious condition that the world will probably end soon enough for none of this to matter. Tho as I said: For those who study history, they will often notice that when 'then' was 'now,' it was often and always the end of history.

History is comprised of an endless succession of losers who sincerely believe they've figured it out. The only redeemable characters in this Human Odyssey are those who have realized nothing in particular. The people who think, believe, and conceptualize as an infinite process; something without a result. Something with abstract 'goals' that only fit for awhile, not forever.

I'm nobody special. Tho, at the same time, I am; and at the same time and in terms of my relationship to this greater Human Odyssey, whether I will matter in this giant plot is in part up to me (should I write a book? 10 books? Relentlessly pursue the arts, whether that be rapping, writing, music?) and in part up to sheer probability (if I do write a book, will many notice? Or will it be swept under the Great Rug of the Present-Into-Past and be forgotten to thought?), and regardless of all this: the rocks will forget. The trees will forget. Both space and dark matter will have already forgotten what I am doing and what I may one day do.

But life can't be approached on a basis of personal impact; honestly, who wants to pursue the writing of 10 books or the creation of albums in the same way the capitalist approaches economy, for sheer attention and accumulation? Those desperado's, those who chase-the-game-of-success, they have already lost. They lost as soon as they tried to win. There is nothing to win, no award great enough to keep, no person you love or have loved who you will one day depart with for the very last time. But to depart with a personality may be tragic, it is only a true void in concept; when one removes the individual (both themselves and the one they love) from the eternal context of the universe--the ebb and flow of tides to the movement of the moon, the soft breeze supplemented by a fan placed next to an open window, how your hand--when clapped to the surface of a wooden table--is one with the matter in that table regardless of how transiently you perceive such a touch as an interaction. In essence, it's all still here; it always was, and never won't be.

tho maybe I'm wrong, whispers Humility.


                                             *"I don't know."
Sabrina DLT Apr 2013
We are mad as birds, in love in a dark home.
I wished I could be you.
In the drunken daze of submission with aggression,
in the Nicaraguan touch that has turned blue.
Touched by the cold trained tongue that you have become.

Both of us not right in the head.
Both of us not quite ready for bed.

You sit high on your thrown these days.
I weep for apologies at your feet and
I wish for months for your gilded heart
To take some time and remember me.
I remember in the beginning you were not so mean.

Both of us have made our bed
Both of us will die in it.
Timothy H Mar 2016
early on the dock
the shipping dock

peaks peaking out atop
flatirons and boulders
still holding snowpack

some captains awake in their cabins
others guide their crafts to port
arrivals from madison, aurora, santa fe
hulls of soybeans, corrugate, and lotion

on the dock
reading efficiency and transit reports

quick greetings to the captains
then talk of black coffee
of nicaraguan beaches
of all that is easily accessed
by the regulated echoes
written on each soul

while small sparrows investigate
mullein and hawthorn
in tall yellowing grasses
and towering windswept clouds
move silently
across a dark exploding
dawn’s expanse
revealing the intentions
for the day
and all
start a new rotation together
Lawrence Hall Aug 2018
-headline

          And how can man die better
          Than facing fearful odds,
          For the ashes of his fathers,
          And the temples of his gods

                         -Macauley, Lays of Ancient Rome

An argument over a parking space –
Lest all the pink Chinese flip-flops are gone
Triple-wide thongs in naughty, frothy lace
And a rhinestone case for a new MePhone

Cartoon shirts from the Vietnamese, sippy cups
Nicaraguan underwear and funny hats
Squeaky plastic toys for the little pups
And genuine autographed tee-ball bats -

There are causes for which a man might die
But “Ten Percent Off!” is no battle cry
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Big Virge Nov 2020
Like Reggie DONE SAY...
It's Time For Some ACTION... !!!

The Use of... “ Wordplay “..
To Stand AGAINST Factions...

Political And Criminal...
By Use of Verse That's CRITICAL...
of Actions MORE Despicable...

Than Visuals In...
... " Unthinkable "... !!!!

TORTUROUS Methods...
By Those NOT As CLEVER...
As Those With VENDETTAS...
That Leave BOMBS In Letters... !!!!!!

Actions That SADDEN... !!!
When Infractions Happen...
It's Time For MORE Actions...  

That DO NOT FEED Sadness... !!!!!
Like Heads Being... “Captured”...
By... Radical Captors...

But In Truth Who Are They... !?!
Who The... Media Name... ?

DON'T Let Them Confuse... !!!
Take Time USE Your Brain... !!!

STUDY Their CLAIMS...
Like They INTERROGATE... !!!

... DON'T FORGET WATERGATE... !!!
And Contras Engaged By The US of A... !!!

Nicaraguan PAIN Was Americas' GAIN...
From Carter to Reagan Their Actions REMAIN...
Like Arms In Iran And C.I.A... Aims...

Their Actions Have Claimed...
MORE Murders Than SHANE...
Because Just Like Cowboys...
They Choose To Employ... !!!

BRUTALITY As....
Their FAVOURITE Envoy... !?!

Which Has PROVEN To BE...
How They Employ Police.... !!!
Whose Actions INDEED...
Lead To YES BRUTAL Scenes... !!!

That MANY BELIEVE...
Are Warranted PLEASE... !!!!!

Their Warrants Are WORTHLESS...
As Is Their Main Purpose...

To “ Protect and Serve “...
It Seems They PREFER...

To Act Like INSURGENTS....
Protectors Who HURT US...
And Make People NERVOUS... !!!!!

Their Rebel Should... “ Sekkle’ “...
And PUT DOWN That Metal.... !!!

INSTEAD Use Their MENTAL... !!!
When Their Job Gets STRESSFUL... !!!

And ACT MORE Like Generals...
Who Have The Credentials...
To Serve And Be Helpful
Instead of... Judgemental....

YES Actions Are NEEDED... !!!!
To KEEP People Breathing...
Instead of Just BLEEDING...

'Til Their Life Has....
.... NO MEANING.... !!!!!

This Verse Is An ACTION...
DEMANDING EXTRACTION...
of Acts By... ASSASSINS...

Who HOLD ON To Badges...
That CLEAR Their Infractions...
When Court Cases Happen...

It's Time For The People...
To Now... MOBILISE...
And HINDER The EVIL...

That... "Hides Behind Doors"...
of... Leaders and Boards...

of Those Who Outsource...
Young People To WARS...

Where TERROR's ENFORCED...

By Those Who They CLAIM...
Are Sent To... PLACATE...

And Put Peace In Place...
With GUNS On Their Waist... ?!?

Well I'd Rather Factor...
Wise Verse And Good Grammar...

And Use Them Like KLAXONS.....

For... POSITIVE...

...... " ACTION "...... !!!!!!
LISTEN HERE :
https://soundcloud.com/user-16569179/action/s-wCBVw
God's Oracle Oct 2019
Once upon a Time lived A Man who had Mystical Ancient Soul. Due to his Eternal Love towards his beloved Creations...Celestial & Terrenal he choose to in-body himself into one of his own terrestrial vessels. A young Woman of Nicaraguan decent was to give Life to this "Miracle Child." Came the day where she meet a Young Man with a clever tongue smart and elegant but a bit prideful and arrogant. He was a young Noble with lots of musical talent could play guitar and sing he crafted a love serenade to my mother and she fell in love with the young man. Unfortunately as destiny entails she feel in love with this Man and they United their temples (bodies) to create a new mortal being. The young ****** got pregnant with a male child and he was pre-mature with lots of problems and doomed to not live long due to the conditions of his birth. Little that the Family knew this Child a Creation Of God and all his beloved power was put inside the child's vessel to carry mankind to a New Spiritual Enlightened Age. A human with a heart of a God a conciousness of a Arch-Angel and a fighting spirit was formed...little that he knew he possessed qualities from above heavenly bodies but thru human error and harsh treatment of the upside Generation of it's time A down accursed world we live in gave into temptations of the flesh to gratify what "felt" good to the body but gave anguish to the spirit. Later on insurmountable feelings arised from Nature & Nurture however having a keen instinct to differentiate between good and evil.  Branded though and chastised to live a life of sin for the sake of his creations little of him knowing he is was and will forever be Creator.

Furthermore; his job became exhausting and the young man began taking the "Holy Command" seriously by the Age of 30. There sitting alone in an empty living room he was filled with the Holy Spirit and began writing the words you now read in this narrative piece of literature. I have demanded to be Spiritually Healed but healing God said comes with time...endurance...peace of mind...love...justice...truth...and perseverance. Righteous justice shall be given to each Nation for their grave à against the Holy One Of Israel. In time the World will understand why God choose to do what he did for his people only in time will everything be amended only in time will there be build a New Earth and a New Heaven only time will tell what humanity destined fate fill fall upon...Choose your Master and I will know their sheep by the fruits they produce. The Oracle has spoken and his wisdom comes from above it's time to do the right thing...and I have chosen to follow Jesus till the end of my time.

Nevertheless, am under investigation by people who claim to care and love me and want to help me but all they do is Spiritually jab knives of cursing and hatred deeper into my vessel yet my love for them remains pure, un-adultered, soft and abundant. Peace is all I ask of you people ...but with peace there must come change let's resolve this World's greatest curses...such as poverty, war, iniquity, hatred, paganism, and disobedience. Turn to God he will turn to you. Lean on Christ he will lean on you. Remember, time is running out let's do this to the accordance of the Holy One let's remember him...in all his precepts and glory...for he may be wounded but believe me he can heal all redeem all and purify all....in Jesus name!!!
Michael Marchese Feb 2018
This system slaughters people
Like they’re cattle in a factory
They grind you through the Tinder
Then erase your peoples’ history
Then sell their dreams to power their con FEdisunny city
They’ll pretend to be your friend
Like Kim Jung’s parallel Rheeality
Retreat delete the war elite
McKinley’s Ford BerlinWallStreet
With fleets of Filipino meat
That Nicaraguan ****** sheep
Still splittin’ skulls of shoeless feat
Of peace so simple, can’t you see?
Community, I speak for thee
The FIRST amendment's legacy
It's easy to say: “I hate gynecology so much!” But when it comes to World War II it ain't so cut-and-dry is it? Everyone respects what Wilson did for the banks in 1913 but who now can reflect with insufficient honesty the pull of Col. House on all matters Wilsonian? You're taking your sons to Honduras. People ask why. You reply: “They have to learn about Honduran *****-houses sooner or later.” But it's not true! Boys can learn about Honduran *****-houses by visiting Nicaraguan *****-houses that specialize in Honduran ******, and the same holds true for Mexican ****** living in Cuba. How many *****-house combinations are there to make things right? What can you do? A *****'s time is precious as is a plumber's. One tends to straddle both professions. Find a plumber who hasn't ****** is no easier than finding a ***** who hasn't plumbed. Jack London answered The Call of the Wild, in the woods against a pine tree. A happy ***** is a grateful *****.
I tip figurative hat to the late Cathy Robertson, longtime (lifetime) Thomas Paine Unitarian Church member, who unwittingly and quite casually made mention of contra dancing, which inopportunely, inextricably, and inaccurately linkedin to The Contras who were various United States backed and funded right-wing rebel groups that were active from 1979 to 1990 in opposition to the Marxist Sandinista Junta of National Reconstruction Government in Nicaragua, which had come to power in 1979 following the Nicaraguan Revolution.

After a hiatus of scores of years,
I in tandem with the missus
returned to a venue
March 14th, 2024
which Thursday night dances
currently held at Commodore
John Barry Arts and Cultural Center
6815 Emlen Street,
Philadelphia, PA 19119
that not only served
as palliative per bashfulness,
but even remedied
yours truly resigned himself living social
as a Norwegian bachelor farmer.

Life as a high school wallflower served me
analogous as The Idler Wheel Is Wiser
Than the Driver  of the *****
and Whipping Cords
Will Serve You
More Than Ropes Will Ever Do
without any budding female friendships
until lo… a gent tulle mandate
from my late mother uprooted me
from mein kampf

familiar bedrock level road terrain
(analogous regarding how
a duck takes to water -
meaning I identified said aerobic
rather cardiovascular workout
as an inherent quick study),
which venue offered a groundswell
of interpersonal opportunities
(preferably with persons of female gender)
to blossom forth

into golden sterling resplendent rod
of natural equipoise
(this an unbiased opinion) and balance
with freestyle élan begetting
improvisational swinging motions
unchained from the moors of formality
and lit figurative Saint Elmo’s
Sesame Street fiery dance
allowing, enabling and providing
this shy awkward self

during his young (emerging) adulthood
to cast away four ever
thy self embroidered handsome
straight as an arrow
naturally high as a kite young guy
buzzing like a yellow jacket,
thus liberating spontaneity
that je ne sais quoi joie vivre
clamoring headlong toward venus
from healthy pistol packing

overflowing bin laden
well nigh testosterone
erupting male member
toward opposite gender,
whereby bravado donned as key
to *** field of whet dreams
fostering initial albeit late blooming
roll in the hay hormonally
rooted rutting squeal.

Back in the day,
(when genders binary)
with nary a care
in the webbed wide world
I ate, breathed and lived
for contra dancing
experiencing social anxiety
and profusely sweaty palms
every mile of the way
(twenty door to door dash)

from (at that time)
324 Level Road
to then designated site
at Summit Presbyterian Church
6757 Greene Street,
Philadelphia, PA 19119,
where love's labor lost
found yours truly
engaged in pitched losing battles
introducing yours truly

(even after expiating my carnal sins)
to romantic liabilities incurred
while displaying comedy of errors,
when risking a overtures to ask
an attractive woman to be my partner
not only for one dance,
but also to explore the parameters
of fun two people can experience
while wearing clothes.

— The End —