One more day is fading away
as we ride this bus to the city
The storm is coming nearer now
And your bliss will turn to tears

We've almost reached our destination
Countless parachutes in the sky
These mosquitoes are swarming
before your eyes,
Just a moment's time til someone dies

The skies are getting darker now
Not a shard of light in this room
You'd better make good choices now
Or meet your impending doom

I hear your steps from the other room
And I'm already locked and loaded
You'd better get on running now
Or I'll destroy what's left of you

I walk upstairs to higher ground
and hear your cowardly whines,
I look in the eyes of my colleague
And said don't move, this **** is mine

I've made my way to my snipers' nest
and my eyes are set to ****
I've got my sights on your head right now
To pull the trigger, you know I will

Not a poem but in protest of flagging truth about racism in Traverse City, Michigan


Traverse City, Michigan: Racism is still alive and well in our area.

We weren't always welcoming
Cross burning's (City of Traverse City, MI)
I'm born and raised in Traverse City, Michigan and still living in the same neighborhood where I grew up. I can remember when blacks were not welcome in most parts of town and the one or two around were military visitors.

We had two known cross burning incidents. One back in the late 80's or early 90's the other was around 1924, ******* groups like Ku Klux **** was behind both cross burning incidents. I found old articles on the earlier one but someone is trying hard to white wash history of Traverse City by hiding evidence of the most resent one. Ones like me who were there remember those dark days like it was yesterday. It don't bode well for tourism or the Cherry Festival if there's a record of racism in our city.

Copy pasting one two different retelling of story reported by our sometimes biased Record Eagle articles regarding the first and and will continue to dig for the other one.

January 31, 2009
KKK was active in early '20s

The 1924 bombings and cross burnings in downtown Traverse City were not the first **** activity in northern Michigan.

The Record-Eagle reported flaming crosses in the Mancelona area on Aug. 1, 1923, a full year before. Six weeks later, Traverse City commissioners refused the **** permission to hold a Sept. 17 open-air meeting at the corner of Front and Cass.

About 300 people showed up anyway and marched to a vacant lot west of Front and Union after the unidentified property owner gave permission, carefully noting that it "did not commit him to any relationship with the organization," the newspaper said.

The Record-Eagle also passed on information from an identified **** source in its Sept. 17 report:

Two, maybe three organizers had worked for weeks in Traverse City. About 150 Traverse City men from "among the leading citizens" had joined. An open-air ritual with the traditional fiery cross burning on a hillside would be held "sometime but not yet" in or near Traverse City, and it would be "merely a part of the **** ceremonies and have no special significance."

People who expected to see hooded men in white robes performing rites at the Sept. 17 rally were bound to be disappointed, the paper said. A new state law banned wearing masks in public. It also would be difficult to tell how many in the audience were KKK members because "every person who has signed the Ku Klux card has pledged to keep his membership an absolute secret."


Traverse City, Michigan wasn't always welcoming to people of color.


Traverse City Record-Eagle

February 1, 2009
Ku Klux **** terrorizes TC in 1924

KKK cross burnings, explosions rock city

By LORAINE ANDERSON
Black History Month has special significance, since it begins fewer than two weeks after the nation's historic inauguration of its first black president, Barack Obama.

But there are parts of that history that Traverse City, like the rest of the nation, would rather forget. The city never had a large black population, but it did not escape a visit from the Ku Klux **** during a frightening night of downtown explosions and cross burnings on Aug. 9, 1924.

Traverse City has never seen anything like that night of terror. Buildings shook. Store windows cracked and shattered. Houses as far away as 16th Street quaked, the Record-Eagle reported.

And though outside agitators were blamed, some local people may have been involved.

It started about 8 p.m. after three explosions went off across the river from the Lyric Theatre, where the State is today.

The crowd at the Lyric all but stampeded toward the door as women and children screamed. Panicked shoppers spilled out of downtown stores. City police phones jangled with alarm.

A large cross burned on the north side of the Boardman River near Cass Street. About 50 smaller burning crosses appeared almost simultaneously at the centers of intersections across the city. Each was crudely nailed together and swathed in oil-soaked rags. Sparks flew when several cars struck them. A city fire truck raced through town to douse flames.

Then, a "touring car" with four men, robed and hooded, though not masked, slowly trolled down Front Street carrying a sign surrounded by red flares blazing three letters: KKK.

Copies of the Ku Klux **** newspaper, "The Fiery Cross," later were found downtown, and police determined that at least two cars were involved in planting and lighting the crosses.

**** leaders called the explosions and flaming crosses a recruiting gimmick, but it was more than that. The 1920s was a reactionary time in the United States. The **** had risen again, starting in 1915, widening its anti-black focus to Jews, Catholics and immigrants, particularly those from southeastern Europe. Its membership was strongest in Illinois, Indiana and Ohio.

The ****'s most powerful year was 1924, when it reached an all-time high of 5 million members nationwide and virtually controlled the government of Indiana. Its most popular slogan was "100 percent pure American."

The **** had a solid base of support in Michigan. The **** fielded two candidates in the Republican gubernatorial primary in 1924 and a ****-backed candidate was elected mayor of Flint. A write-in **** candidate even made a strong showing in a Detroit mayoral race.

In June 1924, 1,000 men joined the KKK in an Oakland County cross burning attended by about 8,000 people. Traverse City's demonstration took place just two months later. But who was really behind it?

"There is some doubt among the authorities as to whether the offenses were actually committed by local people or men from outside. They believe that local people were associated in the affair," the Record-Eagle reported.

An unidentified spokesman for the local **** denied responsibility, speculating that it was the work of **** enemies or rogue Klansmen. He told the Record-Eagle that the **** repudiated terror tactics and burning of "unwatched crosses."

Two weeks after the bombing, city police obtained felony and misdemeanor arrest warrants accusing Ku Klux **** organizer Basil Carleton of Richmond, Ind., of setting off explosives. Indiana police arrested him on Aug. 29.

Witnesses testified in two trials in December and January that Carleton had purchased 25 pounds of dynamite, fuses and three caps from Hannah & Lay Mercantile Co. about two hours before the explosions. A Park Place Hotel clerk said he saw Carleton hurrying away from the direction of the explosions about 10 minutes later. Two **** members testified that Carleton was not at the scene.

Yet he was never convicted. Juries acquitted him in both cases because the prosecutor could not prove to their satisfaction that he was at the scene of the explosion or that he personally set off the dynamite.

The bomber escaped justice. But the good news was that in Traverse City, no night of terror like that happened again.

It was this event that sparked the cross burning in Traverse City. We had only one black family in our city, when Betty Ponder and her family left Traverse City for the first time due to no one wanting to rent to them, population of blacks in our predominately white city drop to zero.


******* Movement Targets Northern Michigan

by Robert Downes

National Alliance advocates the creation of "two Americas"

Traverse City, Mich., noted primarily for its beaches, tourists and cherry pie values, appears to be erupting as a national battleground of opinion over the ******* movement, with forces on both sides of the issue coming out of the woodwork to vent their outrage over racial issues.
On Thursday, June 5, residents along stretches of Washington and Front streets in town came home to find a slick package of information from the National Alliance hanging from their doorknobs. An outgrowth of the American **** Party, the National Alliance is a ******* group which advocates the creation of "two Americas," one of which would be "White Space only with no Jews or blacks." The Alliance, advocates genocidal practices if need be to achieve its goals, and plans to distribute 1,000 information packets in Northern Michigan.

Protest organized to oppose July "NordicFest"
The incident arose only a day after more than 150 people from throughout Northern Michigan gathered at a "Hate-Free TC" meeting to oppose the NordicFest, a skinhead rock festival sponsored by the Ku Klux ****, to be held at a secret location 20 miles south of town, July 3-6.
The NordicFest is being advertised on the Internet and will feature at least six skinhead bands featured on Stormfront Records and Resistance Records -- both of which are purveyors of neo-**** hate music. It will also reportedly feature speakers from the Ku Klux **** and Aryan Nations.

Thus far, the NordicFest's location has been a closely-kept secret by David Neumann of Bloodbond Enterprizes, the concert organizer and a former director of the Michigan Knights of the Ku Klux ****. Neumann has told local media that 300 tickets have been sold for the concert -- about half the number he expects to sell. Reportedly, concertgoers will be provided with maps to the secret location at a checkpoint.

Bands expected to play at the NordicFest include Intimidation One, Aggravated Assault, Blue Eyed Devils, Max Resist and the Hooligans, and No Alibi.

Local churches offering seminars on the ******* movement and the importance of diversity
GATHERING STORM

Journalists have made inquiries on the NordicFest from as far away as London, New York and Colorado as a result of the Northern Express story circulating on the Internet. A segment for National Public Radio is expected to take the issue nationwide, possibly focusing the world's attention on Traverse City on the eve of the National Cherry Festival -- an event which draws more than half a million visitors, many of them from ethnic minorities.
"We're creating a rainbow ribbon that we hope everyone will wear in rejection of skinheads and the ****," said Rabbi Stacey Fine of Hate-Free TC. "We hope to have hundreds of ribbons during the time the **** is here, available from downtown merchants."

Fine says the group also hopes to march in the National Cherry Royale Parade with a three-by-eight-foot banner covered with thousands of signatures in a show of support for racial and cultural diversity. Thus far, Cherry Festival officials say they have received no applications from Hate-Free T.C., but will consider the request if approached.

Dottie Kye of Hate-Free TC says the group doesn't plan to try stopping the NordicFest despite their opposition ot the concert. "We're ignoring it," Kye says. "We celebrate anyone's right to organize and free speech. But our thing is unity and celebrating diversity." In addition to several church seminars on the ******* movement and the importance of diversity, Hate-Free TC is organizing a three-day "Unity Festival" which will feature dozens of musicians, artists, poets, actors and peace activists at the Traverse City Opera House, July 3-6.

Concert organizers Tim Hall and Tom Emmott say that more than 40 musical acts will send a pro-diversity message to area teens, with performers including Willie Kye, Alright Already, John Greilick, Samantha Moore, the Motor Town Juke Boys, Bentley Filmore, the Sisters Grimm, and Lack of Afro, among many others. A concert with Fishbone is planned for later in the month.

"Even if the NordicFest doesn't happen, something positive is going to come of it because it gets people thinking about the prevention of violence"
THE TEEN CONNECTION

The Unity Fest counter-concert is seen as a vital tool in fighting the influence of the ******* movement on teens in the area. After the initial story broke, the buzz in local high schools was that the NordicFest would be offering free beer to minors. Although that notion is clearly erroneous, a small number of teens in the area still cling to the idea and have also been attracted by the rebellious nature of the skinhead rock scene.
Tim Hall believes that his Unity Fest concert will help turn that tide. The three-day concert will be located in the heart of Traverse City in the old City Opera House, with easy access for the hundreds of teens who hang out downtown, often with little to do. "Our message is going to be one that values racial and cultural diversity," Hall said. "And we've had a great response so far. We had to put a lid on the performers when we reached 40 acts, because everyone wants to play at this event."

The Unity Fest will also coincide with the Annual Reggie Box Memorial Blues Blast, which was created five years ago to bring the heritage of black music to Northern Michigan for the overwhelmingly white Cherry Festival. This year's Blues Blast will feature John Mayall, Marcia Ball and the Bihlman Bros. in a free concert downtown on July 6. The concert will also feature a strong message promoting diversity.

The law enforcement view Traverse City Police Chief Ralph Soffredine says members of the law enforcement community, including the State Police and sheriffs from Grand Traverse and Wexford counties, are taking a wait-and-see approach as to whether the NordicFest will even be held.

"People ask what we would do if the skinheads wanted to march, and it's our position that they have the same rights under the First Amendment as anyone as long as they're obeying the law," Soffredine said. "It's a neutral situation for us. We just want to maintain the peace."

He added that skinheads coming to Traverse City would be treated "no different than if longhairs come into town, or square dancers. We'd certainly observe them and respond if there's trouble."

The chief noted that a similar event occurred in the Buckley area several years ago when several motorcycle gangs gathered for a rally. While the event was monitored by local police agencies, few people in the area knew that it occurred.

"Even if the NordicFest doesn't happen, something positive is going to come of it because it gets people thinking about the prevention of violence, which has become a serious problem in our community and our schools," he concluded. "The unfortunate thing is that it sometimes takes a ******* or a racial issue for people to get active."

"Sheriff Barr implies that people who have the courage to confront them will be put in jail."
ANGER FROM ACTIVISTS

Not everyone is happy with the neutral attitude of law enforcement. Judy Lowenzahn of Traverse City thinks that local police agencies should get tough on the **** concert, which has no legally-required bond or liquor license.
"These hateful groups are using skinhead music to recruit soldiers for their facist movement," Lowenzahn said. "If they are allowed to hold this event, in violation of local, state and federal laws and in violation of common decency, we will be capitve audience to their deranged homophobic, anti-semitic, racist, sexist ideology. Those who protest this message, along with those who are their scapegoats will be targets for hate crimes."

Lowenzahn upbraided Grand Traverse County Sheriff Barr after he made comments in a local paper that "I'd just as soon personally let them have their little event and be on their way." Barr added that if there was a confrontation between the skinheads and protestors, "there's going to be someone in jail."

"Does Sheriff Barr suggest that people of color and others who don't fit the aryan model hide inside their homes for the holiday weekend?" Lowenzhan responded. "Rather than offer a plan to protect the community from the violence that grows whenever white supremecists do outreach, Sheriff Barr implies that people who have the courage to confront them will be put in jail."

Northern Michigan targeted because of the predominantly white population
KLUELESS

Up to now, the vast majority of Northern Michigan residents have been klueless on the **** and the ******* movement. Many, for instance, had no idea that there even was a Ku Klux **** operating in the region until Neumann revealed that there are about 60 members operating mostly as "a fraternal organization" between ******* and the Mackinac Bridge.
Similarly, the existence and agenda of the National Alliance is all-ne

I hitch a ride on the Battle Bus,
Everyone else jumped out, I must.
I deploy my parachute below,
I glide my way to Moisty Meadow.
As I land I slurp some shields,
Extra health and a pistol I wield.
I loot the houses and **** the squads,
Which would not be possible without my mods.
I run from the storm throughout the game,
I post on the 'Gram that I won for fame.
Everyone that saw my Victory Royale,
Commented below and said "Dang, Wow!"
Now that I won, I'm the coolest around,
I walk down the halls with a figurative crown.

(Yes, better than Harry Potter, get your pitchforks ready)

My first encounter with THG was approximately four years ago, when I had barely turned fourteen, did not consider myself bilingual and was romantically frustrated. Naturally, I made several mistakes at the time. First off, I read the series in translation, since I'm not a native English speaker, and missed out a huge chunk of the significance of the story. Then, as I said, I was romantically frustrated and thus paid such a monstrous amount of attention to the romance aspect of the story that I want to bitchslap myself. Finally, at fourteen, I was still ignorant and uneducated about so many things that I read the series, got hyped for perhaps six months or so, then forgot all about it, save for the occasional rewatch of the movies. In retrospect, this is probably one of the biggest mistakes I've ever made. Now, at the ripe old age of eighteen, a significantly better-read person, waaay more woke, as well as socially aware, I decided to finally read the series in the original and am finally able to put my thoughts together in a coherent, educated review of the series.

The Hunger Games has continuously been compared to a number of other books and series, occasionally put down as inferior and forgettable. In those past few years I managed to read a great part of the newly established young adult dystopian genre and am able to argue that A. The Hunger Games is undoubtedly universal and unrestricted to young adult audiences and that B. it is, without the slightest shade of uncertainty, the best series written in our generation.

While many people draw parallels between The Hunger Games and, say, Battle Royale, the similarities end with the first book, which, while spectacular in execution, seems unoriginal in its very idea. As the series unrolls, however, it is hardly possible to compare it to anything, save for, perhaps, Orwell's 1984. The social depiction and the severe criticism laid down in the very basis of the story are so brutally honest that it fails my understanding how the series was ever allowed to become this popular. What starts out as a story about a nightmarish post-Apocalyptic world works up to be revealed as a cleverly veiled portrayal of our own morally degraded and dilapidated society (if you're looking for proof, seek no further: as the series was turned into several blockbuster movies, public interest was primarily concerned with the supposed love triangle rather than the bitter truths concealed in the narrative). Class segregation, media manipulation, dysfunctional governments are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the realities that The Hunger Games so adroitly mimics. If I were to dissect, chapter by chapter, all three books, I'd probably find myself stiff with terror at the accuracy of the societal portrait drawn by Collins. I strongly advise those of you who haven't read the series between the lines to immediately do so because no matter how many attempts I make to point it out to you, you simply have to read the series with an alert sense of social justice to realize that it doesn't simply ring true, it shakes the ground with rock concert amplifiers true.

Other than the plot that unfolds into a civil war by the third book (the series deals so amazingly with trauma survival and with depicting the atrocities of war that I am still haunted by certain images), the characters of the story are what makes it all the more realistic. Though Hollywood has done a stunningly good job in masking the shocking reality of the fact that these are children - aged twelve through eighteen, innocent casualties paying for the adults' mistakes; children forced into prostitution, fake relationships, children forced into maneuvering through a world of corruption, media brain-washing and propaganda.

Consider Katniss. She is a person of color (olive-skinned, black-haired, gray -eyed, fight me if you will but she is not a white person), disabled (partially deaf, PTSD-sufferer, malnourished), falling somewhere in the gray spectrum both sexually and romantically. As far as representation goes, Katniss is one of the most diverse characters in literature, period. Consider Peeta, his prosthetic leg (which, together with Katniss's deafness, has been conveniently left out of the movies) and his mental trauma in the third book. Consider Annie's mental disability. Consider Beetie in his wheelchair. Consider all the people of color, as well as the fact that people in the Capitol seem to have neglected all sorts of gender stereotypes (e.g. all the men are wearing makeup). There is absolutely no doubt that the series is the most diverse piece of literature out there. Consider this: the typical roles are reversed and Peeta is the damsel in distress whereas Katniss does all the saving.

Furthermore, the alarming lack of religion (in a brutal society reliant on the slaughter of children God serves no purpose), as well as several other factors, such as the undisputed position of authority of President Snow, is suspiciously reminiscent of the already familiar model of a totalitarian society.

The Hunger Games, in other words, is revolutionary in its message, in its diversity, in the execution of its idea, in its universality. I mentioned Harry Potter in the subtitle. While this other series has played a vital role in the shaping of my character, it has gradually receded to the back line for several reasons, one of which is how problematic it actually is. This, though, is a problem for another day. (The Hunger Games is virtually unproblematic and while it may be argued that the LGBTQ society is underrepresented, a momentary counterargument is that *** has a role too insignificant in the general picture of the story to be necessary to be delved into this supposed problem). Where I was going with this is that, at the end of the day, Harry Potter, while largely enjoyed by adults and children alike, is a children's book and contains a moral code for children, it was devised to serve as a moral compass for the generation it was to bring up. The Hunger Games, on the other hand, requires you to already have a moral compass installed in order to understand its message. It is, as I already said, a straightforward critique of a dysfunctional society, aimed at those aware and intelligent enough to pick on it.

As for its aesthetic qualities, the series is written, ominously, in the present tense, tersely and concisely, yet at the same time in a particularly detailed and eloquent manner. It lacks the pretentious prose to which I am usually drawn, yet captivates precisely with the simplicity of its wording, which I believe is a deliberate choice, made so as to anchor the story to the mundane reality of the actual world that surrounds us.

That being said, I would like to sum up that The Hunger Games is, to my mind, perhaps the most successful portrayal of the world nowadays, a book series that should be read with an open mind and a keen sense of social awareness.

there once was this guy named oedipus
of whom it was prophesied
that his mother he'd marry, his father he'd ****
at a place where three roads were tied.

his mother and father discovered their fate
and tried to dispose of their son
but he ended up in corinthian lands
and their efforts were all undone.

then a drunk guy ruined his happy facade
and to an oracle oedipus went
who repeated to him the dank prophesy;
he fled corinth, not taking a cent.

while on his sojourn away from his home
he encountered a party royale
which rudely pushed him off of the road,
and angered he slaughtered them all.

then from that blood soaked three-way path
he nonchalantly flew
not knowing that his father was
the man that he just slew.

he continued his journey until he reached thebes
where a sphinx held the city hostage
so oedipus solved the bird-cat's lame rhyme
and released thebes from its *******.

as a reward, the people of thebes
gave oedipus their widowed queen,
unknowingly joining mother and son
in a marriage that was unclean.

after they ruled for twenty good years,
during which four children came,
a plague was induced by the sheltering of
the man by whom was slain

in searching him out, oedipus found
that the murderer was really he,
so long ago. the man he had killed
at the place where were joined roads of three.

but by finding this out, he also discovered
that his wife and his mother were one.
he gouged out his eyes after her suicide;
in her own bedroom she was hung.

as it turned out, oeddy exiled himself
but the seeds of his misery were sewn.
so he went to colonus and wandered around
and this is the end.

The doors slid aside at Métro 1,
A interminable tube driven by an inhumane robot,
To take hundreds to their lovers, their homes, their offices.

A girl fantasying about her lover, A man scathe in love,
An old woman enamored with The Price of Salt,
facing the young man with a Kindle spirit.

A foreign girl with passion for the city,
slides through the crowd,
And an indigenous man wished he was somewhere else than here.
At the next stop a man bids a farewell kiss to her girlfriend.
And in comes a middle-aged couple,
Enters in with a hatred for one another.

I stood for my final stop,
the doors slid aside,
and I got down.

A couple of goodbye words to these swaths of strangers,
who color my dark life with smiles and tears.
"Farewell strangers, I shall meet you another day at another time."

Coming from the shadows a six armed samurai,
Followed closely by glowstick wielding neon ninji,
Grips of *** swigging pirates swing from the rafters,
Swallowed alive by blacklight monsters,
Gangs of ***** smoking gurus,
Armed to the teeth with translucent didgeridoos,
Monks parade in swirling vestments,
Whilst the shaman trip in lotus testament,
Gods transfixed by blood tear beauty,,
As humanity’s heroes slay bejeweled dragons,
The king with two faces is beheaded,
By his charlatans, harlequins, fools and jesters,
Chaotic, prophetic killers run amok,
The order of lunatics chant as the time is struck,
A battle royale then follows,
As robots and aliens envelope,
Brilliant beams and whirring mechanics,
Clash with steel, rock, bone and sticks,
Screams from the heads of the thieves,
As their brains are devoured by zombies

Harvey Wallbangers In Times Square was
her teaser, a Mai-Tai bang in Taipan, once
or twice her kisses so, sweet he trembled;
as she let him taste her Irish Coffee making
his Rob Roy so, **** hot and bobbing.

It sprang forth with a twang for her Firewater;
engorging the Latted Espresso between her thighs
as Egg Cream threathened to explode,
dipping into her lustful Brandy Alexander;
spillage between her Champagne Cocktail,
cheek to cheek.

She asked me if I wanted a sip of her Coffee Royale;
I said I wouldn't mind being coated in her behind's
libation, drowning ourselves in lust of a throbbing
nightcap; while I slap each cheek in rhythm in a state
of osmosis.

Drinking from her Schnapps; my mind sailed the
sevens seas of her lubricious ocean; riding her Schooner
as waves pushed me within her lagoon with each motion,
slinging Deep Shots; full of emotion, moaning baby! your
Snifter is so, **** wet; swilling your Dom Perignon
and me, just before morn, intoxicated in your elixir
of life; smiling a lopsided smile still tasting your
luscious liquor.

So, we staggered back to bed; laid bulbed
head in inviting peninsula on the shore of
Demon *** Isle and some more I smiled,
absorbing in slurps her coveted Olive Martini,
lapping like a newborn kitten smitten with her
Mint Julep's robust lips; while Lime Rickey
dipped his straw in ebbing shores; sipping
as we eagerly explored, clawing my back.

I in gentlemanly fashion opened all her doors,
as she infiltrated me in every light; mouth
covered in Hot Buttered ***, tasting from
Highballs to every Gimlet of body with skilled
tongue of a bartending artist.

Tasting salt rimmed glasses with hungry tongue
lashes in places so, naughty I flicked out Mickey
Finn; nibbled her in bites of delight front to end,
such a naughty appetite we fed; breathing in heat
like Green Dragon's brew, going down south of
Manhattan's lower eastside; drinking up her **** hide.

She said baby! it's time to ride; Igniting each of her
rooms with Bullshot Cocktails in flaming explosions;
I couldn't get enough being drenched within libations
of her ***** ocean.

Drowning in waves of ardent spirits like a bolt of lightning
poured through us from head to toe we flowed in slow mo';
sweet bon apetits of ecstasy complete, swallowed nice and
neat; spent, bathed in Brandy Smash of a contented bash,
inebriated in slumbered splashes.

wasted in her folded sashes...

Des Cassandres incomprises ?


Elle maudissait encor le baiser refusé à celui qui aurait pu devenir son amant. Le bel et fier Apollon s’était vengé de son refus, en lui soufflant sur la bouche, afin que le don de divination, déjà donné, soit réduit à néant, et qu’elle ne fut jamais crue. Cruel sort qui la condamnait à connaître le futur, en restant incomprise aux yeux de toutes et de tous, parmi celles et ceux qu’elle chérissait, et auxquels elle voulait épargner le malheur. Aussi lorsque tu vis naître ton frère Pâris, tu informas ta mère des sombres présages que son devenir présentait pour la famille royale. Hélas, mal avisés, Priam et Hécube, après l’avoir éloigné finirent par lui donner une ambassade à Sparte. Ou il fut séduit et enleva Hélène la si belle. Puis vint ce jour funeste, quand tu vis, le port de Troie presque masqué par des milliers de voiles rouges, et autant de vaisseaux munis d’éperons. Tu ressentis, une peur panique, celle, de la mort, de toutes celles et ceux que tu aimais, et tu versas des larmes salées pour tous ces jeunes hommes qui allaient perdre la vie, dans des combats menés autours des remparts. Avant que les chevaux géants de bois, funestes, dont personne ne te crut pour le danger annoncé entrèrent dans la ville, alors que l’armée Achéenne faisait mine de se retirer. C’est ****, dans la nuit, qu’à la lueur des torches, les guerriers, sortirent des flancs des chevaux géants et jaillirent en hurlant, pour porter le malheur dans ta chère Troie. Glacée d’émotion et d’épouvante tu te réfugias auprès de l’autel sacre d’Athéna, Pour préserver ton corps gracieux des outrages de l’ennemi. Mais c’était sans compter sur Ajax le furieux, qui faisant fi de la protection sacrée que t’offrait le temple, te pris malgré tes cris et tes pleurs, déchira ta blanche tunique, te traina par les cheveux sur l’autel. Et violenta ton corps avec plus de brutalité que de désir. Tu aurais voulu mourir, mais Athéna, elle-même, insultée, comme Déesse, dans son propre temple, ne le voulut point. C’est le roi Agamemnon, qui te trouva déflorée, prostrée et en larmes, et te fit prisonnière, et te gardant en vie, pris la décision de te ramener à Mycènes. Tu le mis en garde contre la jalousie qu’allait éprouver sa femme, Clytemnestre Mais ce fut vain, et toi, déshonorée et prisonnière tu ne voulais plus vivre. Tu tendis ta gorge à cette jalouse implacable, peu après avoir débarqué Et son geste de mort fut ton soulagement, oh, toi devineresse, jamais crue.
Après Cassandre la Troyenne, il y eut d’autres fameuses Cassandre. Louise Michel, institutrice porta sa flamme aux Communards, Et faite prisonnière réclama une mort qu’on n’osa pas lui donner. Transformant sa peine de déportation en Nouvelle Calédonie, Ou elle refusa de faire chorus contre les canaques. Enfin libérée elle soutint ses sœurs et frères, les prolétaires, et brandit le drapeau noir des Libertaire, qui faisait si peur. Cette Femme admirable resta souvent incomprise, dans ses combats et sa soif d’un Monde plus humain. Cette solitude aussi doit être le sceau des Cassandre. De l’autre côté du Rhin, et même, en Pologne a Zamość, naquit une nouvelle Cassandre. Fière comme un aigle, pensive comme une colombe, elle avait pour prénom Rosa, mais pas de celles avec épines, Son nom était Luxemburg, et c’était vraiment un être de lumières. Une pensée étincelante, une volonté de duchesse Espagnole, et une lucidité aussi grande que les feux de ses passions. Rosa lutta, dès le début contre la guerre et la capitulation des esprits, devant ces monstres d’acier, de feu et de gaz moutarde. Qui allaient ravager l’Europe en fauchant des millions de vies. Mais dans cet empire si discipliné, elle fut emprisonnée, pour lui faire expier son opposition à cette guerre fratricide, et afin que les consciences restassent bien éteintes. Mais son courage était sans borne avec son amant Leo Jogiches, Et la force de conviction de Karl Liebknecht. Ayant passé la majeure partie de la guerre, emprisonnée, elle étudiait sans répit et faisait parvenir des articles, pour ses amis de la « ligue Spartacus ». Elle défendait la Liberté, comme le vrai diamant du socialisme à venir. Mais les États-majors militaires et politiques la haïssaient. Libérée par la chute du kaiser, elle reprit sa passion, de journaliste à la plume de feu à la «Rote Fahne.» Elle s’efforçait d’éclairer des masses trompées par des bergers par trop intéressés, timorés et menteurs. Elle rejetait aussi toute illusion de putsch et de violence armée. Hélas, elle ne fut pas écoutée par les irréfléchis à la parole haute, ni par les têtes remplies de vent et encor imprégnèes par les usages récents de tant de violences inoculées durant et par ces années de guerre et de tueries. Ces hâtifs et ces simplistes au verbe haut déclenchèrent l’émeute dans Berlin, qui allait devenir leur commun linceul. Elle décida cependant de ne pas se désolidariser des révoltés, D’ailleurs arrête-on sans digue un torrent furieux ? Rosa, refusa d’ajouter l’enjeu de sa survie et sa propre peur à la désorientation générale de ses camarades. Consciente de l’échec, Rosa écrivit son dernier article sur : « L’ordre règne à Berlin, L’ordre règne à Varsovie », « l’ordre règne à Paris », « l’ordre règne à Berlin ». Tous les demi-siècles, les gardiens de « l’ordre », lancent ainsi dans un des foyers de la lutte mondiale leurs bulletins de victoire Et ces « vainqueurs » qui exultent ne s’aperçoivent pas qu’un « ordre», qui a besoin d’être maintenu périodiquement par de sanglantes hécatombes, va inéluctablement à sa perte.» Puis Rosa, rentra chez elle, sans prendre de précaution ni se cacher vraiment. Nourrissait-elle quelconque illusion sur son ennemi, Gustav Noske? Lequel revendiqua, pour lui-même, le douteux honneur d’avoir tenu le rôle d’un « chien sanglant » Ou avait-elle, plutôt du mal à regarder l’horreur de la haine et les tréfonds de la barbarie ? Amenée par les soldats des corps francs elle fut interrogée et se tut. Puis, ce beau front pensif et cette tête bouillonnante d'avenirs reçut de violents coups de crosse, avant que les barbares ne lui tirent une balle dans la tête,
et ne la jettent inanimée dans le canal.
Une Cassandre de plus était victime de la froide cruauté,
et des peurs qu'inspiraient la création d'une société nouvelle.
Mais l'esprit des Cassandre survit dans les braises de la lucidité
Aujourd'hui, nous avons probablement des Cassandre parmi nous,
dans les braises de la vérité en marche, qu’il nous faut oser écouter en les aidant à dessiller nos yeux encore clos. dont l’esprit s’est forgé.

Paul Arrighi.

Let me tell you about Drew Barrymore:
First of all, she got an early start on self-awareness,
To wit:  her breakout role as Gertie in
Steven Spielberg's E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial,
And quickly became one of Hollywood's
Most recognized child actresses,
Going on to establish her self to this freaking day.
From wit: Yeah, sure, she got an early start,
She literally grew up inside her movies.
And if we had ever had a
Shirley Temple of our own generation,
Drew is it.
Simply put:

Drew is sweetness personified.

N'est-ce pas?
But Habitat Hollywood needed more,
Must dwell on the Barrymore name,
Pounding that angle,
Sledging the dynastic anvil,
Forging consensus:
It’s in her genes.
It’s that sangue royale,
It’s in her blood.
All those Fairbanks & Randolphs,
Harrisons & Blyths,
Palazzoli & Giofredi . . . ***?
That’s where you get your looks,
You little guinea ****!
That olive oil & garlic,
Enhancing that gilded
Barrymore Blood!
It must have been an
Early pink thrill for you, Drew,
Seeing all those
Doors spread wide open--
Widespread like a *****’s legs--
Career barrier walls,
Inhibitions crumbling.
What a pleasant realization!
“I am a member of a
Multi-Generation
Theatrical Dynasty.”
And going even further back than
John, Ethel & Lionel, Babaloo.
We’re talking the British Stage here,
We’re talking Legitimate Theater,
As in: Tread those boards, GB Shaw!
Which brings me to my point:
Drew’s had a long time to get over
That Diva
(Louie Prima) Donna thing.
She knows who she is.
She’s comfortable out here,
Way out here in the
So-called real world.
Out a monk’s her environment at-large.
Query: heredity or environment?
Always.
To wit: It was always
Her habitat doing the molding--
From Wit: *******!
It’s in her ****** DNA.
In her freaking genes:
Which is precisely
Where I’d like to be right now,
My cherished,
My sweet Drew:
In your freaking jeans.

Le Baiser de ton rêve
Est celui de l'Amour !
Le jour, le jour se lève,
Clairons, voici le jour !

Le Baiser de mon rêve
Est celui de l'Amour !
Enfin, le jour se lève !
Clairons, voici le jour !

La caresse royale
Est celle de l'Amour.
Battez la générale,
Battez, battez, tambour !

Car l'Amour est horrible
Au gouffre de son jour !
Pour le tir à la cible
Battez, battez, tambour.

Sa caresse est féline
Comme le point du jour :
Pour gravir la colline
Battez, battez, tambour !

Sa caresse est câline
Comme le flot du jour :
Pour gravir la colline,
Battez, battez, tambour.

Sa caresse est énorme
Comme l'éclat du jour :
Pour les rangs que l'on forme,
Battez, battez, tambour !

Sa caresse vous touche
Comme l'onde et le feu ;
Pour tirer la cartouche,
Battez, battez un peu.

Son Baiser vous enlace
Comme l'onde et le feu :
Pour charger la culasse,
Battez, battez un peu.

Sa Caresse se joue
Comme l'onde et le feu :
Tambour, pour mettre en joue,
Battez, battez un peu.

Sa caresse est terrible
Comme l'onde et le feu :
Pour le cœur trop sensible
Battez, battez un peu.

Sa caresse est horrible,
Comme l'onde et le feu :
Pour ajuster la cible,
Restez, battez un peu.

Cette Caresse efface
Tout, sacré nom de Dieu !
Pour viser bien en face,
Battez, battez un peu.

Son approche vous glace
Comme ses feux passés :
Pour viser bien en face
Cessez.

Car l'Amour est plus belle
Que son plus bel amour :
Battez pour la gamelle,
Battez, battez tambour,

Toute horriblement belle
Au milieu de sa cour :
Sonnez la boute-selle,
Trompettes de l'Amour !

L'arme la plus habile
Est celle de l'Amour :
Pour ma belle, à la ville,
Battez, battez tambour !

Car elle est moins cruelle
Que la clarté du jour :
Sonnez la boute-selle,
Trompettes de l'Amour !

L'amour est plus docile
Que son plus tendre amour :
Pour ma belle, à la ville,
Battez, battez tambour.

Elle est plus difficile
À plier que le jour :
Pour la mauvaise ville,
Battez, battez tambour.

Nul n'est plus difficile
À payer de retour :
Pour la guerre civile,
Battez, battez tambour.

Le Baiser le plus large
Est celui de l'Amour :
Pour l'amour et la charge,
Battez, battez tambour.

Le Baiser le plus tendre
Est celui de l'Amour,
Battez pour vous défendre,
Battez, battez tambour.

Le Baiser le plus chaste
Est celui de l'Amour :
Amis, la terre est vaste,
En avant, le tambour.

Le Baiser le plus grave
Est celui de l'Amour :
Battez, pour l'homme brave,
Battez, battez tambour.

Le Baiser qui se fâche
Est celui de l'Amour :
Battez pour l'homme lâche,
Battez, battez tambour.

Le Baiser le plus mâle
Est celui de l'Amour :
Pour le visage pâle
Battez, battez tambour.

La Caresse en colère
Est celle de l'Amour :
Car l'Amour, c'est la guerre,
Battez, battez tambour.

Le Baiser qu'on redoute
Est celui de l'Amour :
Pour écarter le doute,
Battez, battez tambour.

L'art de jouir ensemble
Est celui de l'Amour :
Or, mourir lui ressemble :
Battez, battez tambour.

L'art de mourir ensemble
Est celui de l'Amour :
Battez fort pour qui tremble,
Battez, battez tambour.

Le Baiser le plus calme
Est celui de l'Amour :
Car la paix, c'est sa palme,
Battez, battez tambour.

La souffrance, la pire,
Est d'être sans l'Amour :
Battez, pour qu'elle expire,
Battez, battez tambour.

Le Baiser qui délivre
Est celui de l'Amour :
Battez pour qui veut vivre,
Battez, battez tambour.

La Caresse éternelle
Est celle de l'Amour :
Battez, la mort est belle,
Battez, battez tambour.

La guerre est la plus large
Des portes de l'Amour :
Pour l'assaut et la charge,
Battez, battez tambour.

La porte la plus sainte
Est celle de la mort :
Pour étouffer la plainte
Battez, battez plus fort.

L'atteinte la moins grave
Est celle de la mort :
L'amour est au plus brave,
La Victoire... au plus fort !

Neck muscles vigorously strained
Pulled out like a wet frail rotted rope
Fastened together by a rusted lock with piercing sharp edges
Porcelain beads of sweat cling to pulsating vines

Staring up, as if something of hope is there
Intense powered complex thinking
No movement, just a frozen dead stare
Straight glance of light into a darkness covered cave

A battle royale of steroid induced thoughts
The mind, a cage match of soft pinkish flesh
Each thought it wearing armor of dull chilled spikes
Pain shoots through the cranium as each thought collapses into the cage

The eyes, a vortex into another world, look onward
Tears stream down of drunk crimson liquid
Leaving a salted burned trail down each toughened cheek
Stinging each eye with a impoverished sob

The mouth of dried ***** sand paper stays creaked open
A spiral of silk heated air escapes, but with no sound attached
Quivered lips cut from bitter winded blades
A soiled red with a blanket of cotton white

The position of deep depressed nauseating thoughts
The body is powerless and deathly limp
Glued to the seated area, as if it always lived there
A doll, a puppet to its overpowering super brain

Stuck in a painful vision
Will I return?

She always got what she wanted
She never had to work at all
Fame and fortune was in her eyes
The day she left home and said her goodbyes

Seven fifteen flight to L.A.
Landed in mid-afternoon
Fame and fortune was in her head
Never hearing what her daddy said

Picked up the luggage and walked away
Hailed a cab, and got right in
Fame and fortune was in her sight
No one knew she wasn't quite right

Got dropped of at the casino royale
Walked in the doors and grabbed a room
Fame and fortune was in her hand
A stack of bills of about ten grand

Luggage man took her bags
Walked to the elevator and walked right in
Only fortune was on his mind
So said the knife hanging on his side

À force d'insulter les vaillants et les justes,
À force de flatter les trahisons augustes,
À force d'être abject et d'ajuster des tas
De sophismes hideux aux plus noirs attentats,
Cet homme espère atteindre aux grandeurs ; il s'essouffle
À passer scélérat, lui qui n'est que maroufle.
Ce pédagogue aspire au grade de coquin.
Ce rhéteur, ver de terre et de lettres, pasquin
Qui s'acharne sur nous et dont toujours nous rîmes,
Tâche d'être promu complice des grands crimes.
Il raillait l'art, et c'est tout simple en vérité,
La laideur est aveugle et sourde à la beauté.
Mais être un idiot ne peut plus lui suffire,
Il est jaloux du tigre à qui la peur dit : sire !
Il veut être aussi lui sénateur des forêts ;
Il veut avoir, ainsi que Montluc ou Verrès,
Sa caverne ou sa cage avec grilles et trappes
Dans la ménagerie énorme des satrapes.
Ah çà, tu perds ton temps et ta peine, grimaud !
Aliboron n'est pas aisément Béhémoth ;
Le burlesque n'est pas facilement sinistre ;
Fusses-tu meurtrier, tu demeurerais cuistre.
Quand ces êtres sanglants qu'il te plaît d'envier,
Mammons que hait Tacite et qu'admire Cuvier,
Sont là, brigands et dieux, on n'entre pas d'emblée
Dans leur épouvantable et royale assemblée.
Devenir historique ! Impossible pour toi.
Sortir du mépris simple et compter dans l'effroi,
Toi, jamais ! Ton front bas exclut ce noir panache.
Ton sort est d'être, jeune, inepte ; et, vieux, ganache.
Vers l'avancement vrai tu n'as point fait un pas ;
Tu te gonfles, crapaud, mais tu n'augmentes pas ;
Si Myrmidon croissait, ce serait du désordre ;
Tu parviens à ramper sans parvenir à mordre.
La nature n'a pas de force à dépenser
Pour te faire grandir et te faire pousser.
Quoi donc ! N'est-elle point l'impassible nature ?
Parce que des têtards, nourris de pourriture,
Souhaitent devenir dragons et caïmans,
Elle consentirait à ces grossissements !
Le ver serait boa ! L'huître deviendrait l'hydre !
Locuste empoisonnait le vin, et non le cidre ;
L'enfer fit Arétin terrible, et non Brusquet.
Un avorton ne peut qu'avorter. Le roquet
S'efforce d'être loup, mais il s'arrête en route.
Le ciel mystérieux fait des guépards sans doute,
De fiers lions bandits, pires que les démons,
Des éléphants, des ours ; mais il livre les monts,
Les antres et les bois à leur majesté morne !
Mais il lui faut l'espace et les sables sans borne
Et l'immense désert pour les démuseler !
Le chat qui veut rugir ne peut que miauler ;
En vain il copierait le grand jaguar lyrique
Errant sur la falaise au bord des mers d'Afrique,
Et la panthère horrible, et le lynx moucheté ;
Dieu ne fait pas monter jusqu'à la dignité
De crime, de furie et de scélératesse,
Cette méchanceté faite de petitesse.
Les montagnes, pignons et murs de granit noir
D'où tombent les torrents affreux, riraient de voir
Ce preneur de souris rôder sur leur gouttière.
Un nain ne devient pas géant au vestiaire.
Pour être un dangereux et puissant animal,
Il faut qu'un grand rayon tombe sur vous ; le mal
N'arrive pas toujours à sa hideuse gloire.
Dieu tolère, c'est vrai, la création noire,
Mais d'aussi plats que toi ne sont pas exaucés.
Tu ne parviendras pas, drôle, à t'enfler assez
Pour être un python vaste et sombre au fond des fanges ;
Tu n'égaleras point ces reptiles étranges
Dont l'œil aux soupiraux de l'enfer est pareil.
Tu demeureras laid, faible et mou. Le soleil
Dédaigne le lézard, candidat crocodile.

Sois un cœur monstrueux, mais reste une âme vile.

I found my call of duty
inside your warzone
after leaving my pressurized cabin
and dropping in randomly
I started collecting money and items as fast as I could
to match the competition’s capability.

Everyone’s an enemy, everyone is hostile
I fear them and the weapons they’ll use on me
barraging me with dragon’s breath shotgun blasts
to put me down quickly
or silently sniping from far away
so I can’t defend myself.

The only way I can survive is staying in your circle
which keeps moving away from me
so I sprint through the fields and forests
making my way through already looted homes
hoping no one takes advantage of my vulnerability
racing to your circle before I suffocate.

Once I finally get to your circle I realize it’s too small to hide in
because everyone is so close together
I must engage them before they attack me
but they all lay siege to the small shack I’m trapped in
lobbing grenades and firing at me
I can’t even poke my head out.

So I stay inside
donning my gas mask
letting the circle overtake them and pick them off one by one
as I wait inside anxiously worried someone may try to join me
but eventually they’re all gone and I’m the only one left
and in that moment I have achieved victory royale.

a man in the abyss
told me all about you

cleared up things
real quick;
and here i was wasting
so much time confused

i took a question mark
and straightened it out,--

was i too loud?

i am missing out
on your warm breath
at the moment

but aren't we the gaps
in crooked smiles anyway?

something that isn't there
has been here all along

or vice versa
ad infinitum

a woman held you
in her arms once

and fed you
till you became
plump with envy
and courage

now it's a battle
royale among
the voices

hush
you tell them
with your last breath;

an every day occurrence...

like the tongue of a
dull knife against
the sand dunes of time.

A lovely Barry Hodges poem

People think that Calais is just a charming port on the flat French coast
Replete with exquisite restaurants patronised by English visitors
Who have crossed the Channel to get a decent meal for once,
And who want to take advantage of the wondrous *savoire vivre francais,
Even though they will get wittily insulted for their English accents.
There is more: the town has some of the finest late 40s architecture
To be found anywhere in the western world, spontaneously thrown up
After la ville ancienne was 95% flattened by the gallant but clumsy Brits
In what is still patriotically referred to as "La Libération".
But there is yet more to this gourmands' and cheap ***** buyers' mecca:
Believe me, I know, I have suffered a grievous and terrible loss there
When I blundered into a cheese shop on the Rue Royale one summer's day.

My companion that day was my dear fifth wife,  Winifred
(a four foot high but stoutly built ***** with a major speech impediment),
And, being attracted from five streets away to Maison Le Merde,
The world-famous fromagerie, by its unearthly overpowering pong,
My dear one, my lovely ****** spouse, dragged me through the door.
Choking back a desire to gag, she started stammering away to M. Le Merde,
Trying to order a couple of hundred grams of Carré de Mort Absolue,
When Mr L.M lost his rag totally and assumed wifey was trying to mock him
(How could one have known Monsieur was the French stuttering champion?)
And so he took out the cleaver he habitually kept behind the counter
To deter English tourists from stealing his cheesy comestibles,
And severed Winny's darling head in a single fell coup de grace
Which left her dramatically shorter than she previously was.

I managed to escape a similar dire fate by running like the clappers
And hiding in a nice toilette publique (femmes) while he stampeded by,
His mighty chopper in his cheese-impregnated Gallic paw.
And when I reported the matter to the gendarmerie, were they sympa?
They were no more helpful than seins sur un taureau fou
And insisted I should pay for the funeral there and then in advance,
Threatening me with a real good thumping dans mes **** should I decline.
Dear God, I shall have to use a different entry port to France next time
(although sur le grapevine I hear Boulogne is a bit of a dump),
But at least there aren't so many ******* would-be refugees.

Sagesse d'un Louis Racine, je t'envie !

Ô n'avoir pas suivi les leçons de Rollin,

N'être pas né dans le grand siècle à son déclin,

Quand le soleil couchant, si beau, dorait la vie,


Quand Maintenon jetait sur la France ravie

L'ombre douce et la paix de ses coiffes de lin,

Et royale abritait la veuve et l'orphelin,

Quand l'étude de la prière était suivie,


Quand poète et docteur, simplement, bonnement,

Communiaient avec des ferveurs de novices,

Humbles servaient la Messe et chantaient aux offices


Et, le printemps venu, prenaient un soin charmant

D'aller dans les Auteuils cueillir lilas et roses

En louant Dieu, comme Garo, de toutes choses !

Walk not my little dear
on the land so muddy
lest your clothes smear
by the soil smudgy.

You are not born
for the lowly task, like me,
your life is adorn,
instead,
with mirth and glee.

I feel so ashamed
of my sully hands ***** of mud,
how can I wish to touch your cheek
and cuddle it if I could.

But my little princess royale,
my sweetheart, you should know,
that the sapling I sow today
if yours when you grow,

The most precious rose
for my most precious dear
and I care little if remembered
as a mere gardener.

The Day I Hit The Bear

The day started out like most days in the mountains. The sky was bright but not entirely sunny. It was a Friday morning at 8:37 when I pulled out of my ‘economy’ motel on the eastern outskirts of Roanoke.

I had spent the previous afternoon (Thursday) riding the Blue Ridge Parkway from the Carolina border to Roanoke. It was after 6 and the heavy tree formation along the Parkway had started to darken the road, so I decided to call it a day. Too many animals call that time of night nirvana for me to feel safe after dusk anymore.

After a quick stop at ‘Denny’s” it was off to bed in the $41.00 motel I found just off the entrance to the Parkway. I slept great, as I always do on the road and woke up at seven raring to go. After a gas-up and ‘breakfast’ at the B.P. station, I was back up the entrance ramp onto the parkway and making the left turn that would take me North all the way to Front Royal Virginia.

As I started North, I got to thinking. I was riding my beloved Venture Royale, which I had always referred to as just the ‘Venture.’ Most guys I know after establishing a love affair with their motorcycle name their bike like they do their children and dogs. I never had — it was just the Venture.

After 150,000 of the most unbelievable miles anyone could imagine, the bike still had the name it was given by its manufacturer  I had always felt guilty about that, but never seemed to be able to come up with the appropriate name.

As I left the Blue Ridge Parkway and entered Shenandoah National Park (Skyline Drive), the sky darkened and the posted speed limit dropped to 35. I’ve always wondered why the speed limit was only 35 here yet 45 on the Parkway just below. The makeup and complexion of the roads looked identical or at least so it seemed. It’s a long ride through the park to Front Royal at 35mph, and if you don’t stop you might make it in about three hours.

I was now at a consistent elevation above 3000 feet and the air and shrubbery started to feel and look like the Rocky Mountains. I stopped at a rest stop to use the facilities and drink some water and then quickly got back on the road because my goal was to make it to the Pennsylvania line before dark.

The Bike was running as well as it ever has, and after 22 years of faithful service that’s saying a lot. There are only 2 states we haven’t been to together (Mississippi and Rhode Island), and I’ve got both of them on my short list to round out the lower 48. The Venture, there I go again calling it something so bland, has also been to Alaska twice. It has made 5 cross-country trips and my favorite, a 10-day Odyssey with my son going up one side of the Rockies and down the other. The memories of our times together came flooding back as I rounded a large bend in the road to the left.

Then it happened !

Before I could react, downshift, or even pull the brake lever, it was directly in front of me. I saw it, and my life flashed in front of me at exactly the same time. It was a black bear, and it looked to be full size. Before I could even exhale it was less than a foot from the front tire of the bike.

BAMMMMM ! It hit like a sledgehammer. First it sounded like a small explosion just behind the front wheel on the left side. Then the back of the bike lifted up about two feet in the air. I had hit the bear and then run over it as it passed under the bike.

We’ve all heard stories about near death experiences that cause your life to flash in front of your eyes in that very instant. Trust me, it’s true, and here’s what flashed through mine.

Anyone who knows me, knows about my lifelong love for motorcycles and motorcycling. My first ‘car’ was a BSA Gold Star that I had in High School. My mother never knew about it because YES VIRGINIA — my Grandmother and Grandfather let me hide it in their garage.

I bought the first 750 Honda when it was introduced in 1970, rode it all through college and believe me when I say those Penn State winters were brutal. I didn’t know it was called Hypothermia, but I experienced it every week between November and March. I dated my Wife on that motorcycle and am lucky that I still have it tucked away in the back of my garage today.

Combined with my love for Motorcycles is my love of the mountains and the Rockies in particular. I have spent almost all of my vacation time during the past 30 years riding, touring, and exploring the Rocky Mountain West.

As a result of my time in the Rockies, about 25 years ago I also developed a love for bears. All bears. I love Black Bears, Grizzly Bears and Polar Bears, but if forced to choose the Grizzly would be my favorite. My 2 close encounters in Yellowstone, and my 1 in Glacier, with large Brown Bears changed my perception of life and what it means forever. I was totally at their mercy. Looking into their eyes, which the so-called experts warn you against, was a life altering experience that I’m glad to have done

Now, back to what flashed through my mind when the bear was about to make contact. It all seemed to happen in slow motion but I thought as I hit him that if this was truly the end — how lucky I was! YES LUCKY. To end my life doing the thing I loved the most, in a place (A National Park) I loved most being, and to have it ended by an animal that meant more to me than any other. It all just seemed fitting and right.

In that instant I was ready to go, and in a strange and still unexplainable way, I was almost thankful for it happening the way it did.

And then before I had even blinked my eyes, the rear of the bike was back down on the road and now sliding to the right. I counter-steered as I was taught when road racing, and after drifting across both lanes the bike ‘******’ straight up and started heading North again. Instinctively I looked in my rear view mirror and saw the bear run off into the tall grass on the side of the road and then collapse.

I went about fifty yards further up the road and stopped the bike and got off. It was damaged in the front and just slightly leaking. The radiator cowling was broken off and part of the lower fairing was gone. There was organic material all over my left tailpipe which I would later find out was brain matter from the bear. I got off the bike and walked back to where I thought the bear was laying.

He was right where I had seen him collapse and he had a huge opening in his skull where he had made contact with the bike. As terrible as this made me feel, something else made me feel even worse, --- he was still breathing.

Two hikers (a husband and wife), about my age were now walking toward the bear and had seen the whole thing happen. They were locals and worried that there may be more bears around. They both suggested that we leave the area quickly. They told me there was a rest stop two miles further up the Parkway on the left and that I would be able call a Ranger to come and assist (shoot) the bear. I thanked them as they left and watched them head down the trail directly across the road from where the bear and I now were.

I got back on the bike and hurried up to the rest stop. Just as the couple had instructed the nice woman behind the counter called the Ranger Station and they sent a USFS Officer named Gary Roth to talk to me. I pleaded with the Ranger to forget about me, (I was fine), and to please go help the bear. I was pretty sure the bear was unconscious, but even then, you can sometimes still feel pain.

That Ranger spent almost two hours with me, first checking my driver’s license and registration, insurance card, etc. I’m sure he was also doing a back round check on me when he went back to his SUV, and all the while the poor bear was lying in trauma on the side of the road.

These Park Officials claim to love their charges, the animals in the park, but today it didn’t seem that way. I would have gladly given the officer my bike keys and identification, which he could have kept while going back to help (dispatch) the bear. ‘NO’ was all he replied back when I made that suggestion.

Finally, the Ranger left after thanking me for stopping and filing the report. He told me that most people who hit bears (on average one a month) don’t even stop to report it. At this time of the year the bears are very active, as they are foraging incessantly for food, trying to gain weight before hibernation. They are more vulnerable to car and motorcycle traffic in the fall than at any other time. He also told me that I was the only one in his memory (19 years in the park), to have hit a bear on a motorcycle and to have walked (ridden) away.

As I watched him head South on Skyline Drive, I looked at the sorry state of the Venture. I felt guiltier than ever, still referring to my beloved, and now damaged bike, in such an objective way. I decided to ride back to where I had hit the bear and make sure the Ranger did what he said he would do.  By the time I traveled the two miles to where the bear had been, the ranger was gone and there was no sight of the bear. However he did it, the Ranger had removed the bear quickly and took him to wherever they take animals that have been killed on the road.

I turned the bike around and headed North again. As I passed the rest stop I looked over to see if maybe the Ranger had come back, but the parking lot was now empty except for one lone moped parked off on the grass to the right of the building. ‘Must be a camper,’ I thought to myself.

Looking straight North again in the direction of Front Royal, I noticed the ‘Venture Royale’ badge on the dashboard of the bike. An epiphany then happened that had never happened while riding before.

                                THE BEAR / THE BEAR !!!

I would never again refer to my beloved motorcycle as the Venture again. The spirit of something primordial had overcome both of us today and allowed us to survive. From this moment on, the bike will forever be known as — THE BEAR.

Roanoke Virginia
October 2012

A grand dinner at Park Royale
Mingling with the aristocrats
the celebs and the royals
was introduced to a goldsmith
showing off her 24.4USD
fancy bue grey diamond ring..
she mentioned her name
gave a card written Jacob & Co
i am impressed same time i felt too small
when she asked me what I did for a living..
Unsure whether to be proud or shy...
told her i am simply a wordsmith
i write words of love and of virtues
Astonished.... she looked at me... amused and confused
WORDSMITH? She asked for my business card but i gave her this site
http://hellopoetry.com/write/poem/
she rolled her pretty eyes again
her diamonds shine...
my shy eyes met  her questioning eyes...
and I slowly bowed and said...
"if you can't find me anywhere"
you shall meet my words
even if I die today or tomorrow
my poetry remains....
i am a wordsmith forever i shall be
the gold is in my words the carat 30.11
is me.
no profit will it make understand the
written word.
your ring will be forgotten in the years to come
my words will still be read ,the perfect word
will never die

Hummmm.
Mon Immortelle, mes aïeux !
Comme tu es appétissante !
Je n'en crois pas mes yeux !
J'ai agrandi ta photo jusqu'à ce qu'elle crève l 'écran.
J 'aurais pu t'embrasser si je l 'avais voulu,
Tellement tu étais proche, magnifiée !
Mais je me suis retenu
et j 'ai décidé de détourner le regard de ta chair et de me concentrer sur les accessoires
car le risque d'atteindre une illumination visuelle à distance aurait été grand
si j 'avais seulement pris le temps de m'attarder
Une demi-seconde sur le lac de tes yeux profonds
et la moue sur tes lèvres couleur aubergine
Je me suis donc consacré exclusivement à l 'examen minutieux,
Détail après détail,  
de tes accessoires, de tes épices.
Oh ne m'en veux pas
Si ce n 'était pas toi, la déesse, que je regardais défiler
Sur l 'écran à vitesse lente chevauchant une tigresse blanche
Mais tes accessoires
Et tes accessoires en disent long sur ton essentiel !
Ce sont des accessoires magiques, physiques, magnétiques, chimiques
Un simple verre de vin de letchi devient entre tes doigts du divin jus de jade
Tes boucles d'oreille et ton collier  d'argent assorti d'une fleur blanche odorante majestueuse!
Jasmin ? Frangipanier ? Rose ? Orchidée ? Lotus ? Dis moi !
Tes bagues dorées au majeur et à l 'annulaire, main droite comme main gauche, deux par main
Des fleurs, encore des boutons de fleurs !
De veuvage ? De mariage ? De fiançailles ?
Tes deux bracelets  d'argent au poignet gauche
Sans oublier ta robe bleue imprimée à fleurs
Et tes mocassins bleus assortis.
Et ton pantalon blanc bien évidemment !
Laissons de côté ce sublime rouge à lèvres couleur aubergine !
Bref j 'ai passé en ***** tout ce qui t'enlumine et t'illumine
Sans être toi tout en étant toi.
Comme ton sac en bandoulière et ce verre de vin de letchi ou de jade que tu presses entre tes doigts.
Tes accessoires sont la voie royale vers ton essentiel !
Et je sais désormais que tu es fleur caméléon,
Je sais les couleurs de ta quintessence :
Tigresse de jade blanc aux oreilles et au cou
Dorée au bout des doigts
et marron et blanche sur fond bleu,
Toute de lianes et feuilles et clochettes
Toute fleurs de  safran, gingembre, curcuma
Piment, tamarin et cannelle
Des épaules aux cuisses !
Me voilà bien avancé, n 'est-ce pas, ma fleur,
Dragon de jade, sur ton chemin de Compostelle ! ?

There is one one like my lover to me,
No matter what people say,
I have chosen her as my woman to be,
And stand by her everyday and in  every way.

Whatcha know
About chastity
I don’t need a belt to
Be loyal
Feel royal
love  ain’t gotta be
A battle royale

Everyone’s an attention *****
Publicity is adored
I abhore your BS
Get away from
My doorstep
My patience
Has a threshold
That you’ve crossed

I ain’t *******
For a ******* dime
If you wanted a mime
Here’s a rhyme instead
I won’t wish you dead
I’m not that petty
I live practicing abstinence and chastity
For many reasons
Chief among them the fact that’s it’s more  of a challenge when compared to sleeping with someone. Secondly, the challenge of living such a lifestyle pays off, mostly because it’s harder to get yourself broken  when you don’t open yourself up to false and momentary since of connection.

Indigent / outcast
trailer trash
flotsam.
We are products of our surroundings.

Or is it upbringing
Taken / down
Far from home
If it's where the heart is...

"Worthless idiot"
She spits on me
Like her rednecks and niggar ****

Her tricks
Quick to flick
Their Bics and *****
Bringing home the other
Black.

Reynolds wrap and points at the back
Hiding in the thickness
Of weeping veils
Of willows

Outside the picket fence
Just beyond Royale Park mobile
Community
Missing it's gate
All the times shivoo

When the South is clammy
Sweat shop swamps
And blistering
Hot like Gold
Coast fires / petrol dragons' breath
(She's a mockery
Of the word -- revelations
Turning
Now napkins and coasters
Tissue for ****** noses.)

Vagrant vespers
In the dark
she lets the men
Inside her double wide

Inebriated bruises
Polka dot excuses

Even in the city
It's funny
How the homeless can hide
Out in the open

Escape...
Indigent / outcast
Trailer trash
Minutiae boy

Barely half / legally life blind
And lucky to be alive
Still in search of
Some kind

Home.

Sur un écueil battu par la vague plaintive,
Le nautonier de **** voit blanchir sur la rive
Un tombeau près du bord par les flots déposé ;
Le temps n'a pas encor bruni l'étroite pierre,
Et sous le vert tissu de la ronce et du lierre
On distingue... un sceptre brisé !

Ici gît... point de nom !... demandez à la terre !
Ce nom ? il est inscrit en sanglant caractère
Des bords du Tanaïs au sommet du Cédar,
Sur le bronze et le marbre, et sur le sein des braves,
Et jusque dans le cœur de ces troupeaux d'esclaves
Qu'il foulait tremblants sous son char.

Depuis ces deux grands noms qu'un siècle au siècle annonce,
Jamais nom qu'ici-bas toute langue prononce
Sur l'aile de la foudre aussi **** ne vola.
Jamais d'aucun mortel le pied qu'un souffle efface
N'imprima sur la terre une plus forte trace,
Et ce pied s'est arrêté là !...

Il est là !... sous trois pas un enfant le mesure !
Son ombre ne rend pas même un léger murmure !
Le pied d'un ennemi foule en paix son cercueil !
Sur ce front foudroyant le moucheron bourdonne,
Et son ombre n'entend que le bruit monotone
D'une vague contre un écueil !

Ne crains rien, cependant, ombre encore inquiète,
Que je vienne outrager ta majesté muette.
Non. La lyre aux tombeaux n'a jamais insulté.
La mort fut de tout temps l'asile de la gloire.
Rien ne doit jusqu'ici poursuivre une mémoire.
Rien !... excepté la vérité !

Ta tombe et ton berceau sont couverts d'un nuage,
Mais pareil à l'éclair tu sortis d'un orage !
Tu foudroyas le monde avant d'avoir un nom !
Tel ce Nil dont Memphis boit les vagues fécondes
Avant d'être nommé fait bouilloner ses ondes
Aux solitudes de Memnom.

Les dieux étaient tombés, les trônes étaient vides ;
La victoire te prit sur ses ailes rapides
D'un peuple de Brutus la gloire te fit roi !
Ce siècle, dont l'écume entraînait dans sa course
Les mœurs, les rois, les dieux... refoulé vers sa source,
Recula d'un pas devant toi !

Tu combattis l'erreur sans regarder le nombre ;
Pareil au fier Jacob tu luttas contre une ombre !
Le fantôme croula sous le poids d'un mortel !
Et, de tous ses grands noms profanateur sublime,
Tu jouas avec eux, comme la main du crime
Avec les vases de l'autel.

Ainsi, dans les accès d'un impuissant délire
Quand un siècle vieilli de ses mains se déchire
En jetant dans ses fers un cri de liberté,
Un héros tout à coup de la poudre s'élève,
Le frappe avec son sceptre... il s'éveille, et le rêve
Tombe devant la vérité !

Ah ! si rendant ce sceptre à ses mains légitimes,
Plaçant sur ton pavois de royales victimes,
Tes mains des saints bandeaux avaient lavé l'affront !
Soldat vengeur des rois, plus grand que ces rois même,
De quel divin parfum, de quel pur diadème
L'histoire aurait sacré ton front !

Gloire ! honneur! liberté ! ces mots que l'homme adore,
Retentissaient pour toi comme l'airain sonore
Dont un stupide écho répète au **** le son :
De cette langue en vain ton oreille frappée
Ne comprit ici-bas que le cri de l'épée,
Et le mâle accord du clairon !

Superbe, et dédaignant ce que la terre admire,
Tu ne demandais rien au monde, que l'empire !
Tu marchais !... tout obstacle était ton ennemi !
Ta volonté volait comme ce trait rapide
Qui va frapper le but où le regard le guide,
Même à travers un cœur ami !

Jamais, pour éclaircir ta royale tristesse,
La coupe des festins ne te versa l'ivresse ;
Tes yeux d'une autre pourpre aimaient à s'enivrer !
Comme un soldat debout qui veille sous les armes,
Tu vis de la beauté le sourire ou les larmes,
Sans sourire et sans soupirer !

Tu n'aimais que le bruit du fer, le cri d'alarmes !
L'éclat resplendissant de l'aube sur tes armes !
Et ta main ne flattait que ton léger coursier,
Quand les flots ondoyants de sa pâle crinière
Sillonnaient comme un vent la sanglante poussière,
Et que ses pieds brisaient l'acier !

Tu grandis sans plaisir, tu tombas sans murmure !
Rien d'humain ne battait sous ton épaisse armure :
Sans haine et sans amour, tu vivais pour penser :
Comme l'aigle régnant dans un ciel solitaire,
Tu n'avais qu'un regard pour mesurer la terre,
Et des serres pour l'embrasser !

....................................................

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S'élancer d'un seul bon au char de la victoire,
Foudroyer l'univers des splendeurs de sa gloire,
Fouler d'un même pied des tribuns et des rois ;
Forger un joug trempé dans l'amour et la haine,
Et faire frissonner sous le frein qui l'enchaîne
Un peuple échappé de ses lois !

Etre d'un siècle entier la pensée et la vie,
Emousser le poignard, décourager l'envie ;
Ebranler, raffermir l'univers incertain,
Aux sinistres clarté de ta foudre qui gronde
Vingt fois contre les dieux jouer le sort du monde,
Quel rêve ! et ce fut ton destin !...

Tu tombas cependant de ce sublime faîte !
Sur ce rocher désert jeté par la tempête,
Tu vis tes ennemis déchirer ton manteau !
Et le sort, ce seul dieu qu'adora ton audace,
Pour dernière faveur t'accorda cet espace
Entre le trône et le tombeau !

Oh ! qui m'aurait donné d'y sonder ta pensée,
Lorsque le souvenir de te grandeur passée
Venait, comme un remords, t'assaillir **** du bruit !
Et que, les bras croisés sur ta large poitrine,
Sur ton front chauve et nu, que la pensée incline,
L'horreur passait comme la nuit !

Tel qu'un pasteur debout sur la rive profonde
Voit son ombre de **** se prolonger sur l'onde
Et du fleuve orageux suivre en flottant le cours ;
Tel du sommet désert de ta grandeur suprême,
Dans l'ombre du passé te recherchant toi-même,
Tu rappelais tes anciens jours !

Ils passaient devant toi comme des flots sublimes
Dont l'oeil voit sur les mers étinceler les cimes,
Ton oreille écoutait leur bruit harmonieux !
Et, d'un reflet de gloire éclairant ton visage,
Chaque flot t'apportait une brillante image
Que tu suivais longtemps des yeux !

Là, sur un pont tremblant tu défiais la foudre !
Là, du désert sacré tu réveillais la poudre !
Ton coursier frissonnait dans les flots du Jourdain !
Là, tes pas abaissaient une cime escarpée !
Là, tu changeais en sceptre une invincible épée !
Ici... Mais quel effroi soudain ?

Pourquoi détournes-tu ta paupière éperdue ?
D'où vient cette pâleur sur ton front répandue ?
Qu'as-tu vu tout à coup dans l'horreur du passé ?
Est-ce d'une cité la ruine fumante ?
Ou du sang des humains quelque plaine écumante ?
Mais la gloire a tout effacé.

La gloire efface tout !... tout excepté le crime !
Mais son doigt me montrait le corps d'une victime ;
Un jeune homme! un héros, d'un sang pur inondé !
Le flot qui l'apportait, passait, passait, sans cesse ;
Et toujours en passant la vague vengeresse
Lui jetait le nom de Condé !...

Comme pour effacer une tache livide,
On voyait sur son front passer sa main rapide ;
Mais la trace du sang sous son doigt renaissait !
Et, comme un sceau frappé par une main suprême,
La goutte ineffaçable, ainsi qu'un diadème,
Le couronnait de son forfait !

C'est pour cela, tyran! que ta gloire ternie
Fera par ton forfait douter de ton génie !
Qu'une trace de sang suivra partout ton char !
Et que ton nom, jouet d'un éternel orage,
Sera par l'avenir ballotté d'âge en âge
Entre Marius et César !

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Tu mourus cependant de la mort du vulgaire,
Ainsi qu'un moissonneur va chercher son salaire,
Et dort sur sa faucille avant d'être payé !
Tu ceignis en mourant ton glaive sur ta cuisse,
Et tu fus demander récompense ou justice
Au dieu qui t'avait envoyé !

On dit qu'aux derniers jours de sa longue agonie,
Devant l'éternité seul avec son génie,
Son regard vers le ciel parut se soulever !
Le signe rédempteur toucha son front farouche !...
Et même on entendit commencer sur sa bouche
Un nom !... qu'il n'osait achever !

Achève... C'est le dieu qui règne et qui couronne !
C'est le dieu qui punit ! c'est le dieu qui pardonne !
Pour les héros et nous il a des poids divers !
Parle-lui sans effroi ! lui seul peut te comprendre !
L'esclave et le tyran ont tous un compte à rendre,
L'un du sceptre, l'autre des fers !

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Son cercueil est fermé ! Dieu l'a jugé ! Silence !
Son crime et ses exploits pèsent dans la balance :
Que des faibles mortels la main n'y touche plus !
Qui peut sonder, Seigneur, ta clémence infinie ?
Et vous, fléaux de Dieu ! qui sait si le génie
N'est pas une de vos vertus ?...

À Ernest Christophe.

Fière, autant qu'un vivant, de sa noble stature,
Avec son gros bouquet, son mouchoir et ses gants,
Elle a la nonchalance et la désinvolture
D'une coquette maigre aux airs extravagants.

Vit-on jamais au bal une taille plus mince ?
Sa robe exagérée, en sa royale ampleur,
S'écroule abondamment sur un pied sec que pince
Un soulier pomponné, joli comme une fleur.

La ruche qui se joue au bord des clavicules,
Comme un ruisseau lascif qui se frotte au rocher,
Défend pudiquement des lazzi ridicules
Les funèbres appas qu'elle tient à cacher.

Ses yeux profonds sont faits de vide et de ténèbres,
Et son crâne, de fleurs artistement coiffé,
Oscille mollement sur ses frêles vertèbres.
Ô charme d'un néant follement attifé.

Aucuns t'appelleront une caricature,
Qui ne comprennent pas, amants ivres de chair,
L'élégance sans nom de l'humaine armature.
Tu réponds, grand squelette, à mon goût le plus cher !

Viens-tu troubler, avec ta puissante grimace,
La fête de la Vie ? ou quelque vieux désir,
Éperonnant encor ta vivante carcasse,
Te pousse-t-il, crédule, au sabbat du Plaisir ?

Au chant des violons, aux flammes des bougies,
Espères-tu chasser ton cauchemar moqueur,
Et viens-tu demander au torrent des ******
De rafraîchir l'enfer allumé dans ton coeur ?

Inépuisable puits de sottise et de fautes !
De l'antique douleur éternel alambic !
A travers le treillis recourbé de tes côtes
Je vois, errant encor, l'insatiable aspic.

Pour dire vrai, je crains que ta coquetterie
Ne trouve pas un prix digne de ses efforts ;
Qui, de ces coeurs mortels, entend la raillerie ?
Les charmes de l'horreur n'enivrent que les forts !

Le gouffre de tes yeux, plein d'horribles pensées,
Exhale le vertige, et les danseurs prudents
Ne contempleront pas sans d'amères nausées
Le sourire éternel de tes trente-deux dents.

Pourtant, qui n'a serré dans ses bras un squelette,
Et qui ne s'est nourri des choses du tombeau ?
Qu'importe le parfum, l'habit ou la toilette ?
Qui fait le dégoûté montre qu'il se croit beau.

Bayadère sans nez, irrésistible gouge,
Dis donc à ces danseurs qui font les offusqués :
" Fiers mignons, malgré l'art des poudres et du rouge,
Vous sentez tous la mort ! Ô squelettes musqués,

Antinoüs flétris, dandys, à face glabre,
Cadavres vernissés, lovelaces chenus,
Le branle universel de la danse macabre
Vous entraîne en des lieux qui ne sont pas connus !

Des quais froids de la Seine aux bords brûlants du Gange,
Le troupeau mortel saute et se pâme, sans voir
Dans un trou du plafond la trompette de l'Ange
Sinistrement béante ainsi qu'un tromblon noir.

En tout climat, sous tout soleil, la Mort t'admire
En tes contorsions, risible Humanité,
Et souvent, comme toi, se parfumant de myrrhe,
Mêle son ironie à ton insanité ! "