BELOIT CAFE

by

TOD HOWARD HAWKS



For Vicki Whitaker



Chapter 1

"Two eggs, over easy, double hash browns, and coffee, black," said Sally.

"Got it," said Leo.

Leo was Leo Lottman. He was also a genius, but he never cared about that. He had been the cook at Beloit Cafe for six years. He had gotten the job just after he had graduated from Beloit High School. He was 4' 9" tall, so had to see the whole cafe through the small crack in the right wall.

"Order up," yelled Leo.

Sally came over to pick up the order and took it to her customer. The other waitress was Mildred. Both had been working there for 10 and 12 years respectively.

Both Leo's parents had been killed in a car wreck when he was a junior in high school and had to spend his senior year with his uncle. He easily could have won a scholarship to KU, but having been socially shunned all his growing up, he was content to live a private life.

Leo got a job at the Beloit Cafe as a cook. He also rented the room above the kitchen. He loved classical symphonies and reading books on American history, as well as other subjects. The only person who never shunned him was himself.

Beloit is a small town in north central Kansas with a population of 3,400 citizens. In it is the Kansas Industrial School for Girls. On occasional Sunday afternoons, he had gotten permission to go there and talk to those girls interested in the history of the United States.

"Oatmeal with raisins, buttered white toast, and a large glass of whole milk," yelled Meredith.

"Got it."


Chapter 2

After the Cafe closed, Leo slowly climbed the stairs to his room.

The first thing he did was to put on Rachmaninoff's PIANO CONCERTO #2. Then he was ready to absorb himself in all things American. He had already read Howard Zinn's A PEOPLE'S HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. For example, Leo knew that eight men who became President of the United States also owned slaves themselves. George Washington had owned slaves and Thomas Jefferson, the man who wrote "We the People," owned more than 600 slaves. Now he was exploring and enjoying poems written by American poets.

Take, for example, Frost's MENDING WALL, Leo might say.

"The lines I enjoy most are (1) "Something there is that doesn't love a wall" and (2) "Before I'd build a wall/I'd like to know what I was walling out or walling in."

Provocative, Leo thought.

"Or let's examine Emily Dickinson. She wrote a poem titled "I'm Nobody - Who are you?" I think the title tells everything you need to know who she was, a brilliant, but secluded, woman. Lived virtually her whole life in her bedroom. She wrote often about death, probably because she was slowly dying within. I don't think she was ever loved."

"Walt Whitman--let's take a look at him through his poetry. I think Walt Whitman was the emotional antithesis of Emily Dickinson--wide open, not shut as her bedroom door was. I see Whitman as the first American hippie. After you read I SING THE BODY ELECTRIC, read LEAVES OF GRASS.

Leo was getting sleepy. Who wouldn't be after spending hours on his feet?


Chapter 3

"French toast with maple syrup, two lightly poached eggs, bacon, and a cup of coffee with cream," said Sally.

"Got it."

There seemed to be a lot more people coming in to eat breakface this morning. At 4' 9", Leo could see whichever waitress was leaving an order, but could not see the full cafe, which was why he often looked through the small crack to the right in the wall. In a way, this was a metaphor of his life.

Leo was thinking about what he would talk this coming Sunday afternoon at the Kansas Industrial School for Girls. Probably American history, but he was also thinking about a fellow named Tod Howard Hawks and the many poems of his Leo had read and liked on the Internet.

Among a number of Hawks's poems he liked were SOLITUDE AND GRACE, I WRITE WHEN THE RIVER'S DOWN, and SIMONE, SIMONE,
Leo had read all of Hawks's poems, over a thousand of them, as well as his aphorisms and essays. He had also read his novel, A CHILD FOR AMARANTH, which Hawks had posted on the Internet, which meant people could read it for free. Leo admired Hawks's magnanimity, but he wanted to pick 10 more of Hawks's poems to share with the girls.


SOLITUDE AND GRACE

I will wander
into wilderness
to find myself.
I will leave behind
my accoutrements,
memories of medals,
of past applause
and accolades,
accomplishments that
warranted degrees
and diplomas
portending future
successes. I like
who I am, who
I have become. No,
I love myself, and that
is my greatest achievement,
the acme most men
are blind to as they
mistake wealth for worth.
Most would say
I will be lonely,
but they are wrong,
because I will always be
with my best friend ever,
my real self. And I will
share my joy with
squirrels and rabbits
and deer, with bushes
and broken branches
and brush, with rills
and rivulets and rivers,
with rising and setting
suns and countless
stars coruscating in
night's sky, I will say
prayers to piles of pine
and sycamore limbs
that once were live,
but now make monuments
I worship. I am at one
with all I prize. My eyes,
even when they are closed,
see their beauty. I know
I will be blessed forever.
I lie on my bed, Earth,
and wait to join all
in solitude and grace.


I WRITE WHEN THE RIVER'S DOWN

I write when the river's down,
when the ground's as hard as
a banker's disposition and as
cracked as an old woman's face.
I write when the air is still
and the tired leaves of the
dying elm tree are a mosaic
against the bird-blue sky.
I write when the old bird dog,
Sam, is too tired to chase
rabbits, which is his habit
on temperate days. I write
when horses lie on burnt grass,
when the sun is always high
noon, when hope melts like
yellow butter near the kitchen
window. I write when there
are no cherry pies in the
oven, when heartache comes
like a dust storm in early
morning. I write when the
river's down, and sadness
grows like cockle burs in
my heart.


SIMONE, SIMONE

Simone, Simone,
I'm all alone.
Simone, Simone,
I'm all alone.
Simone, Simone,
please come to me
and bare your breast
for me to rest
my shattered heart
upon a part
so soft and warm.
Simone, Simone,
I'm all alone.
Simone, Simone.


Chapter 4

"Ladies, it's nice to be with you again," said Leo.

"This afternoon, I'd like to talk a bit with all of you about the beginnings of our country. After that, I'd like to share with you some poems written by a very talented fellow.

"Our Constitution of 1787 ratified slavery with the 3/5th Clause, thereby making slavery legal in all 13 nascent states. My question:  How can you reconcile slavery with democracy?  My answer:  You can't. Slavery is anathema. It is immoral. It is repugnant. The child of slavery is racism that permeates our nation today. People whose skin is black are still being discriminated against to this very day. The period from 1890 to 1920 saw more lynchings of Blacks than during any other comparable period. The grotesque fact is that eight men, eight presidents of the United States of America, were slaveholders themselves. George Washington was a slaveholder. Thomas Jefferson, our third president, who wrote the preamble WE THE PEOPLE, owned more than 600 slaves. This is how our "Democracy" got started, which I find repugnant.

"Now I wish to share with you a number of poems written by Tod Howard Hawks."

SOUTHWESTERN KANSAS

When you fly to southwestern Kansas,
you see a different kind of Kansas.
The land is flat,
the sky big and blue.
and the folk, the common folk, well, they get along.
The common folk get along in southwestern Kansas.

On a ranch down near Liberal,
the black night roars
and the wind is wet.
All are happy tonight, for there is rain
and tomorrow the pastures will grow greener.

In the morning when the sun first shines,
the tired hands
with leathered countenances
and gnarled fingers
awake in old houses
made of adobe brick
and slip on their muddy cowboy boots
and faded blue jeans
to began another day of long labor.

On the open prairie made green by rain,
tan and white cattle huddle together
munching on green grass and purple sage.
A new-born calf bawls.
Her mother, a Hereford cow,
is there to care,
and the baby calf ***** her belly full
of mother's milk.

About 60 miles to the north,
and a little to the west,
the sun stands high in a blue sky
dotted with little puffs of white.
At noon in Ulysses,
folk eat at the Coffee Cafe;
Swiss steak, short ribs, or sweetbreads
on Tuesdays
with chocolate cake for dessert.

The folk, the common folk, well, they get along,
the common folk get along in southwestern Kansas.
They got a new high school and a Rexall drug store,
a water tower and a drive-in movie theatre.
They got loads of Purina Chow,
plenty of John Deere combines,
and co-op signs stuck on almost everything.
And they got a main street several blocks long
with a lot of pick-up trucks parked on either side
driven by wheat farmers
with silver-white crew cuts
and narrow string ties.

Things are spread out in southwestern Kansas.
A blanket woven of green, brown, and yellow
patches of earth sown together by miles of barb-wired
fences spread interminably into the horizon.
Occasional, faceless little country towns
distinguished only by imposing grain elevators
spiraling into the sky
like concrete cathedrals
are joined tenuously together by
endless asphalt streaks
and dusty country roads,
pencil-line thin and ruler-straight,
flanked on either side by telephone poles
and wind-blown wires
strung one
after another,
after another
in monotonous succession.

But things, things aren't too bad in southwestern Kansas.
Alfalfa's growing green
and irrigation's coming in.
Rain's been real good
and the cattle market's really strong.
The folk, they got the 1st National on weekdays
and the 1st Methodist in between.
The kids, they got 4-H clubs and scholarships to K-State.
And Ulysses, it's got all the big towns got--
gas, lights, and water.
So the folk, the common folk, well, they get along.
The common folk get along in southwestern Kansas.



THE WAY THAT WINTER COMES AT ME

The way that winter comes at me,
as if a stranger from a side street
cold and dark accosting me. I turn
my collar up. He hollers, "You, there!"
Faster I walk, fear chilling me,
a lamp post but a grey ghost in the fog.
This ****, winter, mugs me. He hits me
in the face with frozen fists. He grabs me,
stabs me in the side with knives
of ice, slices at my heart, the home
of hope. Supine, frost forming on
my brow, I pray to boughs of willow
trees:  pines will sing my elegy. My mind
drifts like snowdrifts:  a mitten lost...
fingers, nose, toes frostbitten...
a lake of isolation...a sleigh with no
horse...a blizzard of insanity.
My blood thaws the frozen ground,
then freezes.



GOTHS AND VISIGOTHS

I read of Visigoths and Dark Ages,
nomadic tribes, enormous rage
toward an empire falling,
fires and fleeing,
a desire for being
eternally at rest.
We walk through the ruins
of our empire romantic,
fires still burning,
a yearning so fierce
it's piercing our hearts.
The Franks and the Vandals
and Visigoths dismantle
the art and the ardor
we knew before the fall.
The walls have all crumbled;
that is all I remember.
The Ostrogoths have dismembered
the love we once shared
a millennium or so ago.
I am leaving the ruins
of my own Middle Ages,
turning the pages
of my own darkened soul.
I am solely my sage now,
trying to engage now
the vestige of happiness
the rest of my life.



A STILL LIFE

Pardon me, sir.
May I borrow
your squalor
for a photograph?

I love
the repetition
of those wrinkles in your brow.
Hold it, please.

The contrast
of your black skin
against the white plaster chipping
is marvelous.

When I
get them developed
I'll send you a print,
They'll look great in my portfolio.

Thank you
and your wife
and your eight kids
for this pose in poverty.


A DEEPER NIGHT

In the night
there is a deeper night,
in sorrow, a deeper sorrow,
in your sorrowful eyes more
sorrowful eyes I descry,
the deep night of your eyes
as I lie beside you, your head,
then your head lying on night's
pillow, deeper than a hollow hole
filled with tender tears as you tell me
of the night, the deeper night of your life,
your hair wet with deeper tears
on night's side of your visage
when you had to leave your son
to save yourself and him, a hurt
the still hurts, a deeper night hurt
you share with me through deep night
sobs, deeper sobs, wetting your checks
and neck and night hair, the hurts
the deeper night hurts that robbed
you of yourself and him, of how you
had to go in order to return, the sinuous
path, convoluted and constrained,
to leave the night to be able to come back
in the day. All I could do was to hold you
and let you sob and shake until you finally
saw the brightest sun in your heart.


MOON OF CHERRIES BLACK

Cherries black by water
flowing, berries blue,
the hue of Father Sky.
Bluffs and buffaloes
a long time ago, the
Great Spirit permeated
land and lives. Eagles
flew in hearts of men;
honest words were spoken then.
No token treaties, no entreaties,
arrows flew like truth to hearts
on antelopes. No interlopers,
no antebellum prairie schooners,
no sooner had they come than
bison hooves were no longer
heard. They herded red men
and women and children like
chattel. Wild dogs knew better.


SILVER SPOONS

Some people love their silver moons,
China closets in velvet rooms,
hand-rubbed walnut round pearls of glass,
antique notions to preserve a past,
while others love their silver moons,
orange sunsets, October tunes of bluebirds
sighing through sunburnt skies,
green fields soft where lovers lie.


IF I COULD MOUNT A MOUNTAIN

If I could mount a mountain
and ride it to the sea,
I'd gather up the waters
to make a bath for thee.
I'd rinse your hair with violets,
your ******* and thighs with myrrh,
and as you rose I'd cover you
with strands purple, silver, gold.
If I could garner galaxies,
I'd make for you a ring
and ring it round your finger
for eternity.  I'd call on all
the continents to make for you
a bed, a majesty of meadows,
white billows for your head.
And underneath the tapestry
God wove on Heaven's loom,
with love and lust I'd plant my
seed in your soft and sacred womb.


THE BUTTERFLY SONG:  A Lullaby for Katie

Tell me why, oh butterfly,
do you fly so high.
Tell me why, oh butterfly,
high up in blue sky.

Tell me, pretty butterfly,
with your wings of gold,
are you as kind and gentle
as I'm always told?

Tell me, golden butterfly,
will you come to me
and light upon my shoulder
to keep me company?

And when night falls, my butterfly,
please let your golden wings
illuminate the darkness
until the bluebird sings.


WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO SUFFER?

What does it mean to suffer?
Is it better to buffer ourselves
from turmoil, or does the oil
of hate and hurt serve some purpose?
Are we animals in some circus,
parading like elephants inelegantly,
passing through wire hoops?
We tire, we droop.
Are we poor men in soup lines,
hoping for salvation,
fed with propitiation?
Our faces show no elation:
they grow ashen.
Shall we cash in the bonds
our mothers never gave us?
Love's dearth has thus enslaved us.
Just put us in our graves and
let us live in Mother Earth.


The girls and Leo had a long, trenchant exchange for almost two hours. Leo found it exhilarating. The girls had never engaged others in their regular classes as they had that Sunday afternoon.


Chapter 5

Leo was listening to the 2nd movement of Beethoven's 7th Symphony while
he was reading about the "TRAIL OF TEARS" and President Andrew Jackson.

We, the white people, were the first immigrants to what became known as the United States of America, Leo thought. All the people and politicians can't see that, right?, pondered Leo. Are they simply dumb, or are they being duplicitous? Actually, Leo thought, this was a genocide of what we now call Native Americans.

The INDIAN REMOVAL ACT was signed in 1830 by President Andrew  Jackson. 60,000 Indians of the "five civilized tribes":  the Cherokee, the Muscogee, the Seminole, the Chickisaw, and the Choctaw nations. Over the course of this diabolical walk from the southeastern states to what is now Oklahoma, it is estimated that 16,700 perished from diseases and murderous conditions, as as well as anti-Indian racism. Those groups that "helped" the Indians keep moving along included the U.S. Army and state militias. Forced displacement, ethnic cleansing, and mass murders, among others, kept these human beings moving westward allowing the United States of America to aggrandize more land west of the Mississippi River.

Leo lay on his bed for a long time. He had finished listening to Beethoven's Seventh Symphony and was now enjoying Dvorak's NEW WORLD SYMPHONY. But the longer he lay there, Leo wondered if Dvorak was dreaming of a new, budding world, or whether he was listening to the preamble to a demonic future. Leo knew the hydrogen bomb was like the atomic bomb, only a thousand times more powerful.


Chapter 6

Leo remembered General Philip Sheridan said in the 1860s "The only good Indian is a dead Indian." Every time Leo saw Hotah come into the Beloit Cafe, Leo thought of Sheridan and almost puked. Hotah, a Lakota Sioux, was a little older than Leo, and over time the two had become friends. Hotah had grown up on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, the poorest place in the USA. The drug addiction, alcoholism, and rampant poverty drove Hotah off the reservation, down through Nebraska, and into north-central Kansas where he made for himself a home of sorts for himself in Beloit. What the two had shared was a life of pain and intelligence.

"Leo, hello," said Hotah.

"Hotah, it's good to see you. How have you been?" said Leo. "Just a minute. I have a few more supplies to stock," said Leo.

The Cafe closed at 8 pm. It was 7:45. There would be no more customers. Leo closed the Cafe every evening.

"There, that will do it. Like a cup of coffee?" said Leo.

"Sure," said Hotah.

Leo poured two cups of coffee. "You like your coffee black, right?" asked Leo.

"That's right," said Hotah. Leo drank his coffee with milk. "Pick a table and I'll be with you in just a moment," said Leo.

Hotah picked up the two cups and put them on a table close by, then sat down. Leo joined him.

"I'm thinking I'd like to drive back to the rez and wondered if you'd like to join me," said Hotah.

"I think I could work something out," said Leo.

The Wounded Knee Massacre occurred in the winter of 1890. Hotah's great-grandfather and nearly 300 other Lakota Sioux died in that slaughter. Each year Hotah made a pilgrimage to the cemetery about ten miles east of Pine Ridge to honor his slain great-grandfather.

A ceremony called "Ghost Dance" performed by groups of Lakota Sioux had frightened nearby settlers. A detachment of the U.S. 7th Calvary Regiment confronted almost 300 Lakota Sioux men, women, and children and after a rifle was accidentally fired, the massacre began. Hotah's great-grandfather was killed.

"Do you think we could make the round-trip in a week?" Leo asked Hotah.

"I think we could do that," said Hotah. "My old Honda should get us there and back."

"I've accumulated some vacation time. When do you think you'd like to go?" asked Leo.

"How about next week, say Saturday?" said Hotah.

"Things around here are pretty flexible. I'll ask tomorrow and let you know tomorrow evening," said Leo.

"Great!" said Hotah.


Chapter 7

"Good news, Hotah. Saturday will work fine," said Leo.

Driving from Beloit to Pine Ridge is not like drawing a vertical, straight line. It's a lot of zigs and sags. Hotah had made this trip many times. He could make this trip without a map. Travel time is between 5 to 6 hours. Once they got to the rez, the two could stay with Hotah's relatives, the Brave Bulls.

Saturday morning Leo and Hotah got into Hotah's old Chevy pick-up and headed northwest. A number of small Nebraska towns Hotah and Leo passed through. After crossing I-80, they stopped at a cafe in Philipsburg. Then they traveled through Breadwater, Alliance,  and a number of other small towns until they passed through White Clay, then into Pine Ridge. They had planned on meeting Hotah's older brother, Akecheta, and his two younger sisters, Macha an Whicahpi at Pine Ridge's gas station and convenience store.

Hotah got out of his pick-up, went over and hugged his brother and two sisters, then introduced them to Leo.

"Pleasure to meet you all," said Leo. Akecheta had suggested that everyone come over to his house, relax, chat, then have dinner.

"Well, this is my home," said Akecheta. "Welcome." It was mid-afternoon by now and Hotah and Leo were a bit worn out. They all went inside and found a seat.

"Coke or Seven-Up?" said Akecheta. He took all the orders, went into the kitchen, prepared the drinks, served them, then took a seat. "Here's some chips if you're hungry."

"Glad to have Leo with us. You and Hotah will be staying with me. The girls will be staying with their mom. Our parents are divorced," said Akecheta.

Leo was beginning to unwind. He was used to standing for hours, but not so used to sitting for 5 1/2.

The group was starting to feel quite comfortable with each other. Leo asked the girls which grades they were in and which subjects they were studying. He mentioned that every few weeks or so he met on Sunday afternoons with a group of high-school girls and spoke about different topics. Akecheta, it seemed, was a very good athlete. The Yankees were scouting him.

Turns out, Akecheta also was talented in the kitchen. He excused himself and finished making dinner.

"Anybody hungry?" said Akecheta. "Dinner's ready."

So what was for dinner?

Wasna:  A traditional dish made from dried meat, fat, and berries.
Vegetables and corn:  Wild vegetables such as turnips (timpsila) and corn.
Thahca: Bison meat served as roasted, stewed, or dried.
Frybread.

More than enough for everyone around the table, and delicious.

After dinner, the six sat around and chatted. Hotah and Leo were tired from their day's trip. The next day, the two were going to the Wounded Knee Cemetery. It was time to call it a day. Akecheta took his sisters home. When he returned, he found Hotah and Leo asleep.


Chapter 8

Hotah and Leo got up early. After eating breakfast, they quietly went  outside and got into the pick-up. The morning air was cool.

It would take the two a bit under a half hour to reach the cemetery. There would be no conversation as they headed toward the cemetery. Leo understood this trip was a prayer.

They reached the cemetery. Detritus, not rose petals, greeted Hotha and Leo. It met all who came to this sacred place to remember those who were slaughtered that frigid day--men, women, child--in December, 1890.

Hotha and Leo sat in silence. The spirit of thousands of buffaloes of the past could be felt. No sound but the wind could be heard. Hotha could hear cries, screams from the massacre of a century ago. His tears wet the dry earth.

The sun rose slowly in the blue sky. First Hotha, then Leo, slowly rose to make their way back to the pick-up. Cries and screams slowly abated as they headed home. Neither spoke a word.


Chapter 9

The Badlands were first inhabited 11,000 ago. The Oglala Lakota Sioux originally occupied all of the Badlands;  today they control a small section called the "Stronghold District," still a part of Pine Ridge Indian Reservation.

Hotah and Leo took a number of drives through what is now Badlands National Park. As they drove, they chatted.

"The indigenous peoples have really had it tough," said Leo.

"When we speak English, we call it "genocide," said Hotah.

"All these atrocities...." murmured Leo. "You would think by now that peoples who have superficial differences between them would see them by now as, well, "superficial." Instead, for millennia, peoples who are fundamentally the same find a reason to **** each other. That's crazy, isn't it?"

"I think "crazy" is a sane word to describe the situation you're talking about," said Hotah.

"You know I like to read history. Let's see if I can name a few," said Leo:

"ANCIENT TIMES:  Assyrian Empire (900-600 BCE) known for their brutality against those they conquered;  Roman Empire (27 BCE-476 CE) various atrocities including mass crucifixions and the sacking of cities like Carthage.

"MEDIEVAL TIMES:  Mongol Conquests (1206-1368). The Mongol invasions led by Genghis Khan. Widespread destruction and mass killings;  Crusades (1206-1368). Religious wars. Much loss of lives on both sides.

"EARLY MODERN PERIOD:  Spanish Inquisition:  (1478-1834). Torture and execution of thousands accused of heresy. Transatlantic Slave Trade:  (16th-19th centuries):  Enslavement and transportation of millions of Africans to the America.

19TH CENTURY:  Congo Free State (1885-1908):  Exploitation and atrocities committed by the Belgians under King Leopold II.

20 CENTURY:  Armenian Genocide (1915-1923):  Mass killings of Armenians by the Otttoman Empire;  Holocaust (1941-1945):  Genocide of six million Jews by **** Germany;  Rwandan Genocide (1994):  Mass slaughter of Tutsi by the Hutu majority;  Bosnian Genocide (1992-1995):  Ethnic cleansing and mass killings of Bosniak Muslims by Bosnian Serbs.

21ST CENTURY:  Darfur Genocide (2003-present):  Atrocities committed in the Darfur region of Sudan;  Syrian Civil War (2011-present): Numerous war crimes and atrocities committed by various factions.

"How do you remember all of this, Leo?," said Hotah.

"Photographic memory," said Leo.

For the next few days Hotah, Leo, and Akecheta hung out in the latter's home. It had been a great time, but it was time to head back to Beloit. Hotah and Leo thanked Akecheta for his kindness and generosity, but the old pick-up was waiting patiently.


Chapter 10

Hotah and Leo got home on Saturday.

Leo was scheduled to meet with the girls at the Kansas Industrial School on Sunday. "I need to pick out ten more poems," he thought. Also, he needed to decide on which era of American history he would discuss with the girls.

Leo chose these ten poems by Tod Howard Hawks to read.

WHO WILL BE THE FIRST?

Who will be the first
to volunteer
to be poor, homeless, and hopeless?

Who will be the first
to live
with no love, hope, and will?

Who will be the first
to be
illiterate, ostracized, and forgotten?

Who will be the first
to suffer
enslavement, lynching, and death?

Let me be the first
to say
"This is not right!"

Let me be the first
to believe
"This is not honest!"

Let me be the first
to embrace
what's kind, generous, and caring?

Let me be the first
to love
you. you, and you.



WHAT IF WIND AND WHITE CLOUDS

What if wind and
white clouds blow by
without a sound to be heard.?
What if all hearts and souls
be one without red, yellow,
brown, black and white skins
What if one kiss is a kiss of all?
What if we miss these truths
throughout our hours? What if
love is all that matters as we scatter
through our myriad lives?



WHAT IF A POEM WELLS UP?

What if I sit
in a silent room?
What if I speak
only to myself?
What if I utter
no words? What if
a poem wells up inside
me unconsciously,
no trying need there be.
I think I should type it.


BUT I SHALL HOLD LOVE

For what is the most precious gem?
It is the blue diamond,
but I shall hold love.
And for what is the greatest wealth?
It is to own more than any other,
but I shall hold love.
And for what is the greatest honor?
It is to have all others bow at your feet,
but I shall hold love.
And for what is the greatest glory?
It is for one to be remembered by all forever,
but I shall hold love.



WE HAVE MINED OUR MOUNTAINS

We have mined our mountains,
we have fished our seas,
we have felled our forests,
we have gathered our grains,
but we have not embraced
the infinite energy of our souls,
which is love.



A NATION, A NOTION

A nation, a notion,
Hegemony or honey,
A cruel ruler or a kind mind,
All for one or some for all,
Aggrandize, or wiser still,
Enough for billions,
Gentle hands for a broken heart,
Lavender love to assuage the pain,
Head on your pillow,
Alone in the dark,
No fear as sun rises,
A nation, a notion,
Take some lotion
And spread it
To dissolve
All borders.



TO SHED MY TEARS

I am sitting on the curb in late July between Al's
Barbershop and Harry's Hardware watching ants
making their way to the gutter where they disappear.
Busby, Nebraska is not a big town--in fact, it's not
even a small town--in fact, it's not even a town. It's
three blocks long, but Ethel's Cafe is open for break-
fast and lunch. And most importantly, it's on the
way to the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation located
in the remote southwestern corner of South Dakota
where I'm headed on foot. I've been to Pine Ridge a
number of times. Something calls me there from time
to time. Not sure what it is--kind of like a spiritual
whisper. Only got 23 more miles to get there. I walk
wherever I go--reminds me of Wordsworth's THE
WORLD'S TOO MUCH WITH US. I say I'm going
to Pine Ridge, but actually I'm headed to Wounded
Knee Cemetery, about ten miles east of Pine Ridge,
where so many of the Lakota Sioux men and women
and children were slaughtered, then buried, the
last massacre of indigenous people by the U.S.
Army in 1890. I sit on the ground and cry and cry.
The dry grasses soak up my tears as fast as they
hit the ground.



I WALK MORE SLOWLY NOW

I walk more slowly now.
The miles are longer than they used to be.
I know where I want to go,
but now I forget to turn left and turn right.
Here comes a pretty woman.
I say hello as she passes,
but I hear nothing.
I saw her, but I guess she didn't see me.
I walk by trees and flowers
that used to be green and red
and yellow, but now are grey.
I need to get my glasses fixed,
but I cannot find them.
I miss Shep, my dearest friend ever.
I hear him barking,
but he died a year ago.
I walk more slowly now.



I FEEL SORRY FOR YOU NOW

I used to hate,
but now I love, I
feel sorry for you now.
I feel sorry you
were never loved before.

You who loathe
and discriminate, I
feel sorry for you now.
I feel sorry you
were never loved before.

You who wish
that hell be black, I
feel sorry for you now.
I feel sorry you
were never loved before.

You who'd torture
and even ****. I
feel sorry for you now.
I feel sorry you
were never loved before.

You are humankind,
but still unkind, I
feel sorry for you now.
I feel sorry you
were never loved before.



I AM REALIZED

Life begins at conception.

For a human being to be able to love, she/he must first be loved, usually by
her/his biological parents, other times by her/his surrogate parents. If the newborn is not loved, she/he will suffer great pain, possibly even dying.

Most human beings do not receive the love they need;  thus, they will
unconsciously compensate usually in one or more than three ways:  accrual
of power, not to empower others, but to oppress them;  aggrandizement of
great wealth;  or achievement of fleeting fame.

If, on the other hand, they are loved, they will love all others throughout their lives, realizing their own personhood, which is their innate sacredness. If they are not loved, they will realize one or more of deleterious behaviors.

When all die, those who have realized their real selves will not have to return to Earth to live another life, because their souls have become pure love that bonds with the pure love of infinity, which is reality that has no form, no beginning, no end. They have become enlightened and will be so forever.

Those who did not realize their real selves will need to return to Earth in  new lives unconsciously to make another attempt to attain enlightenment.

Human life is an illusion, but because of love and self-realization, it remains nonetheless paradoxically the path to the reality of eternal love, which is God.

Know truth by untruth.



Chapter 11

Leo had just selected 10 more of Hawks's other poems to share with the girls this coming Sunday afternoon, but he also had to decide which era of American  history he would discuss with them. Finally, he decided on the genocidal period from 1860 to 1890 during which General Philip Sheridan is alleged to have said, "The only good Indian is a dead Indian."

Sunday afternoon came quickly. Leo enjoyed reading the poems to the girls and discussing with them the period from 1860 to 1890. But he was worn out and immediately returned to the Beloit Cafe, walked up the stairs to his room and lay on his bed and fell asleep instantly.

Monday morning, it seemed, also came instantly. By 7 am, Leo was ready to cook, and he did. And it was a long day. Most interestingly, that evening was the first time he saw that lady who came into the Cafe right before it was to close. Even more interesting was that the lady kept coming in every evening around the same time.  

"Have you noticed our new customer," asked Sally.

"Well, I've seen glimpses of her," said Leo.

"The interesting thing about her is that every evening she comes in, she's crying," said Sally.

"Crying?" said Leo.

"Yes," said Sally.

"Has she ever spoken to you, Sally?" asked Leo.

"Not personally, but she always orders the same thing. I think it's Swiss Steak," said Sally.

"That's right. Someone orders Swiss Steak every evening of late. It has to be her," said Leo.

After talking with Sally, Leo walked over to the crack in the right wall to see this mysterious lady. There she was, putting her handkerchief constantly to her eyes. I wonder what's bothering her, thought Leo.

The lady kept coming in every evening at the same time for more than three weeks. Leo kept checking her out every evening. Nothing had changed.

On Thursday evening of the fourth week, Leo did something that he had never done before. After Sally had placed the lady's order--yes, still Swiss Steak--Leo left the kitchen during working hours for the first time and slowly walked over to the table where the lady was sitting.

"I'm Leo Lottman, the cook. I'm concerned about you. Are you OK?" said Leo politely.

The lady was surprised the cook came over to her and asked if she were OK, but internally she appreciated his kindness.

"Your first name is Leo, am I right," the lady asked.

"Yes, you're right," Leo responded.

"It was very kind of you to come over and ask me if I were OK," said the lady. "By the way, my name is Julia."

"I didn't intend to interrupt your dinner, Julia. I haven't even cooked it yet--the Swiss Steak, right?" said Leo.

"My husband was killed in a car wreck," Julia *******.

Leo was stunned. "Oh, my god! I'm so sorry. My parents died in a car wreck when I was in high school," said Leo, his voice quivering. "I had to go live with my uncle. I suppose I need to go cook your Swiss Steak. And, by the way, don't feel you have to rush. I'm the only person working at this time of evening, so when everyone has eaten, I close the Cafe. I enjoyed talking with you, Julia. I hope to see and talk with you again."

"Leo, you're so kind. Your voice warms my heart," said Julia.



Chapter 12

Leo lay on his bed and thought about Julia. Tears and fears, a poem, Leo thought. Leo could relate to those two things. He thought some more. If Julia comes in tomorrow, I want to go over to her table again and just check in, Leo thought. And she is beautiful and nice, thought Leo as he continued to lie on his bed.

Leo had never interacted with a female until this evening. His heart was warmer, too.

He had been listening to Mozart's Symphony #40, which he loved. But as he listened to it this night, this Mozart's symphony sounded even sweeter. He was dreaming, thought Leo, even though he was still awake. And though he had cooked so many Swiss Steaks, Leo was thinking he'd love to cook them every night. Finally, he dozed off.

Morning did not come soon enough. Leo had never felt this way before, but this new morning Leo felt like he had never felt before. There was a spring in his step and a smile on his face. Leo was happy. He had never felt happiness before. There was something in the air that before was never there. This was great stuff, Leo thought...and felt.

Leo was almost running down the steps. He couldn't wait to start cooking. Eggs, hash browns, grits--whatever you want, thought Leo. Sally, one of the two waitresses, saw a different cook, a different Leo, than she had ever seen before.

Service at the Beloit Cafe had always been good, but as this day unfolded, Sally and Mildred had never sensed this level of happiness permeating the Cafe. Nobody spoke out about it, but it was palpable to every customer and staff. What was going on?, everyone thought.

Leo was extraordinary in flipping pancakes and frying bacon. Eggs--anyway you like them. Cereal--any kind you like. Coffee--we have the best. The Beloit Cafe was humming.

This workday was going by fast. The afternoon went by so fast, the staff barely noticed it going by. Leo felt he could run a marathon. Sally and Mildred were talking about seeing a movie together. If there were a dog in the Cafe, it would be running around tables and chairs. It might even have puppies.

Leo had been checking the time all day--about fourteen times. This time when he looked again at the clock, it was the magic moment. It was quarter to 8! And sure enough, Julia walked in and went to her table. As Leo and everyone else knew, there were no other customers coming in this evening and all the staff except Leo were gone. Eureka!  

Leo couldn't wait. After a few moments, Leo walked over to say hello to Julia.

"Good evening, Julia. How are you feeling tonight? I hope better." said Leo.

"Good evening to you. It's nice to see you again. I am feeling better tonight. Thanks for asking," said Julia.

"I'd like to chat with you a bit, but I know you want your Swiss Steak," said Leo.

"Don't worry about the Swiss Steak. It's not going to walk out of the Beloit Cafe," said Julia. "I'd enjoy chatting a bit with you, but tell me if you feel we're going on too long."

"Won't hesitate, but I am now a free man, if you will," said Leo. "My time is NOW my time. Where did you grow up, Julia?"

"I grew up in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. I'm not a great skier, but I do love the mountains," said Julia. "Where did you grow up?"

"I'm a hometown boy. I've lived my entire life in Beloit," said Leo, "But I feel I've been many places and done many things, because I love to read and listen to classical music."

"Oh, that's interesting, because I love classical music, too. Probably because, as a child, I took lessons and learned how to play the violin," said Julia. "Who are your favorite composers?"

"Well, I've listened to a lot of classic music by different composers, but if I were stranded on an island far out to sea, I'd love to be able to listen to the works of Beethoven, Bach, and Mozart," said Leo.

These beautiful chats continued for several weeks.



Chapter 13

After this many chats, both Julia and Leo felt comfortable in each other's company.

Leo had decided to make a proposal of sorts to Julia.

That Monday evening, Julia came into the Cafe and sat down at her table. Leo came over to welcome her.

"Good evening tonight," said Leo. "How has your day been?"

"Just fine, Leo," said Julia. "And how about yours?"

"Well, the first thing I do every day now is to see if we still have enough Swiss Steaks. I have good news for you, Julia. We do!," said Leo.

Julia laughed.

Then Leo laughed, too.

"I have a question for you, Julia. Are you familiar with Beethoven's third symphony, Eroica?", asked Leo.

"Oh, yes, Leo, but I haven't listened to it for quite some time," said Julia.

"In that case, I have an invitation for you. Would you like to come to my room after eating another Swiss Steak and listening to Eroica? I have it," said Leo.

"Oh, that would be great!," said Julia. Julia never found out that Leo's invitation to Julia was the first invitation to a woman in his life.

"Well, I better start cooking your Swiss Steak now," said Leo.

Leo's heart was beating like crazy.



Chapter 14

Leo gave Julia a lot of time for her to eat her Swiss Steak. When he saw that she was finished, Leo walked over to her table.

"Well, Julia, how was your Swiss Steak tonight?" Leo asked.

"It was as good as all my other steaks have been," said Julia.

"That's good to hear," said Leo. "Are you ready to hear some beautiful music?" said Leo.

"I am now ready," said Julia.

"Just follow me," said Leo.

Leo walked across the room, then walked up the stairs to his door.
Before he opened the door and turned around. Are you OK after your hike?" asked Leo.

"I'm eager to listen to beautiful music," said Julia.

"Beautiful music coming right up," said Leo as he opened his door.

"This is my humble abode, Julia. I only have one chair and it's for you," said Leo. "Beethoven's Eroica, one of the masterpieces! Relax and enjoy."

Leo put Eroica on the turn table and turned the record player on. Leo sat on his bed. His heart was not pounding now. It was exuding serenity.

Beautiful music supplants all other feelings. Listening to Eroica was like relaxing in a warm pool. You didn't just listen to it. The music flowed through you. Finally, the music ended.

"That was so beautiful," said Julia. "Thank you, Leo, for sharing that with me."

"My pleasure, Julia," said Leo, then led her downstairs to the exit of the Cafe.

"Thank you, Leo, for brightening my life," said Julia.

"You're more than welcome," said Leo, his heart pounding again.

Julia walked home and Leo went back to his room, then lay on his bed, and before he fell asleep, thought this had been the best evening of his life.



Chapter 15

Leo and Julia continued their relationship. A number of times, Leo asked Julia if she would like to listen to other classical masterpieces. She said she would. After several months, Leo asked Julia if she would like to go out to a fancy restaurant for dinner. She said she would.  After that, they began on the weekends to go see movies. Julia invited Leo over to her home for dinner.
Then Leo and Julia decided to take a week's trip into the Rocky Mountains.
A year later, the two announced to the Cafe's staff they were engaged. A year after that, Julia and Leo got married. And a year after that, Julia gave birth to a baby boy.

In life, you never quite know what's coming next. For Julia and Leo, it was love.

a symphony orchestra.
there is a thunderstorm,
they are playing a Wagner overture
and the people leave their seats under the trees
and run inside to the pavilion
the women giggling, the men pretending calm,
wet cigarettes being thrown away,
Wagner plays on, and then they are all under the
pavilion. the birds even come in from the trees
and enter the pavilion and then it is the Hungarian
Rhapsody #2 by Lizst, and it still rains, but look,
one man sits alone in the rain
listening. the audience notices him. they turn
and look. the orchestra goes about its
business. the man sits in the night in the rain,
listening. there is something wrong with him,
isn't there?
he came to hear the
music.

I am not superman.
I carry around guns for protection.
I have killed many
And never was sorry.
I have stolen from men
who have stolen from others.
Do not look at me as a savior,
Not even as a big brother,
because I am nothing of a role model.
My wings have broken
and I don't even have a place to call home.
Pain is written on my skin with the smirk of a devil
leaving cracks all over for sorrow to sneak its way in and bury itself deep into my bones.
So give me hope because I'm not man enough to create my own.
I keep putting other's lives before mine hoping that counts as love
but wind up realizing that doesn't count as anything
Trust me, I'm no superman.
I can't even save myself.
I've burned my cape in the fires of hell because I've been there enough
to know I can't wear it anymore.
I have flaws enough to fill the ocean and I'm sick of drowning
and I'm tired of counting dead bodies
and I’m tired of swimming through waves I'm not big enough for.
So hear the violin and piano play my symphony
of the fallen man.
I never said I could fly.
I never said I could save your life.
I never gave up though.
So hold me tight and let me finally break and fall into the arms of someone I can trust and someone I know that'll keep my heart safe buried next to theirs.
I've played wicked games and lost too many times and now I just want to sleep.
I'm tired of turning up black and blue
But I'll do anything to protect you.
If you were never here then I would have ended this a long time ago.
I would have welcomed the salt water into my lungs
Or fall asleep in a tree and meet death in the morning as I hang in silence.
But now I beg for hope because I'm torn apart.
But I know am seen as your superman so I’m going to hang on with all my might,
And live this life with you
as a hero
as your superman.

In life’s tempest, you’re my guiding light, A testament to love’s unyielding might. Your strength and grace, a beacon true, Through life’s dense fog, I follow you.

Our journey, a winding road we tread, Through joy and sorrow, by love we’re led. Your laughter, your tears, they form our song, In life’s grand symphony, we belong.

Your birthday, another year’s sunrise, A testament to love that never dies. In the night’s vast canvas, you’re my star, A beacon of love, no matter how far.

In your absence’s silence, I discover, A melody sweet, like no other. If memories fade, close to my heart I’ll keep them, In our love’s symphony, emotions run deep.

So here’s to us, to another year of delight, In life’s symphony, you’re my moonlight. I love you, today and always, my dear, In our love’s symphony, I hold you near.

Don't watch me bleed,
Pick it up,
Pick it all up,
And place it in your cup,
From which you drink your sins nightly.
You're so unsightly,
Your mother should have aborted,
How she could have supported,
That monster you are,
Disgusts me,
You're such a star.

Supernova,
You're brighter than any,
You're a quarter to my penny,
A dime to my dim,
Slim to my exact,
Addition to my subtract,
The loser to my win.

Supernova,
Monster mystery,
I reflect in your shadow,
In your shadow I am me,
Dark and discreet,
I knock at your door,
Invited in, I have a seat,
Wine please, more,
I am minor, major; I implore.

Supernova,
I lay death at your feet,
I lick the edges,
I taste defeat,
I've walked the ledges,
Life I've met, despair I'll meet,
Just you wait,
Supernova symphony,
I faint beautifully,
In wake of your sleep,
River wrists,
Dare slumber keep,
My heart at rest,
Supernova symmetry,
Torn apart at best.

Tired of living in a false paradise of consumption,
suffering everyday our labored prostitution,
trade in your hours for a handful of scraps,
smile while your master puts the cigar out on your back,
this is the workers symphony,
aching joints, aching psyche,
smothered in whiskey to **** the pain,
our autonomous freedom we'll never regain,
slave till you die, laugh till it hurts, your meaning in life, to merely survive,
collect your checks week after week, creative minds stomped out, just smile and drink,
be a good slave except your fate,
it's just the way it is boy get back in your place,
we gravel in dispair, they spit in our face,
we waste our lives away,
on our hands and knees but we just smile and drink,
thinking about breaking these chains,
it's punishable by law,
authority laughs when you die slow for your keep,
with your eyes wide shut,
don't wake your slumber,  
it's all a bad dream,
just go back to sleep,
and forget life's blunder

it's the 50th anniversary edition of william burrough's naked lunch, with the original cover, looking at all the annexes is like watching modern history with Russian annexing Crimea, anyway...

indeed the nature of addiction, i chose mine to
cure my insomnia - i *chose mine -
the less nasty less mythical name for it is indeed
metabolism - any hard-craft alcoholic walks into
a bar - drunk ******* and egoistically gluttonous
idiots come out like giraffes - vomiting into
the gutters, more Marilyn Monroe moments
showing off knickers even without the metro gust -
you drink enough and watch people drinking
for the psychoactive ingredient for dis-inhibiting
effects (buttered up talk, smooth there, quasi
Don Juan wannabes) - as Burroughs said: PLAN
YOUR ADDICTION - become addicted if some other
weakness is beating you - amtitriptyline doesn't
work without alcohol to what's desired as the lullaby
effect prior to K.O. - don't measure up to a veteran,
he'll beat you with experience, given it works -
i can imagine why hallucinogenics aren't metabolically
affecting - too much implants concerning the
world beyond, and god, and the secret of the universe -
you can't get addicted to these things - because there's
the bad trip, and you're off the hook - no more spiritual
trips looking for answers - repetition of the everyday
kills it off like flicking off a light switch - but, years
after the Beat movement, the Beats really did underestimate
the addiction of marijuana - they thought it was
the ****** drunk... oddly enough marijuana is linked to
alcohol and ****** addiction, it too is metabolic -
i'm not a medical expert... but i have heard of stoners
and their munchies - anything relating to food,
to metabolism is included, marijuana is the middle-guy
between the standards and Disney -
you heard of being monged, right? marijuana is as addictive
as alcohol - originally a giggly drug, a conversation
starter - marijuana - ends up being
an Jason Segel and Ed Helms film Jeff, who lives at Home,
it's this uncontrollable effect that proper intentions of
marijuana have: supreme thoughtlessness - or
the present vogue concerning "mindfulness" -
Jeff basically overthought himself on the high - he didn't
detach himself from thinking, now he's paying the price -
he's making completely random associations -
and why do stoners always waste their time in front
of t.v. or television - marijuana is a purely auditory drug -
******* to the park, pretend to be a fake Buddha imitation
and create the void in yourself to make your mind
the M25 at 3 a.m. - but this innocence with the Beat
movement associating itself with marijuana is partly
why it was legalised - the government wants rejects and,
to be frank? retards - that's why they legalised it -
they knew with the munchies jokes that marijuana had
the same metabolic addiction components as alcohol and
***** - you're metabolic dude! once addiction sets in
you're no longer in control of brain-freeze - you didn't
think it up on the psychoactive Everest - when the nice
sensation was still there, marijuana realised you zombie much
later - all the in-jokes of stoner culture suddenly passed you,
simulation dementia ensued - i'm way past the psychoactive
asset of alcohol, no slurred speech, no nothing -
but i retain the psychoactive point of metabolising excess
alcohol: if i didn't, i would sleep! i wouldn't sleep!
don't get me wrong, i get the point that i can't really
experience the negatives of reaching the psychoactive purpose
of alcohol and ***** in a street or join the football hooligans -
and surgeons drink to calm the nerves and calm the hand -
but alcohol is more cool headed and less phantasmagorical
than ***** addiction, for one thing your palette improves -
you find the most boring tasks liberating -
but the nights are the real nights, esp. if slumped on the sofa
watching t.v., unless you don't have a backlog of un-watched
Versailles or Billions episodes, you really need to go for
a 4 mile walk and breath the air - then half-sleep for
about an 2 hours (because you have limited money and
sometimes you pass a day without Auburn Whitney) -
you become rigorous - the prime solipsism - no time for
girlfriends, doesn't matter, my genitals weren't mutilated
as a child, no one forced a ****-*******-marriage-ring
on my finger - i can actually enjoy addiction - i end up
eating one meal a day - of course my face looks candyfloss
puffed up - but my soul is partly helium pubescent -
alcohol addiction is not ***** addiction even both
are primes of metabolism takeovers - no hung-overs too,
no blackouts - no fake "i can't remember" stories
when something ****** up happened - and certainly no
innocent look at the fact that marijuana is also a metabolic
addiction - unless of course you limit psychic ingestion
(excluding music, music is great to arrive at thoughtlessness),
but as most stoners (the next alcoholics) prove,
garbage the mind with American Dad and then get hungry -
binge eat - the stomach can drag the brain right down
into the acid pit and fry it - zombies galore - you won't be
able to catch yourself stopping thinking, the stomach
will do that for you, and you'll enter the zombie apocalypse:
just like my neighbour - there's a rat-like ritual involved,
for example, most people get sleepy from marijuana -
so it's not an addiction standing at a bus stop
pretending to be waiting for a bus and smoking?
that's addiction - the metabolic Gargantua has already caught-up,
addiction is primarily a solitary affair - it just depends
what you do with it... i'd be ashamed with my alcoholism
if i didn't write poems - the counter-effect is that i feel
some sort of social-inclusion when the day finishes -
i feed the cats, write invoices for my father (40% of
18 - 35 year olds live with their parents, because all
the foreigners bought all the houses intended as: buy to let -
is my money going down my drain, or is this
a post-Freud Oedipus stigmata killing familial relations
altogether?), cook, clean the house once a week,
cut the cats' nail and brush them - and to counter
what i don't do? can you imagine listening to a symphony
with only violins playing? not so genius hearing that
sort of Hollywood story with only cameo characters speaking.

Bluebirds dance gracefully,
Cardinals sing a symphony.
Announcing the return,
Of thee.

Righteous may be thy soul,
Kind may be thy heart.
What we ask of you,
Where art thou heart?

Harps ring beyond the flowers,
Of scarlet lovers.
Might the rose be thy veil?
Thy weddings renewal.

Bonded by Matrimony.
It shall be so.

The body was given to us as impression of the gift of love.
We were conceived in love and born in order to love.
The Creator has given us through the body to the world.
We are therefore divine spark.
Let us look at other man as at indescribable gift.
Adam and Eve in paradise followed in the wake of ****** without shame.
Through the body we can touch the soul.
This ****** was
acceptance of a man with his limitations,
tangible form of love,
devotion to each other without mystery,
boundless openness,
freedom from lust of flesh.
Bashfulness has its roots in this original innocence.
Discretion to the body is inscribed in man.
Let us follow with pure look at man.
Purity is trying to get access through the body to soul and inside.
The physicality brings us
childish joy,
communion of souls,
inner enrichment,
sharing a beautiful relationship,
exploration of mystery of love.
Pure look at man is unconventional symphony of his gift of life.
Such scrutinizing is necessary for genuine love.
Beloved should first  play simultaneously the same notes of feelings
before the symphony will flow with sexuality.
This presage will give your body speech.
Sexuality should not drown out the relationship with beloved,
it should build skyscrapers.
Sexuality is a gift, such as body and life.
Sexuality discovers endless wealth of lover.
****** expression of love is a confession of God's presence.
After all, God is love.
Only the perception of sexuality as gift saves from vulgarity.

I beg inside my soul to have you.
I don't love you.  
I want to feel passion, desire,  and the warmth of another body pressing against me
I could grab any man I wanted, but I want you.
I see your brown hair
let me run my fingers through, just once
Your eyes
soft earth
Your lips
pink lilacs
And all I want is your body
Which is very saddening.
To only want to use someone, then toss them aside like trash
How can you?
And still fall asleep at night without thinking about a face wet with tears
your fault
I simply want to do to you
What you have done
To All the women before me,

The same song as a trickery

I want you to fall in love with me
an instrument meets the music
I want you to hold me close and kiss me, as you share your fears and truths.
a melody plays softly
I want you to believe in love because of me
Think of me,  breathe me,  and miss me when we are not together
accelerato tempo

Until one day you meet me in a corner booth at our favorite restaurant, and I rip your heart to shreds

Look,  I never loved you. I lied.
I used you to get what I want.
You are a pathetic, self-serving dung heap that only thinks about himself. You wooed me, I pretended to like you, so I could dig under your thick facade of masculinity, and discover your sensitive side. I know what you are--man *****--and I enjoyed using you. You can lie to everyone, every woman from this point on, but ten years from now,  when you are married to wife number four and you are waiting for her to come home and she never does,  I want you to crawl into the bed you made and bawl like the whining,  sniveling baby you truly become at night when no one else is around you.  I hope 'lonely' presses you down so hard it hurts to breathe. And maybe then you might turn into a different man or at least your miniscule brain will have an inkling of true heartbreak. Doubtful though--I win.  You lose

Then I get up and walk away from you,  ignoring any pleas and ****** slurs.

*Caesura

Waking up there
next to you
is like being born
to a Symphony
of warm water-bells~

Your smiling eyes are light houses
where the ghost-light keepers
ring out their fears with silver bells

a lovely Symphony of bells
calling my ghost ship
of white noise and lonely violins

to the easy morning light
you wear like a crown
of laughing daffodils.

Organs play music
Your heart plays a symphony
Full of emotion

Your light of hope
Seems so dim anymore
My hope in this life;
My dreams are there
But they seem further away from me
I dream of a day
Where I can provide
Yearn for a life where
I am always on the climb
Instead of being trapped upon the
Earth

Distant dreams
Are tragedies
But your words
Had offered peace to me
The way you were always so confident in me and always told me to be anything my heart could ever dream
Your voice...
    Your words....
         Were like a symphony
The way you loved me
        
         Unconditionally

...She passed away in the beauty of spring
And how I long to hear her voice
To let it comfort me
Can she see how far I've come?
I keep pressing towards my dreams
But gravity is too strong
Let your eternal love offer me strength
Although worlds apart,
I pray it will reach me
To hear you whisper my name
    To hear your voice...
          To hear your Symphony...

I want to relive your love
    Forevermore
I want to make you proud
    Of this "little girl"

Tell me
   Can you see me where you are?
      Worlds apart, but you don't lose heart
           Listen
       And you will hear
    A symphony
It is the gift you'd given to me

By the sill sit still;
Listen to the wash on the roof;
Specks and sheets form a symphony
so complete to hush you quiet,
Even still.

An inundation.
This libation to parched earth has
been a meditation since birth;
to ponder under the pitter-patter
hiss and swish of exponential scales
At the wrongness of raindrops in a sunbeam.

Sit still, brood like the clouds that came
to darken a June day, so silent they gathered
over a land hard with memory,
With fear for passing years and
worries that grew like weeds in summer showers.

Brief as thought these drops like jewels
are set ablaze then strike the dirt; done.
They flash for an instant in time,
with no way back to an azure sky.

There is no telling the distance,
How high these clouds climb.
Just the sound of falling rain,
Listen.

Do you remember the melody
of a sweetly sang blue silk symphony?
of my sharp breaths and moaning singing?
of cracks in my ****** expressions?
the ones typically tempered to turn my passion into passivity?

Do you remember when the accompanying
string snapped?
I went quiet, cold
couldn't sing for my stranglehold on my
selfishness and...lust? Yes. Lust.
Do you remember the difference?
The dissonance?
I feel like a **** and it's
so far from ridiculous
I don't feel like i deserve your forgiveness
guess what i'm trying to say is
I'm sorry and
though i don't know if it will happen again
because i'm new at singing this song
I don't want it ti

I need to know
all i need to know
is the harmony of the first night of the blue silk symphony
still echoes strong
(in the background, in the background)
and i just can't hear it because
lack of forgiveness ...whether my own for myself, or yours for me right now
( is such a loud sound)
( loud sound)

(poems from the Chinese translated by Arthur Waley)

Last night the clouds scattered away;
A thousand leagues, the same moonlight scene.
When dawn came, I dreamt I saw your face;
It must have been that you were thinking of me.
In my dream, I thought I held your hand
And asked you to tell me what your thoughts were.
And you said: ‘I miss you bitterly . . . “

As Helen drifted into sleep the source of that imagined voice in her last conscious moment was waking several hundred miles away. For so long now she was his first and only waking thought. He stretched his hand out to touch her side with his fingertips, not a touch more the lightest brush: he did not wish to wake her. But she was elsewhere. He was alone. His imagination had to bring her to him instead. Sometimes she was so vivid a thought, a presence more like, that he felt her body surround him, her hand stroke the back of his neck, her ******* fall and spread against his chest, her breath kiss his nose and cheek. He felt conscious he had yet to shave, conscious his rough face should not touch her delicate freckled complexion . . . but he was alone and his body ached for her.

It was always like this when they were apart, and particularly so when she was away from home and full to the brim with the variously rich activities and opportunities that made up her life. He knew she might think of him, but there was this feeling he was missing a part of her living he would never see or know. True, she would speak to him on the phone, but sadly he still longed to read her once bright descriptions that had in the past enabled him to enter her solo experiences in a way no image seemed to allow. But he had resolved to put such possible gifts to one side. So instead he would invent such descriptions himself: a good, if time-consuming compromise. He would give himself an hour at his desk; an hour, had he been with her, they might have spent in each other’s arms welcoming the day with such a love-making he could hardly bare to think about: it was always, always more wonderful than he could possibly have imagined.

He had been at a concert the previous evening. He’d taken the train to a nearby town and chosen to hear just one work in the second part. Before the interval there had been a strange confection of Bernstein, Vaughan-Williams and Saint-Saens. He had preferred to listen to *The Symphonie Fantastique by Hector Berlioz. There was something a little special about attending a concert to hear a single work. You could properly prepare yourself for the experience and take away a clear memory of the music. He had read the score on the train journey, a journey across a once industrial and mining heartland that had become an abandoned wasteland: a river and canal running in tandem, a vast but empty marshalling yard, acres of water-filled gravel pits, factory and mill buildings standing empty and in decay. On this early evening of a thoroughly wet and cold June day he would lift his gaze to the window to observe this sad landscape shrouded in a grey mist tinted with mottled green.

Andrew often considered Berlioz a kind of fellow-traveller on his life’s journey of music. Berlioz too had been a guitarist in his teenage years and had been largely self-taught as a composer. He had been an innovator in his use of the orchestra and developed a body of work that closely mirrored the literature and political mores of his time.  The Symphonie Fantastique was the ultimate love letter: to the adorable Harriet Smithson, the Irish actress. Berlioz had seen her play Ophelia in Shakespeare’s Hamlet (see above) and immediately imagined her as his muse and life’s partner. He wrote hundreds of letters to her before eventually meeting her to declare his love and admiration in person. A friend took her to hear the Symphonie after it had got about that this radical work was dedicated to her. She was appalled! But, when Berlioz wrote Lélio or The Return to Life, a kind of sequel to his Symphonie, she relented and agreed to meet him. They married in 1833 but parted after a tempestuous seven years. It had surprised Andrew to discover Lélio, about which, until quite recently, he had known nothing. The Berlioz scholar David Cairns had written fully and quite lovingly about the composition, but reading the synopsis in Wikipedia he began to understand it might be a trifle embarrassing to present in a concert.

The programme of Lélio describes the artist wakening from these dreams, musing on Shakespeare, his sad life, and not having a woman. He decides that if he can't put this unrequited love out of his head, he will immerse himself in music. He then leads an orchestra to a successful performance of one of his new compositions and the story ends peacefully.

Lélio consists of six musical pieces presented by an actor who stands on stage in front of a curtain concealing the orchestra. The actor's dramatic monologues explain the meaning of the music in the life of the artist. The work begins and ends with the idée fixe theme, linking Lélio to Symphonie fantastique.

Thoughts of the lovely Harriet brought him to thoughts of his own muse, far away. He had written so many letters to his muse, and now he wrote her little stories instead, often imagining moments in their still separate lives. He had written music for her and about her – a Quintet for piano and winds (after Mozart) based on a poem he’d written about a languorous summer afternoon beside a river in the Yorkshire Dales; a book of songs called Pleasing Myself (his first venture into setting his own words). Strangely enough he had read through those very songs just the other day. How they captured the onset of both his regard and his passion for her! He had written poetic words in her voice, and for her clear voice to sing:

As the light dies
I pace the field edge
to the square pond
enclosed, hedged and treed.
The water,
once revealed,
lies cold
in the still air.

At its bank,
solitary,
I let my thoughts of you
float on the surface.
And like two boats
moored abreast
at the season’s end,
our reflections merge
in one dark form.

His words he felt were true to the model of the Chinese poetry he had loved as a teenager, verse that had helped him fashion his fledgling thoughts in music.

And so it was that while she dined brightly with her team in a Devon country pub, he sat alone in a town hall in West Yorkshire listening to Berlioz’ autobiographical and unrequited work.

A young musician of extraordinary sensibility and abundant imagination, in the depths of despair because of hopeless love, has poisoned himself with *****. The drug is too feeble to **** him but plunges him into a heavy sleep accompanied by weird visions. His sensations, emotions, and memories, as they pass through his affected mind, are transformed into musical images and ideas. The beloved one herself becomes to him a melody, a recurrent theme [idée fixe] which haunts him continually.

Yes, he could identify with some of that. Reading Berlioz’ own programme note in the orchestral score he remembered the disabling effect of his first love, a slight girl with long hair tied with a simple white scarf. Then he thought of what he knew would be his last love, his only and forever love when he had talked to her, interrupting her concentration, in a college workshop. She had politely dealt with his innocent questions and then, looking at the clock told him she ‘had to get on’. It was only later – as he sat outside in the university gardens - that he realized the affect that brief encounter might have on him. It was as though in those brief minutes he knew nothing of her, but also everything he ever needed to know. Strange how the images of that meeting, the sound of her voice haunted him, would appear unbidden - until two months later a chance meeting in a corridor had jolted him into her presence again  . . . and for always he hoped.

After the music had finished he had remained in the auditorium as the rather slight audience took their leave. The resonance of the music seemed to be a still presence and he had there and then scanned back and forward through the music’s memory. The piece had cheered him, given him a little hope against the prevailing difficulties and problems of his own musical creativity, the long, often empty hours at his desk. He was in a quiet despair about his current work, about his current life if he was honest. He wondered at the way Berlioz’ musical material seemed of such a piece with its orchestration. The conception of the music itself was full of rough edges; it had none of that exemplary finish of a Beethoven symphony so finely chiseled to perfection.  Berlioz’ Symphonie contained inspired and trite elements side by side, bar beside bar. It missed that wholeness Beethoven achieved with his carefully honed and positioned harmonic structures, his relentless editing and rewriting. With Berlioz you reckoned he trusted himself to let what was in his imagination flow onto the page unhindered by technical issues. Andrew had experienced that occasionally, and looking at his past pieces, was often amazed that such music could be, and was, his alone.

Returning to his studio there was a brief text from his muse. He was tempted to phone her. But it was late and he thought she might already be asleep. He sat for a while and imagined her at dinner with the team, more relaxed now than previously. Tired from a long day of looking and talking and thinking and planning and imagining (herself in the near future), she had worn her almost vintage dress and the bright, bright smile with her diligent self-possessed manner. And taking it (the smile) into her hotel bedroom, closing the door on her public self, she had folded it carefully on the chair with her clothes - to be bright and bright for her colleagues at breakfast next day and beyond. She undressed and sitting on the bed in her pajamas imagined for a brief moment being folded in his arms, being gently kissed goodnight. Too tired to read, she brought herself to bed with a mental list of all the things she must and would do in the morning time and when she got home – and slept.

*They came and told me a messenger from Shang-chou
Had brought a letter, - a simple scroll from you!
Up from my pillow I suddenly sprang out of bed,
And threw on my clothes, all topsy-turvey.
I undid the knot and saw the letter within:
A single sheet with thirteen lines of writing.
At the top it told the sorrows of an exile’s heart;
At the bottom it described the pains of separation.
The sorrows and pains took up so much space
There was no room to talk about the weather!

Turn out the lights.
I want to dance in the darkness of my sin.
I want to let down my hair
feel its length run wild down my spine.
I want to feel my arms reaching out into the nothingness,
want to feel the touch of the shadows
as it burns my flesh.
Turn out the lights.
I want to dance in the darkness of my sin.
I want to hear the silence of my solitude, hear it screaming
at me from the pinpoint horizon
I can't actually see because I
turned out the lights so I could dance in the darkness of my sin.
I want to feel the void
at the very center of my being
shaped like the soul I sold to a devil disguised as angel
disguised as man disguised as devil.
I can't tell anymore. Even in this
darkness, it hurts to keep my eyes
open. Even in this darkness I can
see the outline of my nakedness shining
like a beacon out to sea.
But this is not the beacon calling
to lost ships like mothers call to children.
This is the beacon that blinds my eyes
and reminds me of my imperfections.
So again,
turn out the lights.
I want to dance in the darkness of my sin.
Please, just turn out the light
that burns within me. Cut out its source
and let me fade back into the darkness.
Turn out the lights.
I want to dance in the darkness of my sin.

Her eyes played me
Like soft chords on
An old violin,
And the sound produced
Would never sound as sweet,
As the song flowing from
Your piano key teeth.

There are harmonies in my heart,
And melodies in my veins.
If only you'd strum me
Three times more,
I'd blow into your trumpet lips,
And you'd buzz and you'd hum-
Dancing inside of my kiss.

I'll take this mallet,
And hammer away
At the contours of your spine
Like it were a xylophone,
Your body vibrates-
I flow to the sensual tone.

This is a symphony of few,
An orchestra of two,
And who needs instruments anyway-
When the music is made
by me and you?

Listen to the music coming from the violin.
Listen to the music coming from the oboe.
Listen.
Listen very closely as the music flow.

Listen to the symphony of love.
As the musicians plays.
Who cannot enjoy the orchestra in full bloom?

As I dance with you around the room.

Never did I imagine us being this close.
We was totally opposite when we first met.
But you grew on me.
And I grew on you.

So, listen to the symphony plays our favorite song.
As I dance with you around the room.

We making harmony.
We making love with our minds.
As the symphony plays behind us.
As I dance with you around the room.

To the cha cha, I'm dancing.
To the fox trot, I'm dancing.
To whatever comes to mind.
We're doing it.

As we enjoy the moment after saying, I do.

Awakened by your gentle touch,
Your fingers playing over my body.
We have played this symphony before
Each note plucked from your memory.

The high notes are brought by the caress of my *******
You carefully bring the melody;
Flutes play as my ******* are kissed.
It’s getting harder and harder to breathe.

Sleep still feigned I enjoy your symphony as your
Hands conduct the musical torture.
Trying so hard to stay still as I can
When you head south of the border.

I sigh as you follow with hot searing kisses
Trying so hard to awaken me.
I peak at you and a giggle escapes.
Well, my little hoax is all but over.

Down to the ******* you go,
Determined to have your way.
You dip your fingers into the pool of desire
And I float willingly away.

You play my body like an instrument of desire
A maestro of passion you are.
The years you spent learning to play me well spent
I sing the hallelujah song like a choir.

A diva I am and always will be,
You give me a standing ovation.
My maestro gives a contented sigh,
And rolls over and goes back to sleep.

like that pill bitter Sunday morning (after)
with a nauseating hack
the previously uneventful Tuesday
derailed
in surrealistic tale
with Auntie and Jack (and a quarter of fate)
in the 748
on a night flight
from Sherwood to Lore

reverberating waves
of imminent summer haze
river flats
and flower fields
fly weights
and silver bait
shredders and shysters
and open gates
(into those everlasting
and sweated journeys of hope)

bloods and strays
and florentine grays
(reminiscent of Rockwell fame)
running horses
and overgrown country lanes
morning grace
and gentle cheer
eyes clear
on the river pass
blunted paddles for those ancient
and not so willing suckers!

duke making his own way
(to the corner club)
Parsons and Poe
stream from the torn screen door
cricket cadence
and symphony of the Deere
calm and deliberate
in the soft
and silent fields

meadows open for grazing
(guineas scamper across the till)
pocket apples fill
the country ripe air
drunken bees
and chestnuts
and electric fingers
strike the surface pool
(a cedar strip wedged on the white wash dock)

baited bull heads set to cast
evenings with hearts
and Nolten Nash
may flowers bloom
across the grass
~ time unmatched ~
with blue jays
and river bends
and channel cats
...and that warm
and recurring
Coleman drift

I love you like the sun loves the day

I love you the way morning meets my windows
and then my face

The way the stars stay faithful to the night sky

How the spring greets the summer and bleeds to fall

Like the breeze that passes through trees
Caressing gently the autumn leaves

Springs polite decline to winters invite
A harmonic fight

I love you like the way the darkness is pierced by the light

Every time you smile my heart takes flight

Love like a movie
Black and white

Bursts of colour
Soundtrack to my life

I love you every time my heart beats

Constantly, consistently, fiercely, calmly, bravely, quietly… with every adjective and all their synonyms

With every vessel and part of me

I love you every time my heart beats.
Love like a symphony
I hear it every time you breathe
You’re the conductor
Pulling on my heartstrings

The sound of your heartbeat
My loves lifeline
Till the end of time

Because I love you.
I love you every time my heart beats.

© Raffi

There are sounds
I truly hate:
One hand clapping,
Derisive laughing,
Babies crying,
The rasp of dying.
For us, these sounds
Raise sympathy,
For the hard of hearing,
A symphony.

i heard a symphony and violins began to play then  came  trumpets and the brass who joined along the waythen came in the strings and lovely harp playing beautifully with notes so very sharpeveryone one in tune so full and all completei sat there and listened to this music suite.when the music finished my heart began to poundand i could still here the symphony and its lovely sound.

Since our political system has been laid bare, after RumputiN was installed
in the Blackhouse, it's beautiful complex of lack of complexity, in a word,
conspiracy of conspiracies, has moved me and "...we(e),..." to have as a few
of my favorite things be far more reaching questions, out of necessity. Like,
without acknowledging, and demanding others do the same, that it's been
purposely engineered to be a criminal injustice system instead, how can one
even have a real conversation that would lead to potential for real change
of it taking place in reality, if you don't know who you were, where you've
been, how on God's green Earth can you expect to know who..., where you are
and what's going on, necessary to start thinking about changing anything,
even yourself, as well as directing who you will be and where you will
be going, etc.?  Swine slaughtering lower-middle-class to poor men en masse,
mostly of color, instead of just doing the usual liquidation of their ases
and assets, are just serial murderers masquerading as cops, and what goes
around comes around, no?  If you're not taking bullets you're making them.  
Also, people are fed up with felonious RumputiN and his rootin' tootin'
organized crime family spree from the Blackhouse, which should be prosecuted
using the RICO Statute instead of just being elaborately covered up by Mueller
for he's not using it and he's handing out immunities like soldiers candy to
Iraqi kids, duh.  I would add some salient pointless points, beyond the 'empty
boat' of Zen, and 'useless tree' of the Tao, we can understand the burden
placed on our shoulders by our ancestry not exercising their responsibilities
as they should have, and thereby it's Siamese twin sisters, their freedoms,
Withered like unused muscles as well, as a panultimate challenge, saving
humanity, literally. Also, understanding Jung's "80 % of all actions, thoughts,
feelings we have, that we acknowledge, or don't, perceive or don't, are
compensatory towards our pasts", necessitates an integral understanding of
Satre's existentialism' meaning of angst, as experience integral to life, not
opposed to it, but, rather, central to it, and a nexus of it.  This is more
than an embracing of gestalt's, Perls', moment, now. Moving away from sophist
perspective, we also experience the meaning of life is struggle, which comes
through all our meaningful work, succinctly. Further, what is life beyond that
foci is also, the where, when, who, how, and sometimes why too (but never Y2K)
of life; beyond our masks and ego fulfilling stories, schtick, lines, etc..
Do we struggle, not just as lifelong students, with the impossible, not just
the improbable.  Yet, it's actually more layered than that in a much larger
dimensional paradigm than 4 dimensions.  Yes, the effects of our causes in any
action usually have effects that undo our causes as we act them out, intend,
present them, etc..  Yet, those more superficial, linear, first conclusion
layers are not less effective, per se, as the complexity of Karma, Dharma are
beyond our normal comprehension. What is the root of thought, feeling, the root
of feeling, being, the root of being, the extent to which we struggle with what
it is, no?  For, as the following twig of poetree gleans: Soul//
As my breath
is the one, prana,/
And the life's pulse, pala,/
Reaching angelic source, sura,/

So is this mind, manas, a
/  Flowering unfoldment,
/ Unendingly touching
/ The eye
that would it see,/  
Unbeckoning unto thee./
As well, this Bodhi, a temple,/

Of the four and fifth, nur,/  
So entered by atma, a ray of thy sun,/  
Thus being
winged, and
/  As such with wind,/
Flying only in dharma's dance,/
Is returning
to, Brahma, you./  For, there yet, by thy grace, go I./  
We are not who we think
we are, we are, rather, the extent to which we struggle to evolve to be some-
things, spirit, soul, Bodhi, etc., on the path of study that could and should
be one, you, me, forever asked and never answered.  Yet, even if we lived as
prayer, our light only adding to the well of light, our every step in grace,
leaving no footprints that followed none, echoing in all ways, always,
sometimes, like pulling teeth, "...we(e),...", must stalk our words from our
insides 'til we wrangle them, like cats, to the tip of our tongues, no?  For,
"Words weren't meant for cowards..." and we must "be brave...", Happy Rhodes.
We can't allow ourselves the luxury of taking our supposedly 'golden silence'
all the way to the bank, as your average bear does.  These are the end times,
we successfully struggle, to abolish global defacto-slavery by the non-renew-
able energies' corporate structure's machine and it's convolution, against
the global oligarchy's premeditated mass-****** of 7.5 billion people, or
humanity's extinct.  Gandhi, "(supposed) science is the root of all opression"
and, "...we(e),..." must be the change we want in the world".  Is not life
relation, are we not responsible for one another, are not all threads in
the fabric of life needed, as is the evoliutionary ones' mendings, for we
can't allow it to be torn asunder?  If not here, then where, if not now, when,
not you, who? Viva la evolucion.  Indivisible, illimitable you, GOTV.

my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack

they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined

and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines

Notes float like snowflakes
Carried by the gentle breeze
Landing randomly on her forehead
Her breast and shoulders,
Melting before they can be heard
Or transcribed to paper.
A melody etched in a dream
Fading with the first thought,
But the tune lingers in memory
Nonetheless.
It’s a duet we compose
In passionate embraces
Improvised and syncopated
Lifting spirits and lightening the heart.
This composition has only just begun
Exposing the first movement
We dance to unheard chords,
Smiling and humming as the phrases
Fill the air.
It’s an opus built on hope
In the mystery of night
And structured on sighs.
We are ignorant of the movements
Yet to write,
But we surrender to the inspiration
As the music ebbs and flows
Then in gradual crescendo
We wait, we ponder, we fear
The music yet to come,
In the symphony yet to be written
Our unfinished symphony dances on.

~I too have a dream

Oh, what a beautiful morning,
I wonder
what's going to happen
to spoil it,
what's going to befall me.

There are so many possibilities
of things going wrong,
not going my way,
I don't even want to imagine.

Why cannot I just sit quietly
enjoying the sunshiny day?

The phone may ring
bringing bad news,
I may lose my beloved
to the the world.

An unexpected invoice
I forgot to pay
might appear in my mail box,
the weather may change
and out of the blue day
a thunderstorm and rain.

Will I pay dearly
for seeing everything
only in shades of grey?

Then the tones
of "The New World Symphony"
with motifs of Bohemian village dances,
the hustle and bustle
of American cities,
native Indian drums drumming
bring the image
of peace;
of pursuit of happiness
on both of my continents.

Impossible dream, you say?

Author Notes
~Largo from the 'New World' Symphony (1893)
by the Czech composer Antonin Dvorak;
and is probably the most famous piece
of the composition played at all American state funerals.