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M Suárez Jan 2012
Piensas en el ayer
El ayer en diamante
Lágrimas de oro
Anhelos de piedras preciosas
La voz diurna
Las miradas suicidas
El olor centelleante
El tacto preciso
El gusto con la lengua seca
Y crees que fue una pesadilla
Un amargo café al que olvidaste,
- sin querer - ponerle azúcar
Un olor a quemado,
de una fuente imprecisa,
pero cercana.
Los dedos entumecidos,
de tanto cansancio.
La vista nublada, perenne, constante
sin significado alguno.
La garganta irritada, rasposa,
de no ahorrar las palabras.
Eres un espejismo para tus ojos
No existes
Solo piensas que tal vez
Una vez más
**Viviste.
¡Gracias a Héctor por ayudarme con el título!
Sebastian Macias Sep 2017
A piece of paper caught in the wind
Your wrist shifts up to move the hand
There is nothing to grip anymore
It has been taken away in the gusts
The gust of life are so precious
Many times we hate the inability
To be able to do more than the possible
We want to hold water, fly, live forever
Yet, we've no idea the responsibility
There is so much grey in the world
Tanto, tanto, tanto gris
We don't even know what to do
When it's all gone and we're left
To Swim, to Walk, to be Alive
Could I just become a song?
Play and run around between the music
Touch the human soul that drives us
Pequeño por fuera, enorme por dentro
cazador de nacido, mañoso aprendido
de orejas grandes y cola parada.

El mejor amigo, mi mejor amigo
distraído, te llamaba el instinto
me querías y yo te quiero

Solo espero que estés en un cielo
donde vivan grillos y conejos
donde comas como tanto te gustaba
donde juegues hasta no poder, donde duermas
como nunca, donde puedas darte un baños de sol
donde el agua no te falte y tengas amigos con quien compartir.

Si no hay cielo para perros
ven a mi corazón
que aquí te quiero.

Ojala pudiera haber estado ahí
para cuidarte y acariciarte,
rascarte la panza y pasear contigo.
Martes 2 de agosto, Today my dog Die
steel tulips Jun 2016
te adoro en luz sandia, y luz zapote
en el amanecer y a caer el sol
te amare con viento caliente en los días largos del verano.
en esas mismas noches cortas y calladas, te dire como un suspiro lo tanto que te quiero.
te pensare en los días grises de invierno. cuando el pavimento y  el cielo se comen el horizonte.
te estrañare con el olor de lluvia en el prado
y yo te sigo adorando cuando las hojas color candela caen de los brazos de arboles canzados


*I love you in watermelon  and blood orange light,
at sun rise and sunset. i will love you on those long summer days, on these same nights short and quiet
i will tell you like a exhaling breath how much i really love you.
I will think of you on winter days so grey  the pavement and the sky eat the horizon.
I will miss you with the smell of fresh rain on blades of grass, and i will keep loving you when the flame coloured leaves fall from tired arms of trees.
Sebastian Macias Dec 2017
A piece of paper caught in the wind
Your wrist shifts up to move the hand
There is nothing to grip anymore
It has been taken away in the gusts
The gust of life are so precious
Many times we hate the inability
To be able to do more than the possible
We want to hold water, fly, live forever
Yet, we've no idea the responsibility
There is so much grey in the world
Tanto, tanto, tanto gris
We don't even know what to do
When it's all gone and
M Apr 2018
Lumipas ang labindalawang taon
Nang tayo'y huling nag-kasama
Ako'y nilayuan, iniwasan
Dahil akala mo ay gusto kita

Ngunit kaibigan lamang
Ang pag tinigin sa isa't isa
Oo't ikaw ang huwaran
Sa bawat lalaking hinangaan

Hindi nasagi sa isip kailan man
Na ang tunay na mithi ay ikaw pala
Kaya't siguro nga, tama ka
Tama na ikaw ay lumayo at lumisan

Ako'y umibig sa isang tsinito
At ika'y nabighani ng haponesa
Nagkaroon ng sariling mundo
Mga kasintahan ang siyang naging pruweba

Mula elementarya at kolehiyo
Patuloy akong umasa at nag tanto
Kung ang ating mga destino
Ay muling magtatagpo

Sa loob ng labindalawang taon
Ikaw ay may mahal paring iba
Malapit man sa'kin, ika'y malayo parin
O giliw, hanggang pangarap na lang ba?
Paulina Falomir Nov 2018
A veces me mareo de tanto blanco,
No se malentienda, gran color ese blanco
Sólo me marea verlo y verlo en todos los edificios,
Las paredes
Y no me marea el color en sí,
Me marea la intención
Me marea usar el blanco para adormecer
La sensación de acorralamiento en jaulas
Que doblegan voluntades
A través de necesidades

El ser estático en su jaula porque no hay más a donde ir
Y las jaulas blancas
Para que sienta paz
Y las paredes blancas
Para que esté tranquilo

Me marea el blanco
Me marean las intenciones
Las intenciones “blancas”

Me marea recurrir a colores
Para disfrazar crueles realidades
Nadie quiere estar sentado todo el día

Quizá me marea el truco
Me marea
Me marea el blanco y lo que implica
Me marea el uso

Y la pregunta, pero sí no el blanco entonces ¿quién?
Entonces ¿cuál?
No abundan opciones
De jaulas negras, de jaulas rojas, no vendría nada mejor
Tiene que ser el blanco
Y eso me marea

Probablemente me marea la realidad y yo
Yo lo refiero todo al blanco
Me marea tanto blanco
Had to be in spanish, it was mind *****
Jade Hell Nov 2018
Quando sparisco
ti sembra tutto calmo
ma è una calma apparente!
Tu credi io sia morta
che mi hai persa per sempre..
ma se guardassi oltre l’apparenza,
vedresti un angelo che nella notte
piange lacrime nere e raffina la tecnica,
affila il coltello per conficcartelo in testa.
Non preoccuparti
che poi tanto l’altra me
verrà a portarti un fiore sulla tua tomba
e cambiando ancora anima,
allontandosi si volterà ridendo
compiaciuta del delitto che ha commesso
perchè infondo ti avrá restituito addosso
il male che tu le hai fatto dentro!
samara lael Apr 18
después de tanto tiempo con la puerta entreabierta
(discutiendo silenciosamente sobre quién lo iba a dejar),
la cerraste en mi cara.

& por fin tuve esa paz
en saber si esa puerta pudiera llevarnos a otro sitio
o dejarnos donde estábamos en la casa de lo conocido.

aunque cambiamos de opiniones
mil veces,
nuestras manos ya no agarran la manija.

no me importa
si pusiste el pestillo o no.
ya no se mueve la puerta.
i have translated this into english too.
Luna Aug 2018
Tengo miedo a las alturas, a la noche oscura y al abandono.
Tengo 21 años y todavía creo en monstruos debajo de mi cama, quiero y no puedo cambiar patrones de mi vida que me hacen daño.
Me desvelo, no me hidrato, como mucho y fumo cada tanto, lloro porque si y por si acaso.
Te busco en rostros extraños y solitarios, en la escencia de los cactus, en aquella canción que una vez bailamos.
Todo parece congelado desde la soledad de mi cuarto.
ghivashel Jun 4
Dame
el lapez
y el papel
dejame
y te recuerdo
lo tanto que te quiero.

(tu eres mi poesia)
literal translation:

give me
the pen and paper,
let me remind you,
how much I love you.

(you are my poetry)

© ghivashel.
aisha zoë Sep 2018
dicen que no es bueno guardarse las cosas
porque las cosas son veneno
y si mi craneo se abriera como la tierra
como un cascarón donde en algún tiempo
vivió una serpiente gruesa y obscura
que arrastra su cuerpo pesado sobre
el piso de madera

dicen que las cosas no deben guardarse
atras de los ojos como un sótano
obsuro y húmedo donde solo ocurren
cosas obscuras y húmedas
cosas que palpitan
los recuerdos palpitan
y pesan mas que cualquier caja
cubierta de polvo

dicen que es bueno decir las cosas como son
pero me tiemblan las manos
cuando quiero hablar y quisiera correr hasta
encontrarme con el mar y ser nada
o morirme en los brazos de alguien
morirme en los brazos tuyos
lo que sea que me haga sentir
menos sola y pequeña, menos estúpida
un poco menos yo

dicen que no es bueno guardarse las cosas
y no se porque me las guardo
si me pesan tanto y no me dejan en paz
ni poder dejar de pensar, respirar
dicen que no es bueno guardarse nada
y también que es obscena la resignada
indeterminada, cansada, agotada
mirada fija que no logro adherir
a alguna parte

siento cosas que no me explico
que no logro alcanzar ni aunque extienda los brazos
intentando rodear el mundo con mi cabeza
como una tela, se resiste, se rompe y -
me dejo caer sobre tí
septiembre 4 2018
(septiembre 30 1:25 a.m. 2018)
Vanilla Dec 2018
¿Estoy en el mal por amarte?
¿Por pensar en ti y en tu belleza?
¿Estaré yo incorrecto por anhelarte tanto?

Am I wrong for wanting to wake up by your side in the morning?
For being so infatuated with you?

Todo le que tengo es tuyo
Y soy capas de darte más
Pero necesitamos tiempo
ahora solo hay que esperar
I
não pode ser justo
que eu  tenha nascido nesse mundo
com a culpa
de uma vida inteira
que ainda nem vivi
que antes de ter chegado
meus olhos já tivessem visto
tudo o mais que eu não pudesse suportar
e carregado tanto peso
em minhas costas
pequenas costas
de criança
frustrada
interrompida
silenciada
com medo
sem nem saber o porquê
era o peso de uma mulher
pesada
amargurada
despreparada
sozinha
cansada
invalidada
com medo
era também a ironia
de que aquilo que eu mais temia
a mulher pesada
que me tinha em seu colo
era também o que eu mais viria
a precisar
desde o leite
e da pedra
a mulher pesada
aquilo que eu mais temia
a que me tinha em seu seio
era também o que eu viria
a me tornar
sem escapatória
sem saber
que eu já havia me tornado
muito antes de existir
e a culpa
tão grande a culpa
desde o leite
e da pedra.
Ron Peter Jan 5
isang mukhang naka kubli
itinatago ang totoong imahe
isang pagkukunwari kailanman
hindi maitatago ang katotohanan
sa maskara kasinungalingan


minsan masaya
minsan may pagsisisihan ka
minsan masasaktan
pero sa bandang huli
may matututunan ka

ito yung buhay na naranasan
ko sa likod ng maskara
na itinago ko sa paraan hindi ako
tinakasan ang buhay
na totoong nararanasan ko

gumawa ng sariling mundo
na hinango sa imahinasyon
paano pa ba makakatakas
sa aking buhay na binilanggo
ng pag papanggap na hindi ako

minahal nila na akala ay ako to
hinangaan nila akala totoo
marami naniwala na ang nasa
harap nila ay nabuhay
bilang malinis na tao

napag tanto ko na parehas
lamang ang tao napaniwala ko
at ako mismo ay nalinlang
lang din sa kainggitan ko
galing sa taong perpekto
na kinuhanan ko ng pagkatao.

na kahit ako mismo
ay nangarap na sana maging ganon man lang din ako
kahangaan ng iba at tanggapin bilang patas na tao sa mundo

minahal mo lang ba ako dahil
sa itsura ko?
nagustuhan dahil sinabi kong
mayaman at may kotse ako?
tinanggap kasi akala mo
nakahanap ka ng prince charming mo?

pasensya na nagising na rin
naman na ko sa katotohanan
kahit ako mismo ay napagod na
sa pagkukunwaring hindi
naman talaga ako.

kasi nangarap din ako na
tanggapin ako ng buo
di dahilsa istura nakaharap sayo
dahil gusto ko din ng may
taong mamahalin ako
kung sino at ano ba ako

ayoko na. pagod na ako.
dahil inaasahan ko rin naman
na kapag nalaman mo ang totoo
ay iiwan mo lang din naman ako

wala kahit sino mismo
ang makakaunawa sa taong
gumamit at napilitan
itago ang buhay sa isang maskara

dahil sa bandang huli
ako mismo parin naman
ang masasaktan dahil
umasa ako na matatanggap ang isang tulad ko sa lipunan
Marco Bo Aug 2018
morning dew
scent of drums over the hills
buzzards fly through full moons
in between
alive I feel
------------
rugiada del mattino
profumo di tamburi sulle colline
le poiane volano attraverso  lune piene
nel frattempo
vivo mi sento
-------------------

rocío de la mañana
aroma de tambores sobre las colinas
halcones vuelan a través de lunas llenas
mientras tanto
vivo me siento
Marco Bo Oct 2018
under this gray sky
drowned between a praise and a curse
some remain silent
others dig and go
and shout your name
the name "you cannot say!"
  and the emptiness remains

the emptiness remains
and I
miss myself so much
I miss myself so much

and the world misses me
under this gray sky
like a fish in an ball
who bangs his face against the glass, dreaming about the infinite
and just to get out of that nightmare
decides to stay attached to the hook ...

shouting
my hook !
I love you!

mio amo
ti amo!

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

bajo este cielo gris
ahogados entre un elogio y un improperio,
algunos permanecen en silencio
otros cavan y se van
y gritan tu nombre
el nombre "que no sabes decir!"
  y el vacío permanece


el vacío permanece
y yo

me extraño
mucho

me extraño mucho
y me  extraño  mundo
bajo este cielo gris
como un pez en un acuario

quien golpea su cara contra el cristal, soñando el infinito.
y solo para salir de esa pesadilla
decide quedarse atado al gancho ...

gritando
mi gancho
yo te quiero!

mio amo
io ti amo!
.............

sotto questo cielo grigio
annegati tra una lode e un improperio,
alcuni rimangono in silenzio
altri scavano e vanno
e gridano il tuo nome
il nome che "tu non sai dire!"
e il vuoto rimane

il vuoto rimane
ed io
mi manco
tanto

manco tanto a me stesso
e al mondo
sotto questo grigio cielo
come un pesce in un aquario  
che  sbattendo il muso contro il vetro, sogna l'infinito
e pur di uscire da quell'incubo
decide di rimanere aggangiato all'amo...
gridando

mio amo!
Io ti amo!
alaska Jul 8
A veces extraño mucho a la gente
en especial a los que me hacen daño
quizá es por todo lo malo que me dejaste y por todo lo que he sufrido
No me gusta pensar en mi misma como la víctima de nadie
pero sé que de alguna forma u otra, lo fui
A veces me siento tan perdida y vacía que pienso que lo único que me traería de vuelta el sentido es volver a enredarme en tus juegos y dejar que me destruyas el alma una vez más
Te juro que no sé qué más hacer. Escribo esto con un dolor en el pecho que no se compara con nada en el mundo.
A veces quisiera irme lejos
pero del único lugar que realmente quiero huir es de mi mente
porque no importa lo que haga, la terapia, la medicación
mis fantasmas no descansan y por lo tanto, yo tampoco
A veces quisiera mandarte mensajes y decirte que es tu culpa,
que todo lo malo que me hiciste y me dijiste finalmente se me metió en la cabeza y que no importa lo que haga, no se va.
No sé si tiene algún sentido que escriba todo esto, la verdad.
y siento que seguiré haciéndolo por el resto de mi vida y nunca se va a desvanecer toda la putrefacción que siento constantemente.
A Sad Alex Nov 2018
Me distraje con tus ojos
Cuando me encataron tus pupilas de caramelo
Y seran tus pupilas caramelo
No son tan dulces como tus besos
Tus besos que me dieron tus labios
Que dibujan tu sonrisa hermosa
Con un tajo destruyen la sombra
Y me contagia de felicidad

Se me olvido mi corazon blindar
De tus dulces palabras y de tu mirar
Tu risa melodiosa no se puede superar
Pero lo lograste cuando dijiste que me querias
Y que si me fuera, me ibas a extrañar.

Y aqui estoy, lejos, triste y desvalido
Y aqui estoy ahogado en lagrimas y dolor
No siento que me extrañes o me quieras
Como extraño el calor de tus abrazos
Y sentir los latidos de tu corazon

Me engañste con dulzura
Bajaste mis defensas sin considerar
Que si las tenia era para evitar la tristeza
Que has traido asi nada mas
¿Y que hago ahora conmigo mismo?
¿Que hago ahora que te vas?
¿Reemplazar mi corazon molido?
Tal vez lo haria si me lo quisieras regresar
Porque es testarudo el amor, y estupido el querer
Que a quien tanto daño me hizo, estoy dispuesto a morir
Como muero cada dia sin ti
Mis lagrimas son rojas de brillante carmesi
Aferrado a un recuerdo que yo vi morir
Esperando que regrese a la vida, y tu por mi
Esperando tus sonrisas dulce y tu querer
Ya que sin tu amor, ya no se que hacer.
Helsy Flores Jan 21
Mi amada Daisy
Ya no tengo quien me avise cuando hay alguien en la puerta
Quien se acurruque en mi panza cuando estoy triste
Quien me vea preocupada cuando estoy enferma
Quien duerma junto a mí en la cama, tapada de pies a cabeza
Era el paraíso despertar con un bultito tan bello y calientito

Mi chiquitita, my tiny
Tan fría que querías parecer, pero cuánto me querías
Todo el día pegada a mí, todo el día en mis piernas
Corrías a sentarte en el tapete para acompañarme hasta en el baño
Sabías perfectamente cuando me iba a ir de viaje
Te subías a mi maleta, y escuchaba tus lloridos desde la puerta

Mi vaquita, mi chilpetina
Ya no tengo quien me despierte en la mañana para ir al baño
Jamás te hiciste en la cama, ladrabas para que te bajara y te abriera
Ladrabas y corrías a tu platito de agua cuando querías agua
O frente a tu platito de comida exigiendo que era hora de comer
Solita lo aprendiste, "Such a smart puppy!"

Mi tinky winky, my ****** twinkle
Ya no tengo a quien soplarle en la carita
Y que como respuesta me llene de besos
No tengo con quien batallar para que coma
Ni a quien ponerle tus vestiditos todos chiquitos
A quien observar, morir de amor, e inevitablemente llenar de besos

Mi bébe, my puppy
Eras tan fuerte que jamás te quejaste de nada
Ni siquiera cuando tus pequeños riñones empezaron a fallar
Siempre estuviste alegre, moviendo tu colita
Excepto en tus últimos días, apagada
Sabías que ya habías cumplido tu misión, que ya era hora

Mi preciosura
GRACIAS por quererme, por hacerme feliz con sólo verte
GRACIAS por cuidarme, por absorber mis males y tristezas
GRACIAS por esperar a que llegara para irte
GRACIAS por ser fuerte cuando tu cuerpo más débil estaba, para poder decirnos adiós estando juntas, en casa
GRACIAS por escogerme como mamá

Mi florecita bella
Fuiste la mejor y más hermosa perrita del Universo
Tenerte fue lo mejor que me pudo haber pasado
¡Qué bonito habernos encontrado en esta vida!
No sabes lo inmensamente feliz que me hiciste
Te amo tanto y lo sabes, porque te lo decía cada 3 segundos


Mi pequeña angelita hermosa
Nos quedamos dormidas abrazadas, y viste el momento
Amaneciste aún abrazada a mi brazo, pegada a mi pecho
Con una carita feliz, llena de paz... pero ya en el arcoiris
Ya no tengo quien haga todas esas cosas aquí
Pero en todas partes te veo, y escucho tus ladriditos tan bellos
Te guardo en mi corazón mientras me esperas en el arcoiris
Jugando, corriendo, observándome y cuidándome
Espérame ahí, hasta que sea hora de que vaya a recogerte
I love you forever, my tiny
Daisy, 2013 (?) - 19/Ene/2019
Escrito el 20 de enero de 2019
Victor Marques Sep 2018
Tens um brilho nos olhos de tanto olhar,
Tens um sorriso de encantar...
O que tu tens parece ser e nao ser,
O que tu tens e nao queres ver...

O que tu tens e ate nem queres saber,
Tens uma serpente para te prender.
Tens sonhos que as estrelas nem querem saber,
Tens o destino de amar o sol ao entardecer.

O que tu tens dentro de uma vida que parece oca,
Tens o rosnar do gato preto que te poe louca,
Tens uma vida inteira que parece nunca te chegar,
Tens uma vontade  de sempre a vida maltratar...

O que tu tens  menina de olhos meigos ,
Tens o desejo de doces beijos.
Tens  tudo e pareces nao querer nunca nada,
Tens a vida que parece vida de uma fada...

Victor Marques
Vida, viver , ter
Victor Marques Aug 2018
Esperar que o sono te leve para a cama,
Doce noite que nunca te engana,
Eu ouço os teus anseios, as tuas preocupações de acordar,
Novo dia sem a noite e o luar...

Ai que sinfonia que nunca canso de ouvir,
Bater do vento sem o sentir,
Olho para tudo e não vejo nada,
Mais sinto a natureza embriagada...

Noite,ai noite que tu escondes com mestria,
Em ti eu encontro paz e harmonia,
Me deleito com tanta serenidade,
Vales tanto para mim e para outros nada...

Os poetas contigo adormecem,
Ricos e pobres te recebem com satisfação,

Uns até te agradecem,

Outros dormem contigo e com sua solidão...


Mas tu noite amiga que pareces vadia,
Canta o mocho  e que linda melodia.
Eu te venero com leveza e no leito eu sou simples sem hipocrisia...
Noite que sempre vem e faz tanta falta como o dia....

Victor Marques
Noite , dia
Ron Peter Jan 12
sa gabi ito nararamdaman ko
ang lamig kung saan ang katawan ko ay nanginginig
ang gabi na bilang lang
ang natatamaan ng liwanag
ng buwan sa daan


nag lakad ako sa dilim para
magpahangin at mag isip isip ng mga bagay na gumugulo at sumasagi sa utak ko
ito ba mga bituin tinitingala ko
ay totoo bang tinutupad
ang hiling ng mga tao?

o isa lang silang bagay na
palamuti sa itaas ng kalawakan
para maging matingkad
ang mga gabi at mag bigay ng
kislap sa itaas ng kalangitan
para matawag itong maganda

minsan naniwala ako sa kasabihan kapag nakita mo ito
sa kalangitan kung saan
ang pakiramdam mo ay hindi
mo maintindihan.
subukan mo ibulong sa bituin

at pagkatapos sabihin mo
dito ang mga gusto ****
mag bago sa sitwasyon na
naaayon sa kagustuhan mo
at ibibigay at magkakatotoo

sinubukan ko gawin ito ng
mataimtim. sinabi ko na lahat
ng aking hinanakit at sakit
ibinulong ko ito sa mga bituin
na may kasama pang luha
baka sakali sakin ay maawa

hiniling ko na sana ay bumalik ka.
yakapin ako muli at hindi kana aalis pa
hahawakan ang aking kamay
at sasabihin sakin hindi mo
kaya
hiniling ko rin na sana sabihin
**** mayroon tayo pa

ilang gabi pa ang mga dumaan
sinubukan ko mag lakad lakad
sa madilim na daan
at mag isip kung saan na ba
napunta ang mga hiniling

kung ito ba'y pagpapalain sakin
o ito ba ay mababaliwala
at mag lalaho lang din ng bula
kasama ng mga hiling ko
kung babalik ka pa ba

napag tanto ko kaya hindi
sinang ayunan ang aking
mga hiling ay parehas tayong
humiling sa bagay na
ginusto na mangyari para satin

ikaw na gusto **** bumalik sya
at mahalin ka ulit
ikaw na pinapangarap sya
ikaw na sana hindi na ulit kayo
maghihiwalay pa

at ako na umaasa babalik kapa
ako na nag hihintay at umaasa
ako na humihiling pa ng
pangalawang pagkatataon
para mahalin.
ako na sana ay piliin mo rin.

nabaliwala ang lahat ng hiniling para sa ating dalawa.
naisip ko na hindi naman
natin kailangan ang mga bituin
na to para hilingin ng mga bagay
na gusto natin

dahil tayo ang mga bituin
sumabog sa kalangitan pagkatapos ng ating mga hiling
para sa atin ay magpapasaya

tayo ang mga bituin tutupad
sa gusto natin mabago ang lahat
tayo ang mga bituin noon ay
nag ningning at nag sama
pero mali ang tinalikdang daan

tayo ang mga nawalang
bituin sa kalangitan at pinag
tagpo ng kapalaran at
pagkakataon para hilingin
sa bawat isa pero iba ang gustong makasama.

tayo ang mga bituin na yon
tayo ang mga bituin nag ningning noon
tayo yon
tayo ang bituin na yon.
a mcvicar Dec 2018
327
que sepas que ayer
te chillé tanto que lloré:
inesperadísimo
22.11.18
Like a psychotic docent in the wilderness,
I will not speak in perfect Ciceronian cadences.
I draw my voice from a much deeper cistern,
Preferring the jittery synaptic archive,
So sublimely unfiltered, random and profane.
And though I am sequestered now,
Confined within the walls of a gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55 lunatic asylum (for Active Seniors I am told),
I remain oddly puerile,
Remarkably refreshed and unfettered.  
My institutionalization self-imposed,
Purposed for my own serenity, and also the safety of others.
Yet I abide, surprisingly emancipated and frisky.
I may not have found the peace I seek,
But the quiet has mercifully come at last.

The nexus of inner and outer space is context for my story.
I was born either in Brooklyn, New York or Shungopavi, Arizona,
More of intervention divine than census data.
Shungopavi: a designated place for tribal statistical purposes.
Shungopavi: an ovine abbatoir and shaman’s cloister.
The Hopi: my mother’s people, a state of mind and grace,
Deftly landlocked, so cunningly circumscribed,
By both interior and outer Navajo boundaries.
The Navajo: a coyote trickster people; a nation of sheep thieves,
Hornswoggled and landlocked themselves,
Subsumed within three of the so-called Four Corners:
A 3/4ths compromise and covenant,
Pickled in firewater, swaddled in fine print,
A veritable swindle concocted back when the USA
Had Manifest Destiny & mayhem on its mind.

The United States: once a pubescent synthesis of blood and thunder,
A bold caboodle of trooper spit and polish, unwashed brawlers, Scouts and      
Pathfinders, mountain men, numb-nut ne'er-do-wells,
Buffalo Bills & big-balled individualists, infected, insane with greed.
According to the Gospel of His Holiness Saint Zinn,
A People’s’ History of the United States: essentially state-sponsored terrorism,
A LAND RUSH grabocracy, orchestrated, blessed and anointed,
By a succession of Potomac sharks, Great White Fascist Fathers,
Far-Away-on-the Bay, the Bay we call The Chesapeake.
All demented national patriarchs craving lebensraum for God and country.
The USA: a 50-state Leviathan today, a nation jury-rigged,
Out of railroad ties, steel rails and baling wire,
Forged by a litany of lies, rapaciousness and ******,
And jaw-torn chunks of terra firma,
Bites both large and small out of our well-****** Native American ***.

Or culo, as in va’a fare in culo (literally "go do it in the ***")
Which Italian Americans pronounce as fongool.
The language center of my brain,
My sub-cortical Broca’s region,
So fraught with such semantic misfires,
And autonomic linguistic seizures,
Compel acknowledgement of a father’s contribution,
To both the gene pool and the genocide.
Columbus Day:  a conspicuously absent holiday out here in Indian Country.
No festivals or Fifth Avenue parades.
No excuse for ethnic hoopla. No guinea feast. No cannoli. No tarantella.
No excuse to not get drunk and not **** your sister-in-law.
Emphatically a day for prayer and contemplation,
A day of infamy like Pearl Harbor and 9/11,
October 12, 1492: not a discovery; an invasion.

Growing up in Brooklyn, things were always different for me,
Different in some sort of redskin/****/****--
Choose Your Favorite Ethnic Slur-sort of way.
The American Way: dehumanization for fun and profit.
Melting *** anonymity and denial of complicity with evil.
But this is no time to bring up America’s sordid past,
Or, a personal pet peeve: Indian Sovereignty.
For Uncle Sam and his minions, an ever-widening, conveniently flexible concept,
Not a commandment or law,
Not really a treaty or a compact,
Or even a business deal.  Let’s get real:
It was not even much in the way of a guideline.
Just some kind of an advisory, a bulletin or newsletter,
Could it merely have been a free-floating suggestion?
Yes, that’s it exactly: a suggestion.

Over and under halcyon American skies,
Over and around those majestic purple mountain peaks,
Those trapped in poetic amber waves of wheat and oats,
Corn and barley, wheat shredded and puffed,
Corn flaked and milled, Wheat Chex and Wheaties, oats that are little Os;
Kix and Trix, Fiber One, and Kashi-Go-Lean, Lucky Charms and matso *****,
Kreplach and kishka,
Polenta and risotto.
Our cantaloupe and squash patch,
Our fruited prairie plain, our delicate ecological Eden,
In balance and harmony with nature, as Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce instructs:
“These white devils are not going to,
Stop ****** and killing, cheating and eating us,
Until they have the whole ******* enchilada.
I’m talking about ‘from sea to shining sea.’”

“I fight no more forever,” Babaloo.
So I must steer this clunky keelboat of discovery,
Back to the main channel of my sad and starry demented river.
My warpath is personal but not historical.
It is my brain’s own convoluted cognitive process I cannot saavy.
Whatever biochemical or—as I suspect more each day—
Whatever bio-mechanical protocols govern my identity,
My weltanschauung: my world-view, as sprechen by proto-Nazis;
Putz philosophers of the 17th, 18th & 19th century.
The German intelligentsia: what a cavalcade of maniacal *******!
Why is this Jew unsurprised these Zarathustra-fueled Übermenschen . . .
Be it the Kaiser--Caesar in Deutsch--Bismarck, ******, or,
Even that Euro-*****,  Angela Merkel . . . Why am I not surprised these Huns,
Get global grab-*** on the sauerbraten cabeza every few generations?
To be, or not to be the ***** bullgoose loony: GOTT.

Biomechanical protocols govern my identity and are implanted while I sleep.
My brain--my weak and weary CPU--is replenished, my discs defragmented.
A suite of magnetic and optical white rooms, cleansed free of contaminants,
Gun mounts & lifeboat stations manned and ready,
Standing at attention and saluting British snap-style,
Snap-to and heel click, ramrod straight and cheerful: “Ready for duty, Sir.”
My mind is ravenous, lusting for something, anything to process.
Any memory or image, lyric or construct,
Be they short-term dailies or deeply imprinted.
Fixations archived one and all in deep storage time and space.
Memories, some subconscious, most vaporous;
Others--the scary ones—eidetic: frighteningly detailed and extraordinarily vivid.
Precise cognitive transcripts; recollected so richly rife and fresh.
Visual, auditory, tactile, gustatory, and olfactory reloads:
Queued up and increasingly re-experienced.

The bio-data of six decades: it’s all there.
People, countless, places and things cataloged.
Every event, joy and trauma enveloped from within or,
Accessed externally from biomechanical storage devices.
The random access memory of a lifetime,
Read and recollected from cerebral repositories and vaults,
All the while the entire greedy process overseen,
Over-driven by that all-subservient British bat-man,
Rummaging through the data in batches small and large,
Internal and external drives working in seamless syncopation,
Self-referential, at times paradoxical or infinitely looped.
“Cogito ergo sum."
Descartes stripped it down to the basics but there’s more to the story:
Thinking about thinking.
A curse and minefield for the cerebral:  metacognition.

No, it is not the fact that thought exists,
Or even the thoughts themselves.
But the information technology of thought that baffles me,
As adaptive and profound as any evolution posited by Darwin,
Beyond the wetware in my skull, an entirely new operating system.
My mental and cultural landscape are becoming one.
Machines are connecting the two.
It’s what I am and what I am becoming.
Once more for emphasis:
It is the information technology of who I am.
It is the operating system of my mental and cultural landscape.
It is the machinery connecting the two.
This is the central point of this narrative:
Metacognition--your superego’s yenta Cassandra,
Screaming, screaming in your psychic ear, your good ear:

“LISTEN:  The machines are taking over, taking you over.
Your identity and train of thought are repeatedly hijacked,
Switched off the main line onto spurs and tangents,
Only marginally connected or not at all.
(Incoming TEXT from my editor: “Lighten Up, Giuseppi!”)
Reminding me again that most in my audience,
Rarely get past the comic page. All righty then: think Calvin & Hobbes.
John Calvin, a precocious and adventurous six-year old boy,
Subject to flights of 16th Century French theological fancy.
Thomas Hobbes, a sardonic anthropomorphic tiger from 17th Century England,
Mumbling about life being “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.”
Taken together--their antics and shenanigans--their relationship to each other,
Remind us of our dual nature; explore for us broad issues like public education;
The economy, environmentalism & the Global ****** Thermometer;
Not to mention the numerous flaws of opinion polls.



And again my editor TEXTS me, reminds me again: “LIGHTEN UP!”
Consoling me:  “Even Shakespeare had to play to the groundlings.”
The groundlings, AKA: The Rabble.
Yes. Even the ******* Bard, even Willie the Shake,
Had to contend with a decidedly lowbrow copse of carrion.
Oh yes, the groundlings, a carrion herd, a flying flock of carrion seagulls,
Carrion crow, carrion-feeders one and all,
And let’s throw Sheryl Crow into the mix while we’re at it:
“Hit it! This ain't no disco. And it ain't no country club either, this is L.A.”  

                  Send "All I Wanna Do" Ringtone to your Cell              

Once more, I digress.
The Rabble:  an amorphous, gelatinous Jabba the Hutt of commonality.
The Rabble: drunk, debauched & lawless.
Too *****-delicious to stop Bill & Hilary from thinking about tomorrow;
Too Paul McCartney My Love Does it Good to think twice.

The Roman Saturnalia: a weeklong **** fest.
The Saturnalia: originally a pagan kink-fest in honor of the deity Saturn.
Dovetailing nicely with the advent of the Christian era,
With a project started by Il Capo di Tutti Capi,
One of the early popes, co-opting the Roman calendar between 17 and 25 December,
Putting the finishing touches on the Jesus myth.
For Brooklyn Hopi-***-Jew baby boomers like me,
Saturnalia manifested itself as Disco Fever,
Unpleasant years of electrolysis, scrunched ***** in tight polyester
For Roman plebeians, for the great unwashed citizenry of Rome,
Saturnalia was just a great big Italian wedding:
A true family blowout and once-in-a-lifetime ego-trip for Dad,
The father of the bride, Vito Corleone, Don for A Day:
“Some think the world is made for fun and frolic,
And so do I! Funicula, Funiculi!”

America: love it or leave it; my country right or wrong.
Sure, we were citizens of Rome,
But any Joe Josephus spending the night under a Tiber bridge,
Or sleeping off a three day drunk some afternoon,
Up in the Coliseum bleachers, the cheap seats, out beyond the monuments,
The original three monuments in the old stadium,
Standing out in fair territory out in center field,
Those three stone slabs honoring Gehrig, Huggins, and Babe.
Yes, in the house that Ruth built--Home of the Bronx Bombers--***?
Any Joe Josephus knows:  Roman citizenship doesn’t do too much for you,
Except get you paxed, taxed & drafted into the Legion.
For us the Roman lifestyle was HIND-*** humble.
We plebeians drew our grandeur by association with Empire.
Very few Romans and certainly only those of the patrician class lived high,
High on the hog, enjoying a worldly extravaganza, like—whom do we both know?

Okay, let’s say Laurence Olivier as Crassus in Spartacus.
Come on, you saw Spartacus fifteen ******* times.
Remember Crassus?
Crassus: that ***** twisted **** trying to get his freak on with,
Tony Curtis in a sunken marble tub?
We plebes led lives of quiet *****-scratching desperation,
A bunch of would-be legionnaires, diseased half the time,
Paid in salt tablets or baccala, salted codfish soaked yellow in olive oil.
Stiffs we used to call them on New Year’s Eve in Brooklyn.
Let’s face it: we were hyenas eating someone else’s ****,
Stage-door jackals, Juvenal-come-late-lies, a mob of moronic mook boneheads
Bought off with bread & circuses and Reality TV.
Each night, dished up a wide variety of lowbrow Elizabethan-era entertainments.  
We contemplate an evening on the town, downtown—
(cue Petula Clark/Send "Downtown" Ringtone to your Cell)

On any given London night, to wit:  mummers, jugglers, bear & bull baiters.
How about dog & **** fighters, quoits & skittles, alehouses & brothels?
In short, somewhere, anywhere else,
Anywhere other than down along the Thames,
At Bankside in Southwark, down in the Globe Theater mosh pit,
Slugging it out with the groundlings whose only interest,
In the performance is the choreography of swordplay and stale ****** puns.
Meanwhile, Hugh Fennyman--probably a fellow Jew,
An English Renaissance Bugsy Siegel or Mickey Cohen—
Meanwhile Fennyman, the local mob boss is getting his ya-yas,
Roasting the feet of my text-messaging editor, Philip Henslowe.
Poor and pathetic Henslowe, works on commission, always scrounging,
But a true patron of my craft, a gentleman of infinite jest and patience,
Spiritual subsistence, and every now and then a good meal at some,
Sawdust joint with oyster shells, and a Prufrockian silk purse of T.S. Eliot gold.

Poor, pathetic Henslowe, trussed up by Fennyman,
His editorial feet in what looks like a Japanese hibachi.
Henslowe’s feet to the fire--feet to the fire—get it?
A catchy phrase whose derivation conjures up,
A grotesque yet vivid image of torture,
An exquisite insight into how such phrases ingress the idiom,
Not to mention a scene once witnessed at a secret Romanian CIA prison,
I’d been ordered to Bucharest not long after 9/11,
Handling the rendition and torture of Habib Ghazzawy,

An entirely innocent falafel maker from Steinway Street, Astoria, Queens.
Shock the Monkey: it’s what we do. GOTO:
Peter Gabriel - Shock the Monkey/
(HQ music video) - YouTube//
www.youtube.com/
Poor, pathetic, ******-on Henslowe.


Fennyman :  (his avarice is whet by something Philly screams out about a new script)  "A play takes time. Find actors; Rehearsals. Let's say open in three weeks. That's--what--five hundred groundlings at tuppence each, in addition four hundred groundlings tuppence each, in addition four hundred backsides at three pence--a penny extra for a cushion, call it two hundred cushions, say two performances for safety how much is that Mr. Frees?"
Jacobean Tweet, John (1580-1684) Webster:  “I saw him kissing her bubbies.”

It’s Geoffrey Rush, channeling Henslowe again,
My editor, a singed smoking madman now,
Feet in an ice bucket, instructing me once more:
“Lighten things up, you know . . .
Comedy, love and a bit with a dog.”
I digress again and return to Hopi Land, back to my shaman-monastic abattoir,
That Zen Center in downtown Shungopavi.
At the Tribal Enrolment Office I make my case for a Certificate of Indian Blood,
Called a CIB by the Natives and the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs.
The BIA:  representing gold & uranium miners, cattle and sheep ranchers,
Sodbusters & homesteaders; railroaders and dam builders since 1824.
Just in time for Andrew Jackson, another false friend of Native America,
Just before Old Hickory, one of many Democratic Party hypocrites and scoundrels,
Gives the FONGOOL, up the CULO go ahead.
Hey Andy, I’ve got your Jacksonian democracy: Hanging!
The Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) mission is to:   "… enhance the quality of life, to promote economic opportunity, and to carry out the responsibility to protect and improve the trust assets of American Indians, Indian tribes, and Alaska Natives. What’s that in the fine print?  Uncle Sammy holds “the trust assets of American Indians.”

Here’s a ******* tip, Geronimo: if he trusted you,
It would ALL belong to you.
To you and The People.
But it’s all fork-tongued white *******.
If true, Indian sovereignty would cease to be a sick one-liner,
Cease to be a blunt force punch line, more of,
King Leopold’s 19th Century stand-up comedy schtick,
Leo Presents: The **** of the Congo.
La Belgique mission civilisatrice—
That’s what French speakers called Uncle Leo’s imperial public policy,
Bringing the gift of civilization to central Africa.
Like Manifest Destiny in America, it had a nice colonial ring to it.
“Our manifest destiny [is] to overspread the continent,
Allotted by Providence for the free development,
Of our yearly multiplying millions.”  John L. O'Sullivan, 1845

Our civilizing mission or manifest destiny:
Either/or, a catchy turn of phrase;
Not unlike another ironic euphemism and semantic subterfuge:
The Pacification of the West; Pacification?
Hardly: decidedly not too peaceful for Cochise & Tonto.
Meanwhile, Madonna is cash rich but disrespected Evita poor,
To wit: A ****** on the Rocks (throwing in a byte or 2 of Da Vinci Code).
Meanwhile, Miss Ciccone denied her golden totem *****.
They snubbed that little guinea ****, didn’t they?
Snubbed her, robbed her rotten.
Evita, her magnum opus, right up there with . . .
Her SNL Wayne’s World skit:
“Get a load of the unit on that guy.”
Or, that infamous MTV Music Video Awards stunt,
That classic ***** Lip-Lock with Britney Spears.

How could I not see that Oscar snubola as prime evidence?
It was just another stunning case of American anti-Italian racial animus.
Anyone familiar with Noam Chomsky would see it,
Must view it in the same context as the Sacco & Vanzetti case,
Or, that arbitrary lynching of 9 Italian-Americans in New Orleans in 1891,
To cite just two instances of anti-Italian judicial reach & mob violence,
Much like what happened to my cousin Dominic,
Gang-***** by the Harlem Globetrotters, in their locker room during halftime,
While he working for Abe Saperstein back in 1952.
Dom was doing advance for Abe, supporting creation of The Washington Generals:
A permanent stable of hoop dream patsies and foils,
Named for the ever freewheeling, glad-handing, backslapping,
Supreme Commander Allied Expeditionary Force (SCAEF), himself,
Namely General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the man they liked,
And called IKE: quite possibly a crypto Jew from Abilene.

Of course, Harry Truman was my first Great White Fascist Father,
Back in 1946, when I first opened my eyes, hung up there,
High above, looking down from the adobe wall.
Surveying the entire circular kiva,
I had the best seat in the house.
Don’t let it be said my Spider Grandmother or Hopi Corn Mother,
Did not want me looking around at things,
Discovering what made me special.
Didn’t divine intervention play a significant part of my creation?
Knowing Mamma Mia and Nonna were Deities,
Gave me an edge later on the streets of Brooklyn.
The Cradleboard: was there ever a more divinely inspired gift to human curiosity? The Cradleboard: a perfect vantage point, an infant’s early grasp,
Of life harmonious, suspended between Mother Earth and Father Sky.
Simply put: the Hopi should be running our ******* public schools.

But it was IKE with whom I first associated,
Associated with the concept 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
I liked IKE. Who didn’t?
What was not to like?
He won the ******* war, didn’t he?
And he wasn’t one of those crazy **** John Birchers,
Way out there, on the far right lunatic Republican fringe,
Was he? (It seems odd and nearly impossible to believe in 2013,
That there was once a time in our Boomer lives,
When the extreme right wing of the Republican Party
Was viewed by the FBI as an actual threat to American democracy.)
Understand: it was at a time when The FBI,
Had little ideological baggage,
But a great appetite for secrets,
The insuppressible Jay Edgar doing his thang.

IKE: of whom we grew so, oh-so Fifties fond.
Good old reliable, Nathan Shaking IKE:
He’d been fixed, hadn’t he? Had had the psychic snip.
Snipped as a West Point cadet & parade ground martinet.
Which made IKE a good man to have in a pinch,
Especially when crucial policy direction was way above his pay grade.
Cousin Dom was Saperstein’s bagman, bribing out the opposition,
Which came mainly from religious and patriotic organizations,
Viewing the bogus white sports franchise as obscene.
The Washington Generals, Saperstein’s new team would have but one opponent,
And one sole mission: to serve as the **** of endless jokes and sight gags for—
Negroes.  To play the chronic fools of--
Negroes.  To be chronically humiliated and insulted by—
Negroes.  To run up and down the boards all night, being outran by—
Negroes.  Not to mention having to wear baggy silk shorts.



Meadowlark Lemon:  “Yeah, Charlie, we ***** that grease-ball Dominic; we shagged his guinea mouth and culo rotten.”  

(interviewed in his Scottsdale, AZ winter residence in 2003 by former ESPN commentator Charlie Steiner, Malverne High School, Class of ’67.)
                                                        
  ­                                                                 ­                 
IKE, briefed on the issue by higher-ups, quickly got behind the idea.
The Harlem Globetrotters were to exist, and continue to exist,
Are sustained financially by Illuminati sponsors,
For one reason and one reason only:
To serve elite interests that the ***** be kept down and subservient,
That the minstrel show be perpetuated,
A policy surviving the elaborate window dressing of the civil rights movement, Affirmative action, and our first Uncle Tom president.
Case in point:  Charles Barkley, Dennis Rodman & Metta World Peace Artest.
Cha-cha-cha changing again:  I am Robert Allen Zimmermann,
A whiny, skinny Jew, ****** and rolling in from Minnesota,
Arrested, obviously a vagrant, caught strolling around his tony Jersey enclave,
Having moved on up the list, the A-list, a special invitation-only,
Yom Kippur Passover Seder:  Next Year in Jerusalem, Babaloo!

I take ownership of all my autonomic and conditioned reflexes;
Each personal neural arc and pathway,
All shenanigans & shellackings,
Or blunt force cognitive traumas.
It’s all percolating nicely now, thank you,
In kitchen counter earthen crockery:
Random access memory: a slow-cook crockpot,
Bubbling through my psychic sieve.
My memories seem only remotely familiar,
Distant and vague, at times unreal:
An alien hybrid databank accessed accidently on purpose;
Flaky science sustains and monitors my nervous system.
And leads us to an overwhelming question:
Is it true that John Dillinger’s ******* is in the Smithsonian Museum?
Enquiring minds want to know, Kemosabe!

“Any last words, *******?” TWEETS Adam Smith.
Postmortem cyber-graffiti, an epitaph carved in space;
Last words, so singular and simple,
Across the universal great divide,
Frisbee-d, like a Pleistocene Kubrick bone,
Tossed randomly into space,
Morphing into a gyroscopic space station.
Mr. Smith, a calypso capitalist, and me,
Me, the Poet Laureate of the United States and Adam;
Who, I didn’t know from Adam.
But we tripped the light fantastic,
We boogied the Protestant Work Ethic,
To the tune of that old Scotch-Presbyterian favorite,
Variations of a 5-point Calvinist theme: Total Depravity; Election; Particular Redemption; Irresistible Grace; & Perseverance of the Saints.

Mr. Smith, the author of An Inquiry into the Nature
& Causes of the Wealth of Nations (1776),
One of the best-known, intellectual rationales for:
Free trade, capitalism, and libertarianism,
The latter term a euphemism for Social Darwinism.
Prior to 1764, Calvinists in France were called Huguenots,
A persecuted religious majority . . . is that possible?
A persecuted majority of Edict of Nantes repute.
Adam Smith, likely of French Huguenot Jewish ancestry himself,
Reminds me that it is my principal plus interest giving me my daily gluten.
And don’t think the irony escapes me now,
A realization that it has taken me nearly all my life to see again,
What I once saw so vividly as a child, way back when.
Before I put away childish things, including the following sentiment:
“All I need is the air that I breathe.”

  Send "The Air That I Breathe" Ringtone to your Cell  

The Hippies were right, of course.
The Hollies had it all figured out.
With the answer, as usual, right there in the lyrics.
But you were lucky if you were listening.
There was a time before I embraced,
The other “legendary” economists:
The inexorable Marx,
The savage society of Veblen,
The heresies we know so well of Keynes.
I was a child.
And when I was a child, I spake as a child—
Grazie mille, King James—
I understood as a child; I thought as a child.
But when I became a man I jumped on the bus with the band,
Hopped on the irresistible bandwagon of Adam Smith.

Smith:  “Any last words, *******?”
Okay, you were right: man is rationally self-interested.
Grazie tanto, Scotch Enlightenment,
An intellectual movement driven by,
An alliance of Calvinists and Illuminati,
Freemasons and Johnny Walker Black.
Talk about an irresistible bandwagon:
Smith, the gloomy Malthus, and David Ricardo,
Another Jew boy born in London, England,
Third of 17 children of a Sephardic family of Portuguese origin,
Who had recently relocated from the Dutch Republic.
******* Jews!
Like everything shrewd, sane and practical in this world,
WE also invented the concept:  FOLLOW THE MONEY.

The lyrics: if you were really listening, you’d get it:
Respiration keeps one sufficiently busy,
Just breathing free can be a full-time job,
Especially when--borrowing a phrase from British cricketers—,
One contemplates the sorry state of the wicket.
Now that I am gainfully superannuated,
Pensioned off the employment radar screen.
Oft I go there into the wild ebon yonder,
Wandering the brain cloud at will.
My journey indulges curiosity, creativity and deceit.
I free range the sticky wicket,
I have no particular place to go.
Snagging some random fact or factoid,
A stop & go rural postal route,
Jumping on and off the brain cloud.

Just sampling really,
But every now and then, gorging myself,
At some information super smorgasbord,
At a Good Samaritan Rest Stop,
I ponder my own frazzled neurology,
When I was a child—
Before I learned the grim economic facts of life and Judaism,
Before I learned Hebrew,
Before my laissez-faire Bar Mitzvah lessons,
Under the rabbinical tutelage of Rebbe Kahane--
I knew what every clever child knows about life:
The surfing itself is the destination.
Accessing RAM--random access memory—
On a strictly need to know basis.
RAM:  a pretty good name for consciousness these days.

If I were an Asimov or Sir Arthur (Sri Lankabhimanya) Clarke,
I’d get freaky now, riffing on Terminators, Time Travel and Cyborgs.
But this is truth not science fiction.
Nevertheless, someone had better,
Come up with another name for cyborg.
Some other name for a critter,
Composed of both biological and artificial parts?
Parts-is-parts--be they electronic, mechanical or robotic.
But after a lifetime of science fiction media,
After a steady media diet, rife with dystopian technology nightmares,
Is anyone likely to admit to being a cyborg?
Since I always give credit where credit is due,
I acknowledge that cyborg was a term coined in 1960,
By Manfred Clynes & Nathan S. Kline and,
Used to identify a self-regulating human-machine system in outer space.

Five years later D. S. Halacy's: Cyborg: Evolution of the Superman,
Featured an introduction, which spoke of:  “… a new frontier, that was not,
Merely space, but more profoundly, the relationship between inner space,
And outer space; a bridge, i.e., between mind and matter.”
So, by definition, a cyborg defined is an organism with,
Technology-enhanced abilities: an antenna array,
Replacing what was once sentient and human.
My glands, once in control of metabolism and emotions,
Have been replaced by several servomechanisms.
I am biomechanical and gluttonous.
Soaking up and breathing out the atmosphere,
My Baby Boom experience of six decades,
Homogenized and homespun, feedback looped,
Endlessly networked through predigested mass media,
Culture as demographically targeted content.

This must have something to do with my own metamorphosis.
I think of Gregor Samsa, a Kafkaesque character if there ever was one.
And though we share common traits,
My evolutionary progress surpasses and transcends his.
Samsa--Phylum and Class--was, after all, an insect.
Nonetheless, I remain a changeling.
Have I not seen many stages of growth?
Each a painful metamorphic cycle,
From exquisite first egg,
Through caterpillar’s appetite & squirm.
To phlegmatic bliss and pupa quietude,
I unfold my wings in a rush of Van Gogh palette,
Color, texture, movement and grace, lift off, flapping in flight.
My eyes have witnessed wondrous transformations,
My experience, nouveau riche and distinctly self-referential;
For the most part unspecific & longitudinally pedestrian.

Yes, something has happened to me along the way.
I am no longer certain of my identity as a human being.
Time and technology has altered my basic wiring diagram.
I suspect the sophisticated gadgets and tools,
I’ve been using to shape & make sense of my environment,
Have reared up and turned around on me.
My tools have reshaped my brain & central nervous system.
Remaking me as something simultaneously more and less human.
The electronic toys and tools I once so lovingly embraced,
Have turned unpredictable and rabid,
Their bite penetrating my skin and septic now, a cluster of implanted sensors,
Content: currency made increasingly more valuable as time passes,
Served up by and serving the interests of a pervasively predatory 1%.
And the rest of us: the so-called 99%?
No longer human; simply put by both Howards--Beale & Zinn--

Humanoid.
Hector Sep 2018
~

Regalas el olor de tu piel

y el sabor de tus labios,

lo que nunca fue mío

pero siempre fue de él.

Lo regalas sin honor

sin consciencia o culpa,

lo que yo tanto ansío

lo regalas cual miel-


____________

You Give Away
~
You give away the scent of your skin

and the taste of your lips,

what was never mine

but was always his.

And you give without honor

conscience or guilt,

everything I yearned

you give away like miel-

-
H.O
September 2018
(miel - honey)
--
“Maybe I was destined to forever fall in love with people I couldn’t have. Maybe there’s a whole assortment of impossible people waiting for me to find them. Waiting to make me feel the same impossibility over and over again.”
― Carol Rifka Brunt, Tell the Wolves I'm Home
Jay Luistro Nov 2018
Tu che dall’ombra compari,
E docile e dolce tu pari,
Nel sole cocente la tua pelle schiarisce
E dalla tua faccia la tristezza svanisce.

Ti ** guardata dritta negli occhi,
E tu la mia pelle mi tocchi.
Ti ** guardata nel viso un sorriso
Che la dolce faccia tua ha riso.

Mi ricordo di averti amata subito
E che allorché scelta non dubito,
E di fatto mi hai regalato la felicità
E al cuore mio la verità.

Adesso ti dirò che sei speciale,
Speciale ma non tanto quanto il reale.
Perché più di questo tu sei e sarai
E per sempre il mio cuore battere farai.
You that you appear in the shadow,/
Docile and sweet you seem,
Under the hot sun your skin lightens,/
And from your face the sadness vanishes./

I looked through your eyes,
And my skin you touch.
I saw in your face a smile,
That your sweet face has laughed.

I remember to have loved ya immediately,
And my choice when I decided I don’t doubt,/
And in fact you gave me the happiness,/
And to my heart the truth.

Now I tell you, you are special,/
But Special not as likely the reality,/
Because you are and will be more than it(special),/
And my heart you will always make it beat./

Dedicated to my Girlfriend.
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