20060328

V

Voilà! In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate.

This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is it vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished, as the once vital voice of the verisimilitude now venerates what they once vilified.

However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation, stands vivified, and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin vanguarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition.

The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous.

Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose vis-à-vis an introduction, and so it is my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V.



20060327

Hello the big professor:

Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things to low ambition and the pride of Kings! I have found a pedant waiting in the shadows like a will o' the wisp. A panoptic pedant professor, at that, who shook his finger at me and said that I should pay more attention to spelling here on my blog!

But let me preface my letter to the big professor with this curious fact. I have two things in common with James Joyce: We both taught at Berlitz and we both can't spell. He is the better writer, but there is no way to prove that he was the better teacher. Therefore, I claim this distinction.


Hello the big professor:

The last thing I need in life is to be patronized by an unnamed blogger. As it were, one with a penchant for the pedantic. If you wish to count the cumin seeds, or to boldly scold for dangling participles, let us first begin this finger wagging contest by parsing the very moniker that you hide behind; a veil of electrons and pixels traveling through cyber space: the big professor.

Let me begin with professor; it's obvious enough. It means you are important; a doctor.

Now, we examine the word big. What does big mean? The word first entered the English language around 1300, and meant of great strength or power; strong; stout; mighty. The first meaning was equivalent to the Latin words validus or potens. In 1350, the word was used to mean powerful; rich; wealthy. But it wasn't until the end of the 14th century that big came to mean fat. As we can see, the first meanings of big dealt with physical prowess, size or social power. So perhaps "big professor" means strong professor, fat professor, or even powerful and rich professor?

At last we come to the first word: the. What a fun little word. A definite article, meaning that there is only one big professor at Rutgers University. How queer! You didn't choose biggest, the superlative which would indicate that there are many big professors at Rutgers but you are bigger than all of them. Your choice of words helps me narrow down the psychological reasons behind your penname; with words I unveil the panoptic wizard behind the foggy mist who cowardly refuses to disclose his or her identity.

I have met many fat professors at Rutgers. Therefore, you could not say "the big professor" and mean the fat professor. If so, you would call yourself "a big professor."

I have met many tall professors at Rutgers. The same logic applies. Therefore, you do not mean that you are tall.

I had a biology professor who lifted weights. He was quite strong. If he is strong, and you are strong, then you are not the big professor; you would be a big professor, yet again.

The same can be said for powerful, after all, there are many chairs of departments, each with quite a bit of political influence.

However, another meaning surfaces around 1570 that is still used today: haughty, pompous, pretentious, boastful. Perhaps "big professor" means pretentious professor? If so, I like the alliteration.

Take a closer look at the words. If you were haughty, pompous, pretentious, and boastful, you would certainly believe that you were the only one at Rutgers worthy of having "the" in his or her moniker.

What is the purpose of this exaggeratedly or absurdly learned response? I'm simply toying with you, daring you to respond, tempting you in the desert (dessert!) with the very exhibitions of pedantry that you seem to enjoy. I'm also trying to find as many permutations of pedantic as possible.

Best regards,

Doug






Is pedanticness a word, St. John? I don't know. I'll ask the schoolmasterly one, the pedagogic professor big, pedantical in his quest to pedantize this humble writer into the pedarian class of "young men," as he referred to me. A pedantocracy I find myself in!

But I did manage to spell my way through countless term papers and essays, all the way to a 3.8 GPA at the same university that the big professor teaches. And I began sentences with and and but. But I never split an infinitive, to honestly speak.

He should discuss the university's spelling policy with his colleagues. After all, it needs much consideration if someone like me were able to graduate with the highest GPA in my major. In the parlance of the press, for the record! I earned a 4.0 in English literature.


20060320

the darkness


And she quoth, the angel in the night:
"So sings my soul through the heart of darkness,
'When I call, answer me.
Come and listen to me, o Lord, hear my prayer.' "


20060305

dawn storm

We were born in a time of mystic fears
Of evanescent terror interrupted
By the bellows of fog horns and crashing waves
While bombs and stars shot across the sky.


A painting of Christ
bleeding on the bed
hands outstretched and down.

Brush the butterfly off your cheek
With hands rough and fingers cold
Hide your face.

A spark falls upon a body too young to share its dreams

20060210

today a drop of pain



Lights begin to dance in the northern sky.
Indian spirits:
Fly!
And push this skiff from the splintered dock
Of an dark apartment room,
On towards alien distant shores.

Breath into me
Fill me with life anew
That I may love what you love
Until my heart is pure
Until with you I will one will
To do in love and forevermore
So that I may never die.

Breath into me
Set my sails against the soft gale of
temptation winds and tears
tossed in the tempest of addictions strong.

So that I may look back and see a dream
blowing through the rye.

20060206

a dream


a dream:

Dad is in his chair. He is reading the sports page. I am lying on the floor by his feet. He tosses me the box scores and I page through them to see who played center field for the San Diego Padres last night.

Its 2006 and I'm ten years old. My sister is 5-going-on-16, as mom likes to say. My brother is 18. He joined the Marines and drove to San Diego a few weeks ago. Now his hair is short and he acts different.

I can hear his car pull up in the driveway. The engine stops. The music stops. The car door slams and the front door groans. I can hear his heavy step across the living room floor. I keep on reading.

Dad says hello and turns back to his sports. He is reading about his Giants. Its early June and he is already talking about the pennant.

Mom couldn't care less. James is home and she can't wait to tell her son about the column she is writing this week. "It's about your sister," mom tells James. "Friday afternoon I asked her what she did in school and she said she made a Thankful Tree."

Mom tells James how Emily described the tree. "Emily said, 'You trace your hands and cut them out and then you write what you're thankful for on them then paste them onto a paper tree.' "

Mom's weekly column is called The Keepers of the Flame and is published in the Washington Post. She is proud of her journalistic accomplishments. This week's column is about Emily telling her about the tree and asking the family to make their own.

Dad and I had to make Thankful Leaves and now James has to. I am glad he has to do it too. He smiles and eagerly grabs the construction paper. I am angry and I hate him for doing it.

"What did Emily write?" he asks mom.

"Friends, food, her fish, rainbows, and her brothers, in that order."

Dad wrote family and the Giants. I wrote the San Diego Padres. Mom wrote the names of ten soldiers who were killed in Iraq.

Mom is reading her column out loud. She has described the family Thankful Tree. "Can we bow our heads without distorting our soldier's legacies and pandering to anti-American elites world-wide and using their deaths to embarrass and undermine our commander in chief?" she reads.

"I like it mom," James says.


*


I look at Dad. He is reading the Sunday sports page. The Giants and the Padres are tied for first place. The dog days of summer are over. It is a dry September and the pennant race is close. He tosses me the box scores.

Dad puts down the sports page and walks into the garage. I follow behind him.

He picks up his fishing pole and opens the top drawer under his cluttered work table. There are jars of hooks, fishing wire, a knife, a screw driver, a red bobber, and a scrap of news paper.

He picks up the news paper and reads it as he does every day. "James A. Maklin, 18, Oakland California. A lance corporal in the Marine Corps, Mr. Maklin was killed two weeks ago during Operation Steel Curtain in Ubaydi, Iraq, a terrorist stronghold near the Syrian boarder. His mother, Michelle, said: 'The Marine motto is Semper Fi - Always faithful. They have a saying that no one is left behind. And that's how my son died. He was faithful. Faithful to God, country, family and freedom.' "







All names, characters, and events in this FICTIONAL story are made up in the mind of the author. Any use of names and the events contained herein are purely coincidental. In no way does this story resemble the following column published in the Washington Post:

CLICK HERE or if that doesn't work CLICK HERE.

20060130

in silence dream


Sit down on Thunder Road
where the boys race their cars
and the girls laugh at those matadors cast in summer moons.
They dance the night away.

Listen to the silence crack
with gasoline engines and words
like a fire bell in the cold night
tossed about in childish sport and glee;
Words as shallow as time.

But dream tonight of silent eternities deep with
midnight conversations
when the gods brought honey and wine and
ferried people on the waters from night to day.

For under all that is good,
there is a silence that is better.
A silence deep as eternity
that we dare our souls to endure;
A silence as deep as dreams intertwined.

soul struck

I sit waiting for the train thinking of years gone guitars stone cold and graves sitting in shade;
of a book where I read about the setting sun.


so rub your arm and play your guitar guitarslinger
with your strings so tight and fingers so loose
and wings set back and arched through the smoky night
of backroom bars and street lamp cafes
as you picked them up soul by soul on each passing note
as if you'd never let them die.

then we both fell in love.
she seduced us both, loved us both
bit my ear and made you smile
and you had to go and die for her-
burn your eyes out and see her choke
and inhale streams of fire.
in her arms you came to her.
you cried for her and loved her
and called out to her through the night
as she thought of me, tempted me
and drowned me in sparks flashed blue
on whisks of perfumed nights
as we rode steel dragons from show to show
and let ourselves go and opened our minds
unnoticed, uncounted, unseen in the underworld
of the city night.

Remember how we always ended up back again at Union Square.

So there you are guitarsligner. A poem.
your sound echos through the empty halls
once filled and thundering as I sat behind you
and left a part of me to you every night:
a moment. dark and smoky with a blade
and the emphatic pride of a man's first beard
and a cymbal crash. trash, as they say.
The smoke rising through the veins like a
stream of fire. the strings tightened
fingers loosened
"bury me softly" you began to sing.
for me.

for her.
for your goddamned soul of rock and roll.











20060126

the patio and the chair


Today is Friday, gentlemen;
This was once my chair.

I would sit in it on the patio that faced the southern sky.
I would watch the sun rise in the east and drink a breakfast tea.
I would drink the finest Wyoming wine and look west at dusk.

This was once my chair, and
The mountains were once mine too.

May God rest you now, merry gentlemen.
A Gambler and a Nun will sit tonight and listen.
This was once my chair, and my eveing song.

In the day time the patio was dusty.
But the night dew settled the dust, and I liked to sit late.
It was quitet and I could feel the difference.

But today is Friday, and Thursday long gone.
And tonight I will be lonely.
When daylight comes, I will finaly fall asleep.

in the morning

She ate the orange, slowly spitting out the seeds. The coffee grew cold. A cigarette burned out in an ashtray that went un-emptied for weeks at a time.
Her chair stuck to the linoleum kitchen floor and she reached for another orange. He came back with the morning paper and a carton of cigarettes.
"It's not so good." He handed her the paper.
"I'm getting sick," she said. "I'm going back to bed."
"Eat first."
"I did while you were gone."
"Go back to bed then."
"I'm going to read." She looked up at him standing in front of her, and turned her head toward the table where the paper now rested. Then she turned her back to him and faced the paper.
He placed his hand on her shoulder. "You're cold."
Softly he felt her shoulders curve from her back to her chest. He bent down and kissed the side of her neck. Then he knelt and kissed her breasts through the shirt that was once his but became too thin and was too small to begin with. He had saved it, knowing a girl would come along and the shirt would look pleasing on her through the night and in the morning.
"Be careful," she said as he began to put pressure on her with his fingers. "Do you know that they are aching?"
He pulled out the chair next to her and made a lot of noise. "I want to do what ever is best for you."

"But there is nothing wrong with me," she said.
"Do you feel better now that you ate something?"
"I feel fine."
"What did I tell you? Take a shower, we'll go out."
"Can we not talk for just one fucking day."
He looked out the window to the street below. "Take a shower.”

20060123

a day in ending mourning burst




tire tracks groove ruts in dusty desert spaces
and roadside blossoms bloom roses red;
a wounded world cries for healing.

Here, in dark august dusk of a hot car
against a dashboard black and shining
we hold each other's pain.

Wounded systems,
bruised and bleeding, bear the load:
the scars of strain.

A pillar of fire shining forth then appears
in the night until shadows vanished
midnight darkness banished

as forward we travel from light to light.

winter in storm

winter white and black

winter lands



empty spaces




























20060121

the chapter of Sam Cardinella







They hanged Sam Cardinella at six o'clock in the morning in the corridor of the county jail. The corridor was high and narrow with tiers of cells on either side. All the cells were occupied. The men had been brought in for the hanging. Five men sentenced to be hanged were in the five top cells. Three of the men were to be hanged were black. They were very frightened. One of white men sat on his cot with his head in his hands. The other lay flat on his cot with a blanket wrapped around his head.

They came out onto the gallows through a door in the wall. There were seven of them including two priests. They were carrying Sam Cardinella. He had been like that since about four o'clock in the morning.

While they were strapping his legs together two guards held him up and the two priests were whispering to him. "Be a man, my son," said one priest. When they came toward him with the cap to go over his head Sam Cardinella lost control of his sphincter muscle. The guards who had been holding him up both dropped him. They were both disgusted. "How about a chair, Will?" asked one of the guards. "Better get one," said a man in a derby hat.

When they all stepped back on the scaffolding back of the drop, which was very heavy, built of oak and steel and swung on ball bearings, Sam Cardinella was left sitting there strapped tight, the younger of the two priests kneeling beside the chair. The priest skipped back onto the scaffolding just before the drop fell.

















in memory of Hemingway

a joy



the gates

Stand now at the cemetary gates
and sideways gaze at the stone pillars
erected as monuments to a crumbling age.



The hours grow empty to the blessings of the sky
the fortress alter saved by blood
when you come back home
make me whole while
the ocean waves
send me
away.



20060120

on the blog



I posted this comment on bayshoreplanet.blogspot.com

However, I liked it so much I decided to post it here.



****

Matt,

I think that web logs are not replacing other forms of written mediums. They are certainly not newspapers. Nor do they claim to be. They are a different entity all together, resembling, videlicet, the grand pamphlets that swept London in the 17th and 18th century.

Nevertheless, they are not, nor should they be, under the rubric of the American pamphleteers such as Thomas Paine. (These "American" pamphleteers of the late 18th century were exclusively seeking political ends. Our blogs are less concerned with political change, and more concerned with ideological change.)

What we saw in 17th century London was an oppressive government that forced censorship upon publishers from time to time. More significantly, political debates in court died as a consequence of revolution, power grabs, and political leaders who were stricken with paranoid dreams of angels bearing the sword of free speech.

Pamphlets grew because they avoided this sphere and went directly to the public. And suddenly, born were the core ideas of "freedom" that Americans embrace today. Aeropagitica, as I have bloged about, was the first European (and Western) argument for a free press as we know it; for all publications to be free of government censorship. The legality of divorce resulted from pamphlet debates. The immorality of slavery became a topic that culminated in Samuel Johnson's quote: "Why is it that the wildest yelps for freedom are heard by the drivers of the Negroes."


My point is that pamphlets were the forums, or chat rooms, if you will, where ideas were expressed and issues discussed. When courts refused to include the public in political and social debates, the public included themselves by simply writing in volume.

This is exactly what our blogs are.

They stand in the forefront of our age as the wellspring of marketplace of free ideas. If our words fall upon the deaf ears of elected officials, we blog. If the NY Times is biased and refuses to listen to our concerns, we blog. If The Courier is biased and refuses to listen to our concerns, we blog. And the power of the blog is that it lives and breaths outside the natural realms of censorship that press down upon our liberties, which we believe we are born with.

If we are lucky, the blogosphere will beget the freedoms that future generation will embrace as their own. Perhaps the pillars of future are being built one thread at a time?

20060119

the better angels of our nature



I am loath to close.
We are not enemies, but friends.
We must not be enemies.
Though passion may have strained, it
must not break our bonds of affection.

The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.

-Abraham Lincoln
Monday, March 4, 1861




Here is one of Lincoln's favorite poems.
And, I dare say, mine.

Mortality
By William Knox

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave
He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved;
The mother that infant's affection who proved;
The husband, that mother and infant who blest,--
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure, -- her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those who loved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep,
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint, who enjoyed the communion of Heaven,
The sinner, who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes -- like the flower or the weed
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes -- even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same our fathers have been;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, we view the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking, our fathers would shrink;
To the life we are clinging, they also would cling; --
But it speeds from us all like a bird on the wing.

They loved -- but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned -- but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved -- but no wail from their slumber will come;
They joyed -- but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died -- ay, they died; -- we things that are now,
That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
And make in their dwellings a transient abode;
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together in sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye -- 'tis the draught of a breath--
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud:--
Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?


20060115

chapter XIV



Chapter XIV by Ernest Hemingway

Maera lay still, his head on his arms, his face in the sand. He felt warm and sticky from the bleeding. Each time he felt the horn coming. Sometimes the bull only bumped him with his head. Once the horn went all the way through him and he felt it go into the sand. Some one had the bull by the tail. They were swearing at him and flopping the cape in his face. Then the bull was gone. Some men picked Maera up and started to run with him toward the barriers through the gate out the passageway around under the grandstand to the infirmary. They laid Maera down on a cot and one of the men went out for the doctor. The others stood around. The doctor came running from the corral where he had been sewing up picador horses. He had to stop and wash his hands. There was a great shouting going on in the grandstand overhead. Then Maera felt everything getting larger and larger and then smaller and smaller. Then it got larger and larger and larger and then smaller and smaller. Then everything commenced to run faster and faster as when they speed up a cinematograph film. Then he was dead.

freedom



someday, i'll be there


Angkor Wat, Cambodia

the night air

and just when you thought you were safe you saw the setting sun.
off in the cold distance, the green lake split wind-blown ripples and ignited fiery orange as she swam pearl white against the tempest of an ardent sky.

sing a song of simple melody
stand against intrepid dreams
across the moon, she dances through the night air
while her sweet scent lingers in an empty room
and reminds me that she is not here.



20051219

provide your own caption

20051218

red and black dreams

the dark star

say your sorry

XZDDXZ (3:03:04 PM): did you see jenniestar's blog
BendSteelinHands (3:09:19 PM): she has denied my existence so i will do the same to her



BendSteelinHands (3:12:23 PM): and when she calls for me to come to her aid i will not.

you know what i'm talking about star, say you're sorry.

20051129

thunder empty silence cracks


A red carpet leading to the front door carried
5 o'clock dreams with a tint of the melancholy voice of metro traffic reports
and the cheerful weather report: seasonal grey skies and early snow.
The minutes blended one by one into one long tale of an hour -

Tail lights, break lights, one by one
a stream of blood to the right,
left, a steam of hellish white staring into the blinded eyes of a this sojourner.

A falcon slowly circled above, looking for a night time snack.
Its carrion dreams of freedom fed on roadside offal of cat or deer or sewer rat.

"Take refuge under these wings," I say to no one in particular. "Take refuge under these wings until our calamities become one."

And then I formed a poem finely wrought in tight blank verse.
I forgot it.
I picked up a pen and watched the words fly from me.
The images gone.
I carried that poem all night long.
I labored over it.
Inspired it. Breathed life into it.
It rebelled against the fetters of ink and lines.
It set itself free.

The falcon spiraling, circling, descended down along the roadside as daylight cracked and disappeared.
The sun set in the rearview mirror
The bird danced around the dead flesh like a dessert buzzard dances around a dead lion lest the lion be starving and acting, pretending to be dead for want of water or victuals. By instinct it slowly approached, danced, and perched before it sank its claws and beak into the rotting flesh.

And now, in a town facing railroad tracks with streets empty silence clacks.
An old Dekota woman can't remember when thunder struck across Sioux sky.

A view of the shore from the roof.

A view from the harbor.

The little cousin spots me taking a sip.

"Real investigative journalists Google," said by me.

I began my new career as a journalist two weeks ago and, the first thing I did, was Google the information I needed for my articles. My friend, and now colleauge, Matt, sits next to me in the office. I looked over and said: "Real investigative journalists Google."

When making only $400 a week, why not?

He qoted me on his blog.

20051107

a song to sing

I sat as a boy and watched my sister sing a summer song,
Not fast, nor gay, nor bright, nor pleasing for that matter.
A song understands not its purpose, lest it be self conscious of defects,
Videlicet, the prejudice of a listener's ear.

We had a summer house growing up, by the beach.
From a boat off the bayshore the house lights would burn through perpetual fog.
And one single gull would stand on one single piling and stand watch
And sing.





As children, at the shore house during summer breaks from school
We would play in the sand on humid Jersey afternoons
And draw sun-tan portraits on our backs with sun lotion,
Until she fell in love and was suddenly aware of her tan lines.

Not long after that point buys began calling the house.
The guys she brought over always tried to befriend me, the younger brother, to impress her.
To their chagrin, she would then bring me with them where ever they went.
She would either drop me off at home or at my friend's.

There was a three-room attic in the house that had a separate entrance,
Mom and Dad were in another world, down stairs, and were free.
It was in that house, she told me, where she first tried sex;
I, only listless poetry and loneliness. Although I'm getting better at both.

Under the stars along the beach she would sit in swirls of smoky grass, or drink
Beer under the boardwalk with a beautiful friend whom I thought about, always.
But as I grew older I never seemed to grow bolder.
Now I look at the man my sister's beautiful friend married, and I wonder what she sees in him.

I am smarter and nicer and not as fat. His friend married my sister and now
My brother-in-law watched football with me. I hated football.
There was Ritalin so my three nephews could play video games all day because
They hate the beach, and don't appreciate the attic.


I live in the summer home year round now, and I try not to invite them over.
My brother-in-law and his friend hate my place now that I don't have a TV,
They even think I'm gay because I write and I hate football
And I'm trying to remember that song my sister used to sing.



20051106

seated bather - renoir



Château Noir - Cézanne



soleil levant - claude monet



Les grandes baigneuses - Cézanne



bacher


inferno


vortex


tulips in bloom

20051030

greetings

greetings,

My life has been so busy for the last few weeks that I have only had one post in that time. Perhaps, I will have some free time this weekend but, alas!, who knows. So, in the interim, I will give you pictures to enjoy.


cheers,
doug






Postscript:

This blog loads a hell-of-alot faster in firefox that in internet explorer. Also, the page looks better. Here is the website, getfirefox.com. Get thee tither!

vibrations









enchanted kingdoms

















symphony in red

colour

20051022

listless


Who sang to whom on that listless night out on the lake -

Their voices rippling slowly across the water. Will the center hold?


They sat in the the small wooden boat, facing each other, legs intertwined.
He smoking a cigar and she thinking it quite sexy,
Like oysters or his habit of drinking tea at night.

She ran her fingers through the cool water, and through her hair.

The smoke picked up into the air and swirled then turned back down and blew over her bare legs then up her body and was gone.


The moon was out. It had been out all day.

Both agreed that they liked it when the sun and the moon were out together.

A certain completeness is found in oppositions.
Or rather, in between oppositions.


Dawn and dusk. Autumn.

To live and to die.



Never did a gentleman live and die more beloved than he.

20051011

no title



ylf



on love and evil

OK, again I am posting a comment on another blog. But, I was wondering what all of you think about this. First, click here. It is a response to the notion that the world is all evil.


Then I wrote this:

We walk along frozen fields filled with fair men of all walks of life, both mean and merciful; mean and grand.

But if one expects to understand these men then one must understand that it is cold and all are hungry. The ground yields no fruit and sustains no flesh. To survive, one must understand that there is no reason love. "Kill or be killed" clamor those of the economic-evolutionists among us. There is no reason to love except that in love we find our only mode of survival.

city streets



emerson



On Religious Truths

This is in response to a friend who presented a half-assed disproof of the existence of God when he simply wanted to express anger. For those wishing to express anger, the appropriate medium is a blog. But, it should be done without the pretense of intellectual "airs" as some say. Take jenniestars blog as a paramount example of such expression.

Still with me? All of you who are about to read this, I want you to contemplate the use of the word "truth" in the phrase "religious truths." What exactly does this mean?

Now, in response to a friend's blog, which can be accessed on the links section by clicking Notes From Underground.

First of all, your argument falls apart when you start discussing the "if's" of God.

Take the classic, if God is all good, then why does evil exist? A slight variation is found in this line: "I cannot believe in and let alone worship a being that permits the torture and death of innocents."

First of all, an all powerful God does not operate within the boundaries of good and evil because that god created the rules dictating what is good and what is evil. That force which creates the rules is, by nature, above them. That which enforces the rule is always above it. Without fail. I can prove you wrong on all levels, so try me.

As the Germain Existentialist whom I so love said: "that which is done for love exists beyond good and evil." Essentially, he believed that love was what created the rules for humanity, not God. And thus, I apply my theory to his concept. Even if God doesn't exist, then there is a human force which all religions are tapping into and here it is:

The basic function of all humanity, that which allows all culture to survive, is the notion of friendship. "Will this person share food with me what I'm hungry or will this person kill me to get my share?" is the most basic question of all humanity. All functions of society fall under this ruberic. Therefore, we find that social structures are what humanity needs to survive. And social structures do not exist in any real sense. They are completely imaginary.

The relationship between people is not physical but instead something completely different. It exists only in the minds of those with the connection. And, religion falls directly into this mold. What is the relationship between God and man but a mental relationship with no physical proof. (When I tell you that I am friends with Matt, you believe that the relationship exists even if you haven't met Matt in your life). So, if people believe in God then god exists for exactly the same reasons that Matt exists. I say that I am friends with him.

Destroy religion and you have destroyed humanities ability to form social structures.

Now, it is interesting to note that before the year 15oo, the word truth did not contain the meanings of loyalty or religious belief. These meanings were given to a cognate, trouthe. But, around 15oo, the word truth picked up these to definitions to compliment the meaning of verified fact. (The verb meaning to engage in a contract).

By 1630, trouthe was dead and the concept no longer existed that verified fact was a different entity from the notion of religious beliefs.

What proves interesting to me is that trouthe did not have the sense of verified fact, yet people used it to discuss loyalty and religious beliefs. In modern usage it seems that loyalty and religious believes are placed into the realm of verified fact. But, the should be in all actuality, placed into the realm of loyalty and friendship.

20051010

a cross



20051001

A new icon




I am retiring my old icon.

A noble friend who has served me well.

Farewell.

May every touch of flame light the memory of the image and cast upon our lives a little art and a little love.
























here is the new:










a touch of flame


forests


burst


masks


over the horizon



An Essay on Freedom: America and Paradise Lost

The foundation of empire is art and science. Remove them or degrade them, and the empire is no more. Empire follows art and not vice versa as Englishmen suppose. - William Blake




America and Paradise Lost.









First, I must say that, in order to clarify things, John Milton was a failed revolutionary.


Now, another quote from William Blake who wrote The Marriage Between Heaven and Hell:




The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels & God, and at liberty when of Devils & Hell, is because he was a true Poet, and of the Devil's party without knowing it.










Blake is hitting on something curious here. First of all, in The Marriage Between Heaven and Hell, he argues that hell allows for art while heaven does not because heaven curtails all artistic abilities. It is an interesting point, but not what I want to get at.

Milton was of the Devil's party, and he knew it. In
Paradise Lost, Lucifer takes on the role of, essentially, a failed revolutionary. The situation is as such: God created Lucifer and therefore God takes all responsibility for Lucifer's desires. After all, such desires are a function of the mind and will that God gave him. It follows that God designed Lucifer to rebel, just as he designed Adam and Eve to fall. Moreover, God also created the rules of the universe which stipulated that Lucifer was not powerful enough to win. Now we have an interesting situation. God creates a conscience being that desires to rebel but at the same time God says that he will never win. God essentially creates Lucifer just to defeat him and sentence him to Hell to be tortured. Lucifer then rebels again and the cycle repeats itself on into perpetuity.



Is God sadistic one might ask? It gets better by one delightful degree. Since God created the rules of the universe, God designed the rules to ensure that he is always good and Lucifer is always evil. Thus, no matter how justified Lucifer feels throughout the poem (and he makes some brilliant arguments especially when rallying his forces before epic battles), he is always wrong.


This is the part I love. Evangelical Christians think that
Paradise Lost is about their "good" God and Jesus defeating the evil Satan. Wrong. This is a poem about empires and resistance. Milton is a failed revolutionary, yes, a bleeding liberal. While he sees his political ideologies prevail through the clash of iron swords and cannon balls that echoed down the bloody streets of London, he later turns on his party and called for the public execution of the King. Essentially, his beloved Protestants became even more corrupt than the Catholics, banning all unapproved writing and sermons. His beloved revolution failed.

Out of this climate, Milton gave the world its first true defense of free speech, the brilliant
Areopagitica, in which he argues that men are nothing but flesh and flesh is mortal and will die. Men are not the true living beings, ideas and books are because, through books, ideas are immortal; books live forever. Moreover, he believes, temptation is what provides for virtue. By preventing the publication of political, revolutionary, blasphemous, pornographic or obscene literature, the government is effectively suffocating the moral faculties of the populace because the people's moral strenghts are no longer being tested. Like a muscle unused, morality grows limp.

From this we get Paradise Lost. Two themes are paramount in this poem. First, the fall of Adam and Eve presents an interesting argument. That is, sin makes us human and therefore sin must be good. Milton interestingly portrays Adam and Eve as boring and rather animal like in their behavior before they bite the apple, they have sex like animals, the look for food and water like animals and they have no moral compass. Thus, it is only because Adam and Eve sinned that they were kicked out of the garden and became human.

The second theme proves far more interesting to me. Throughout the poem, God is an allegory for an empire. Milton's argument is that the empires by their nature create revolutionary forces but, at the same time the empire dictates that these movements are destined to fail. What is more, because the empire makes the rules of the game, the empire always makes sure that the rules stipulate that the empire is "good" while the revolutionary forces are "evil." Read: America and Muslim extremism. Or, America in the cold war. Or, America in Columbia, Nicaragua, Afganistan, Iran, Vietnam, The Phillipeans, Cuba, Argentina and on and on and on. America's presence inadvertently creates these reactionary forces but, at the same time, the US creates a situation in which these forces cannot win. The final outcome is that if you are of the persuasion of the empire and believe that the empire is inherently "good," then you will feel that all these reactionary forces are evil. However, if you aproach it from a nutral stand point, the resistance becomes sympothetic because they dare to fight a loosing war based on their convictions which, to them, are vindicated and moral.

Now, because of the patriot act, I can't come out and write that I am rather sympathetic to the resistance. Moreover, I can't write that, as I see it, to take arms against the most daunting of enemies because you believe in your cause is the most courageous act a man can do. Essentially, as we can see in those who say "look at evil Satan fighting the good God, the empire is unable to understand why the resistence fights.

Lucifer, in the poem, understands that God has created him just to torture him. He understands that he can not win. Yet he rallies his troops and he fights. The irony of course, was that governemnt sensors approved Paradise Lost because they read it as the "good" God defeating the "evil" Lucifer who keeps rebelling unrationally and causing unnecessary problems. In the eyes of the empire, the resistance is fighting because they like death and destruction.

I cannot help but chuckle when I hear evangelical Christians or patriotic Americans discuss
Paradise Lost. Their un-historical brains get it wrong and they damn the poem back into the circle of those consecrated dead ideas where many of a more temperate complexion fear to tread. And thus, they prevent this wonderful foray into the physcology of the empire and resistance from being enjoyed in it's truest form: a political treatous vindicating the human will to resist a power far greater than you because you believe it is right. This, my friends, is what freedom is all about. I don't care what you are told.


The ridiculous Devil of the Middle Ages, a horned enchanter, a dirty jester, a petty and mischievous ape, band-leader to a rabble of old women, has become a giant and a hero through the power of Milton's hand. Though feebler in force, he remains superior in nobility, since he prefers suffering independence to happy servility, and welcomes his defeat and his torments as a glory, a liberty, and a joy. Milton was essentially, as Lucifer, a failed revolutionary. Yet he rallied his forces and with a stylus, dared to challenge an empire.








A great book on the English Revolution of 1640
(which of course is the revolution that I am writing about)
is The World Turned Upside Down by Christopher Hill.






20050930

they fought for freedom too.


where have you gone, stevie ray vaughn?


My favorite band: Metric


in devotion


variations on similar themes


a woman in blue

a world in blue





























The Dream of the Rood


Stand and Believe


20050928

Black on Red Sessions II: Variations on Freedom


































This picture is for Jenniestar...




Jen: here you go my friend, post this on your blog and have fun!

release your mind.

let the passions flow

My good friend Matt wrote this a few days ago. Again, I get pissed when talking about our government and Katrina. Basically, Rumsfeld wants to close Fort Monmouth so he refused to send the communication engineers to New Orleans, which would have prevented untold casualties.

Red Tape prevents use of fort

By MATTHEW McGRATH

Representatives Frank Pallone, Jr., and Rush Holt (D-NJ) urged the Pentagon and the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) to utilize Fort Monmouth as a shelter for Katrina victims.

The congressmen wrote, “Obviously, this is a disaster of immense proportion, and it will take an equally massive amount of good ill and hard work to help with the recovery.”

The letter continued, “Finding temporary housing and living arrangements for evacuees is going to be one of the toughest logistical challenges we will face. It is important that the department of defense use all resources available to do whatever is needed of them.”

According to a statement released by the representatives’ offices the Department of Defense inquired of military installations around the country how they could serve the relief effort.

Fort Monmouth indicated that they had 130 units available, which could house between 350 to 400 people.

Kashia Simmons, a public affairs specialist at the fort, said “If Fort Monmouth is selected to host evacuees, [Fort Monmouth] will see to their needs speedily and appropriately.”

However, Major Paul Swiergosz, a Public Affairs Officer at the Defense Department, indicated that help cannot be provided unless State needs are completely exhausted, or if FEMA specifically requests that military installations be used to house non-military residents.

At this time FEMA has not requested the help of the Department of Defense according to Sweirgosz.

Furthermore, Kathy Cable, a FEMA spokeswoman, indicated that the request to use Fort Monmouth as a shelter must come from the State of New Jersey.

When asked if that was the requirement for federal properties, Cable responded, “It is my understanding that all requests must be made by the state government.”

A spokesman Acting Governor Richard Codey’s office said that the Fort Monmouth issue will be addressed if the need arises.

As published in the Thursday, September 22, 2002 edition of The Courier.

I like this

This is copied and pasted from a friend's blog. Click here to go to Notes from Underground


GOD IS A WANKER

Please go to this London Times story titled "Societies Worse Off When They Have God On Their Side". Apparently societies with high rates of belief have higher rates of abortion, murder, suicide and all the other fun things like that. Thank God (oh wait...nevermind) that we live in a society where religious zealotry does not exist and people don't blame terrorism and hurricanes on gays and witches.You know what other countries are really religious? The ones like Iran, Iraq, and Pakistan; its good company to be in. Here is an excerpt from the article:

The study concluded that the US was the world’s only prosperous democracy where murder rates were still high, and that the least devout nations were the least dysfunctional. Mr Paul said that rates of gonorrhoea in adolescents in the US were up to 300 times higher than in less devout democratic countries. The US also suffered from “ uniquely high” adolescent and adult syphilis infection rates, and adolescent abortion rates, the study suggested.

So our faith in God has given us more gonorrhoea and syphilis, well thanks for that God. This study obviously does not prove anything but it certainly makes one think. So from now on everyone has to call their herpes "jesus pimples" and tell their partners that the crabs all over their junk were "immacualatly concieved" by the Holy Spirit. Its true that God does perform miracles, but usually he just gives you AIDS.

Patterson


This picture is in honor of William Carlos Williams's book Patterson, one of the most influential poems of the 20th Century. In this poem he challenges the notion that there is a distinction between literature and non literature: all writing - history, novels, letters, science, religion, news reports - is simply poetry.

20050926

a short interlude

The conductor on a midnight train stands spinning his ticket punch. He lifts his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead, flashes his light and the engineer releases his break. The whistle blows. The train begins to move. The conductor shouts out into the black. "Are you sure you don't want to come? I won't charge you for the night ride."

An old man sitting on the platform with an old guitar lying across his lap, tipped his hat. "No, thanks."

"It would be a good idea, high water's about to rise."

The old man lifted eyes. "This is where I want to die."

The conductor reached up, grabbed the handle in a stairwell as the train began to gather speed, swung himself through the doorway.

Several miles down the tracks thunder rolled over the great plains and he thought he heard a guitar begin to play.

20050919

Safire




September 18, 2005
Katrina Words

The hurricane disaster called Katrina had the suddenness of a catastrophe and inflicted the damage of a calamity, but the loss of life caused by its flooding is best described as a cataclysm, "deluge, a washing away, a watery doom."

How to describe the long-trapped residents of New Orleans and other Gulf Coast cities - the dazed and the furious, the hungry and homeless - quickly became a matter of controversy. "Refugee has become the most popular word to describe the victims," The Baltimore Sun reported, a word appearing more often than the unfamiliar evacuee and the unspecific survivor.

The Rev. Jesse Jackson promptly objected. "To see them as refugees," he said, "is to see them as other than Americans," and charged that such a noun, applied to the mainly black sufferers, was "inaccurate, unfair and racist." He had a point; although a refugee can be defined as "a person who seeks refuge," it has carried the connotation since 1685 of "one who seeks refuge or asylum in a foreign country to escape religious or political persecution." Those swimming or walking to higher ground or sweltering in makeshift aid stations presented the appearance of refugees seen so often on television; this explained the initial use of the description, but appearance is not reality.

President Bush, who had been carefully calling them "displaced citizens," agreed with the objection of many blacks: "The people we're talking about are not refugees. They are Americans." Jocelyn Noveck of The Associated Press reported that The Boston Globe and The Washington Post dropped the word, while The A.P. and The New York Times did not. "The A.P. is using the term refugee," said its executive editor, Kathleen Carroll, "where appropriate to the sweep and scope of the effects of this historic natural disaster on a vast number of our citizens."

In my judgment, refugee is neither racist nor ethnic nor in any way demeaning. But in its primary sense, it does connote "fleeing to another country to escape persecution." Roberta Cohen, a senior fellow at the Brookings Institution, defined refugees as "people who cross borders to escape violence, civil wars and human rights violations - because they do not have the protection of their own country. A natural disaster is not considered a cause of refugee status." The United Nations has a term for people uprooted by natural disasters or unprotected by national authorities: "internally displaced people." "I.D.P.'s remain in their own country," Cohen said.

I don't go for the bureaucratic initialese, but also resist applying refugee to people who live in the U.S. Homeless, though currently accurate, implies permanent rootlessness. Displaced citizens does not cover the many victims who are not citizens, and evacuees is a highbrow concoction. My choices: Katrina survivors overall and, specifically for the inundated of New Orleans, flood victims.

The name Katrina, a Greek variant of Catherine, was selected by the World Meteorological Organization. "The use of names for tropical cyclones contributes to public awareness and alertness," states the W.M.O., which agreed to alternating male names at the request of the U.S. Other names planned for 2005 are Philippe, Rita, Stan, Tammy, Vince and Wilma.

BRINGING UP THE REAR

When President Ronald Reagan shocked the fainthearted by saying, "I've had it up to my keister," a lawyer in Seattle wrote to him in the White House enclosing a column on the etymology of the word by my fellow word maven, James Kilpatrick.

John G. Roberts, as a 28-year-old aide in the presidential counsel's office, decided against forwarding it to the leader of the free world, explaining to the chief counsel, "Frankly, I've had it up to my keister with newspaper columns about an expression fairly common to those of us reared in the Midwest." He went on to observe: "It is interesting how familiarity with slang phrases often varies among different parts of our country. In this case, excuse the bad pun, but I suppose it may depend on where one was reared."

I, too, wrote a column at that time about the derivation of keister - a borrowing, through Yiddish, of the German Kiste, "chest" - with its original meaning of "satchel, handbag" and its current meaning of "fanny, rump, bottom, tush, can, buttocks, backside" as well as the British "bum" and the French "derrière." (The bureaucratic cognoscenti prefer "posterior," as in the initialese slogan C.Y.A., meaning "cover your posterior." The "a" stands for a synonym not permitted in The Times, as an admiring salute to a diktat by the former executive editor, A.M. Rosenthal, who thought it was in bad taste and boldly asserted his stylistic prerogative. But I divagate.)

The Roberts rear-ending memo was unearthed by a Times reporter, Ann Kornblut, in the run-up to the Senate confirmation hearings regarding his nomination to the Supreme Court.

A word of advice to the putative chief justice: when using a pun in a judicial opinion, do not write "excuse the bad pun." Remember, there are no "bad" puns - all plays on words are good, and the louder the groans they elicit, the better. And never forget, do not insult your audience by calling attention to the coming wordplay.

The pardon-my-pun flag says to the listener or reader, "You're probably too dim-witted to catch this, so I'm pointing it out to you beforehand."

I do, however, commend the grammatically sensitive nominee for his choice of rear rather than raise, following the strict admonition that "you raise cattle but you rear children." Sad to say, that manner-born rule is now more honored in the breeches than the observance.


20050907

Barbara Bush is the devil

Click here and read Barbara Bush's comments on the New Orleans evacuees.

She says that, of those in the Astrodome: "many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway," she said, "so this is working very well for them."

20050904

ZZ Top


ZZ Top makes me feel cooler than I really am. So, it is the new theme song on my blog, replacing Kenny Wayne Shepherd.

dew on campfire

the dew
up, up
collects in a mist
reforms and returns

a blade of grass,
the ashes of a campfire
damp in morning dew

last night, a fire
hot repelled the mist from the waterfall
this morning, damp ashes,
the dew always wins

the river
down, down
flows down to the waterfall
cascading down

the mist sprays a rainbow
blanketing flowers and rocks,
and me

the mist
up, up
collects
reforms and returns
to the river

20050901

a rose

dying in the calm

the great calm
now is our hour!
accomplish the inevitable
celebrate!
the language of philosophers
verisimilitude!
the words
the words
the words
the styleless words
dangling in a doorway
of a closing door
hung on loose hinges
groaning loosed upon the world
verisimilitude!
from pulpits styled words
lacquered and lodged!
a bell tolling
a new morning
a new age
the comfort of life everlasting
amen.
a flower plucked
from a field of purple lupine
the red thorny bush of rose, singular
green and red in purple
a stem plucked
placed in a vase of cut crystal
on the mantle
a fireplace
with ashes six months old
one night ago,
one flower
a green stem a green bud
waiting to unfold bright red on the mantle
a hug
a kiss on the cheek
to the door
always the door
outside the sidewalk broken
moss growing from the cracks
down the sidewalk
reflections in car windows
are they inverted? warped?
I cannot tell
the curb sidewalk-side
dusty with patches of grass
strewn broken glass street side
a puddle with a rainbow
a dead sparrow
a bell tolls
the dignified visions
of Darwin, Marx
prophets
both dying
in the streets.



20050831

Kenny Wayne Shepherd for y'all!

I've put a video of Kenny Wayne Shepherd's song Aberdeen on my blog for your enjoyment.

Click the like below this line.
"Aberdeen"ByKenny Wayne Shepherd


I was over in Aberdeen
On my way to New Orleans
I was over in Aberdeen
On my way to New Orleans
Well them Aberdeen women told me
They would give me my gasoline
Aberdeen is my home
But they just don't want me around
Aberdeen is my home
But they just don't want me around
I'm gonna take these women
Take them out this town
Well just look over yonder
Coming down the road
Well just look over yonder
Coming down the road
That must be my baby coming
Tell me she don't want me no more
Well there's too many women
I ain't never seen
Well there's too many women
I ain't never seen
I bring too many women
Back from New Orleans
I was standin' 'round cryin'
With my heart right in my hand
I was standin' 'round cryin'
With my heart right in my hand
I was lookin' for that woman
One ain't got no man
Well just look over yonder
Where we used to live
Well just look over yonder
Where we used to live
Don't you know it's killing me baby
How we can't live here no more
Well it's goodbye baby
If I'm never gonna see you no more
Well it's goodbye baby
If I'm never gonna see you no more
I'm gonna tell everybody youve been
Still knockin' at my door

Grey and Red


Where have you gone Stevie Ray Vaughn?


The Legend


fire breath


on Route 18, South Jersey

The dragon breathed
Smoke so thick you could hardly see
Our days were numbered

Aspiring to dream, rebell
The devil in an alley, a muse
In a hotel room, baptized in a bar on Route 18



I had something to say
But I held my peace
Waiting for intermissions

Stayed in the bar a few too long
Wrote about dramatic unsung days
Dared to dream of death



"I've been in trouble ever since I set my suitcase down"
Sang a blues man through smoke so thick
Lift up your glasses and sing

She's standing on the table
Lift up your glasses and sing
Smoke so thick I couldn't see

Stumbled, scuffled, shuffled
I kept listening for footsepts
Through the parking lot, rolled slow

Going to where the white roses grow
You can smell the pine woods

Down along Route 18

Thunder rain
My mind a million miles away
Going to head out when the dark clouds go




The key to my eyes
A hole in my head
The dragon breathed




I never slept with her, not even once
She said "you can't repet the past but
Break my heart for good luck"

"Teach peace to the conqured"
I said - she said
"You can't make love all by yourself"

105 in a 55, steel through rain
Fifty miles away from home
Running out of gas down on Route 18

20050830

One of the Greatest Concerts of all Time


Cheap Trick opened and they rocked.

Then Alice did his thing.



"Feed My Frankenstein"ByAlice Cooper





"Say Goodbye"ByCheap Trick





Rock on people.



















20050829

Alice Cooper Tonight! Rock On!

Gonna go see him tonight!!


Gonna go see him tonight!!

Gonna go see him tonight!!

a little dali


This one is for jen.
I have way to many jens blogging with me. This jen.

dragon


I am going to write a poem about a dragon. Stay tuned.

20050826

thanks dusty

My new favorite bridge.
The Chain Bridge, Budapest

20050825

Black on Red

Black on Red
as requested
by jen





i'm going back to my roots











Devils and Dust

"Devils And Dust"ByBruce Springsteen

click above to play video




I got my finger on the trigger
But I don't know who to trust
When I look into your eyes
There's just devils and dust
We're a long, long way from home, Bobbie
Home's a long, long way from us
I feel a dirty wind blowing
Devils and dust

I got God on my side
And I'm just trying to survive
What if what you do to survive
Kills the things you love
Fear's a powerful thing, baby
It can turn your heart black you can trust
It'll take your God filled soul
And fill it with devils and dust

Well I dreamed of you last night
In a field of blood and stone
The blood began to dry
The smell began to rise
Well I dreamed of you last night, Bobbie
In a field of mud and bone
Your blood began to dry
And the smell began to rise

We've got God on our side
We're just trying to survive
What if what you do to survive
Kills the things you love
Fear's a powerful thing, baby
It'll turn your heart black you can trust
It'll take your God filled soul
Fill it with devils and dust
It'll take your God filled soul
Fill it with devils and dust

Now every woman and every man
They wanna take a righteous stand
Find the love that God wills
And the faith that He commands
I've got my finger on the trigger
And tonight faith just ain't enough
When I look inside my heart
There's just devils and dust

Well I've got God on my side
And I'm just trying to survive
What if what you do to survive
Kills the things you love
Fear's a dangerous thing
It can turn your heart black you can trust
It'll take your God filled soul
Fill it with devils and dust
Yeah it'll take your God filled soul
Fill it with devils and dust












That's all folks!

Black on Red
as requested
by jen




is done for today

20050820

Oh yeah! Gonna see them in Atlantic City!

people like hot women

Thanks to this picture for bringing in an additional 500 hits to my blog!

Yesterday I decided to increase the amount of traffic heading to my blog and so I used this picture as my profile picture. And, consequentially, my blog received 500 more hits than usual. This proves, once again, that people like hot women.

20050819

The wedding by the shore


Two by two birds' paths cross
They wheel to the wind and fly away
One comes across a dealer who is high.

"Revel!"
"Impale!"
Cries the one who ponders big gestures

But can't understand why the parasite crawls from the dirt to eat the poisoned flesh that hangs off those dusty bones.

A man named Skywalker sits in the park
He reads these divinations as Dante waxes philosophical
And proclaims his friend more than just a number or a name.
"Welcome back to the pearly gates" Skywalker shouts
Beyond the thick dead canopy of the park, up into the hot chill of the winter city,
"It's the same old place you've seen last week, except we're all a little older."

It was here in the park were Dante presided.
Presided over the marriage of the man to his wife
When Skywalker proposed to Bane.
She, with twenty-four years of life all of which came from origins unknown, likes to say things like "you can't go half in,
You've got to go all out."

And Dante proclaimed them "the man and his wife"

Here in the dead park,
and they left foot prints behind in the snow.

Skywalker read a second divination in the flight of the pigeons
And asked the Squirrel Whisperer for his blessings.
The little old sage tooked up to Tilly then told the coulple must run far away:
A freight train would be running through town a little after midnight,
They could ride with him unitl another day.

Then the two lovers walked down to the shore

And layed down where the winter waves hit the sand.



20050818

Shameless Advertising

20050815

a little Zack Wilde

I have decided to put Zack Wilde's video on my blog
for you listening enjoyment.


"Way Beyond Empty"ByZakk Wylde

However, the Kenny Wayne Shepherd, posted below, is much better.

20050810

Greetings From New Jersey

God, I love this state!


I love walking around Atlantic City. It is like walking around on the Monopoly board. (Monopoly is based on Atlantic City - from Baltic to Boardwalk as well as all four railroads - the whole city is on that game board.)And for the record, the people who live in North Jersey are not well liked because they are rich and work in New York City. Which means they take up all of our parking spots in the summer, replacing our pickups and Saturns with BMWs and Porches, when they invade our beaches on the weekend.

Greetings From Ocean Grove, N.J.

Okay, I'm going to take a break from writing poetry for a few days. Enjoy the following creative non-fiction:


A Natinal Geographic Article on the town I live in. (It is where I got the pictures.)

The sun rose this morning. Again. It always rises over the ocean. Usually, when it rises, the horizon begins to glow purple and red. Slowly the ocean changes color, too. The great gift to humanity is that we all can call the ocean whatever color we want. Sometimes if you're lucky, the sun will send down thick rays of sunbeams that shine down into the ocean. The kind of sunbeams from whence Jesus appears in movies and in stained glass windows. Does Jesus really appear like that in real life? Does he really hold his hands stretched out? Everyone seems to think so.

There is a wooden cross here on the beach. Behind it is a patch of man-made sand dunes and grass. The cross has been there longer than the grassy dunes. People worship the cross, then pay money to do so. If you walk on the sand dunes, you must pay a fine as well. The dunes are a strange attempt to revive a natural habitat that has been destroyed recently, in the last two hundred years. The cross and the sand dunes are really not that different.

Next to the cross is a big blue garbage pail and the seagulls are already picking through it. They seem no to care for the grassy hills too much. Perhaps it is because the area is fenced off and a sign posted that warns trespassers of an impending fine if caught treading through the area. Behind the fenced-off patch of natural preserve is a boardwalk built many years ago. Perhaps one hundred and fifty, to be exact. It can be seen in old photographs reprinted in the tourist brochures that the chamber of commerce and the historical society publish.

This whole town was built two hundred to a hundred and fifty years ago. A home owner isn't allowed to change the way his house looks, because the historical society has absolute control. Up until twenty years ago, a citizen couldn't have his car in sight on Sunday. All cars had to be driven out of the town and parked on the other side of the town gates. The town still has town gates. Although positioned squarely in the middle of New Jersey, along the Atlantic Ocean, Ocean Grove is not really America. Everyone in town calls it God's square mile. Maybe this is the reason the town does not have a mayor. It has a president instead. More importantly, the town does not have a city council or any governing body. Instead, it has a "camp meeting" where the president presides over his little town. Keep in mind, he isn't elected in a popular election. He is appointed by the trustees of the camp meeting who, in the true oligarchical tradition, appoint themselves.


While the camp meeting no longer maintains that it is illegal to go on the beach until church is out, nobody is allowed on the beach until a half past noon. By pure coincidence, church lets out at a half past noon. The camp meeting seems to be losing power - Catholics and gays are now allowed to live here, since the early nineteen eighties - but their power still remains. People still can not own the land their houses sit on. They can own their houses, but the land is leased by the camp meeting for ten bucks per hundred years.

It's understandable. After all, the Methodists built the whole town in the late nineteenth to early twentieth century, all in the Victorian architectural style. The town was intended to be a place where pilgrims would come for summer camp meetings and Methodist revivals to worship their lord and savior Jesus Christ and sing the hymns written by the great John Wesley - a man who they all never met but they all loved - the founder of the Methodist church. And when the Methodists broke ground here, in the town of Ocean Grove, they decided to build a little park and a big church. They called the church the Great Auditorium.
It still stands in all it's wooden glory. Its white crucifix, illuminated at night, is visible for miles out to sea.
The Methodists sill come every summer. They still own the houses which were built cheaply but now are, ironically, million dollar homes. A few hundred people spend the summer living in tents which surround the Great Auditorium.
A few hundred more stay in the Victorian bed and breakfasts, which are far more quaint than a modern day chain hotel or resort. They all come in a great pilgrimage every summer to worship in the church, pray on the boardwalk while taking an afternoon walk and to restore their souls by the cool Atlantic waters.

The yearly summer migrations have slowly dwindled over the years; it does not take an expert to see this. Atheism, apathyism, Evangelicalism and mega-churches have all contributed to the great decline. But, the Great Auditorium Organ still thunders out the Wesleyan hymns and the ushers still march after collecting the weekly offering.

And the best part: Ocean Grove, N.J. has a sister city in Australia - Ocean Grove, Australia - Founded by the same man, the Rev. William B. Osborn.

20050809

Greetings From Asbury Park, N.J.

One of the greatest albums ever. In the history of the world.


But, if you look closely, the "Y" is a picture from Ocean Grove. It is the Ocean Grove fishing pier, shown below in all of its glory. By the way, Ocean Grove and Asbury Park are right next to each other, so it is no biggie.

20050803

Provide your own caption


Tom seeks a final solution to the Jerry problem.

Blue on Red

This is a revised version of two poems that I combined and submited to Ploughshares, titled Blue on Red. I'll see if they publish me.

Raindrops drip down the window
and cast shadows on the page
I write
the sky is crying.

She came to me
walking on clouds
in a fairy tale
on wind swept dreams.

I sat last night and watched the flame
I lit slowly die as the moon began to
rise. The midnight oil burnt.
The flame flickered

and cast shadows on the wall
when the wind blew through the maple
leaves outside the window. The moon
cast red into black. And the

light, in purple gray glows of pearl
cast shadows on the wall. When the wind
blew through the maple leaves
shadows scuttled across the floor.

Then things began to come to life
in this room rented over a rundown storefront.
The insomniac can't sleep as visions come
and visions go, yet dreams they are not.

The coat thrown across the chair becomes a friend,
waiting. Always waiting. Out of the corner of my eye,
when the wind blew and the maple leaves
fluttered and the flame began to fade,

a shadow stretched out her arm and a
memory came to life. As the midnight oil burnt
away, the flame died and the wick began to
smoke and smolder red in color.

In color
for a split second last night
the moon and the wick
agreed.

A drop falls
words blur in a smudge of blue ink
I write
The sky is crying.

She sails from me
over clouds to be free
in a fairy tale
on wind swept dreams.

20050730

the comforts


The youngest martyr
Alone knew
The powerful comforts brought by thoughts of
Suicide

While somewhere
A poet treats his experience shamelessly
By exploiting them.

Thoughts of suicide comfort her through dreadful nights
As over and again the one of profound sadness
Betrays herself with happiness.
Crush happiness! Suffocate it!
Kill it out of jealousy!
The youngest martyr knows
How easily happiness flees.

But somewhere in the poet's music
The passions enjoy themselves.
When the poet treats his experiences
Shamelessly.

20050729

Circles

I have lived my whole life on the edges of circles.
I've lived out on the fringe
Where death is as constant as
Circles of addiction and
Circles of friends.

I love to circle blocks over and again,
Smoothing out the corners each time I pass.
Corners where hookers lean up against lamp posts
And the weightless ride white clouds.

On the corners of city blocks
Sit corners bars and in them
I circle until I find a corner
Where I can watch other circles revealing themselves.

Cocktail waitresses circle small round tables
As do men. A man and a woman
Leave then come back,
An hour later they find new partners and leave again.

But around these small circular tables
One person stands alone
Looking past the conversation
Feigning interest and forging a good time.

These people are my friends.
Fore I have taken a circle of people,
Found those floating around the edges
And formed new circles.

I've taken those who live out there with me,
Those who live out on the fringe
And made new circles
Circles of dependancy and
Circles of friends.

20050725

full circle


To my few but loyal readers,

In response to my last posting, I received two curious e-mails. One of which was from girl in California who wanted to know if I was woman or a man. I was actually honored by that question, believe it or not.

Now, it is time for a little black and white and I thought you might enjoy a little art. Not only do I love the symbolism of this painting but, I feel that is the story of my life. It isn't perfect, it isn't complete. But if it were, how boring it would be.

Thank you for the e-mails and thanks for the love,
Doug

20050724

tracks


I saw a picture in the New York Times today, Jack.
An advertisement for prints of well known photos, available for sale.
It reminded me of you.


It made me wonder

Why you always walk alone?
Why did you never let me walk with you?
Aren't lovers are supposed to walk together?
On beaches and in parks?

The first time we made love, we were on the beach.
The middle of the day,

Behind a stretch of wood and wire fence.
The beach was empty,

A thunderstorm was threatening

And no eyes were watching.
Gray clouds hid our transgression
From the ominous eyes of God.

We finished and the sun brushed away the clouds.
The people came back
And we held each other,
Again, in subtle movements.
This time under the cover of water.
"Just two lovers holding each other in the waves"
Most would have said from a far.





Those more sagatious always knew

And it made it all the more thrilling.








At us scornful eyes should've scowled and stared!
As jealous passions spun over the air.
'Twas they who spurned who never knew the feel
Of sand, in dampness stuck, 'n scratching soft
The regions moist. A gentle rapture struck
In rhythm with the pounding surf between
The ebb and flow of unrelenting tide.

But we never walked anywhere together.
Aren't lovers supposed to walk alone?
Down wide boulevards under street lamps, crowded in privacy?
We would find ourselves caught in public rapture,



Here, my favorite picture.
I loved. We loved.
But we never knew.
But we never held hands.
We never opened our
Eyes while embraced.




Why did prefer to walk alone
Up empty and dark alleyways in shadows?

You would walk alone down the street
And in the snowy wisps of central park.
We would go to our summer house
And you would walk alone on the beach,
In a rhythm all your own.

Finality waits down the tracks,
So where are you going, Jack?
Why still search for the cause?
Its been so long. But you look good
Walking like that - debonair,
Irresistible to forgive.
A rail to your left.
One to your right. A space, then two more.
Your shadow is cast to the west.

Why are you walking south in the
Middle of the nor
th bound track?
Is it easier to walk on the tracks?

Maybe you like the way the tracks
Run through the tow
ns?
Along Main Stree
ts and residential areas.
Past industrial complexes,
across bridges over small rivers.
Do the tracks prevent
you from becoming lost on your way?

Do they show you the way?
I have walked these tracks before.

And I know that,
in the depths of night,

when the town is quiet,
yo
u can hear stoplights
ticking from a block
away,
in their rhythm.

The pounding of the ocean
resonates in your bones.




The beach is only a few blocks away.

The night is warm, the breeze cool.
It is much more pleasant by the shore.

It will take you south too, easily.

Five blocks to the east the moon graces the
Atlantic,
Only five blocks away, the ocean pounds the shore.


Maybe you like the tracks?
They are constant, never changing, never intersecting.
Intimate and separate.



The shoreline is intimate and separate too,
The sands still blow, dunes ever changing,
Ever looking the same -
Over the water the sun always rises.



There must be too many unknowns along the shore.
Or at least more than that of the tracks.
Tracks are straight and clear.
Even at night it would be impossible to describe the color of the ocean.


Five blocks to the east the moon graces the Atlantic,
Only five blocks away, the ocean pounds the shore.

The night is warm, the breeze cool.

It is much more pleasant by the shore.





What is it about the constant you like, if you like it at all?

Each day the sun sets and the moon rises,

Each day, in varying degrees of repetition.

Why does it conjure up so many implacable feelings of pastoralism?

Is the mundane and repetitive pastoral?

Aren't transgressions are more interesting?




They change the world.
They allow for sin.
They allow for fiction.
They allow for humanity.
A whistle blows.





Fog horns from the inlet?
Why do the seafaring have to constantly be warned of ever-present obstructions more than once?



Do they actually need to be reminded of the
Unmoving, the constant?

Or, is it the pattern they crave?
The reassurance that every thing is as it was before.
Are perils unpredictable in their definitude?
Are they clean? Precise?
Another whistle blows, a space, then two more.

Finality waits down the tracks, Jack.
I know why you walk south
I will never ask myself why.
But finality waits, and I will ask
Where did you go Jack?

In a car parked alongside the highway hides the secret.
Spend your life searching for the cause of your demise
But never come back.

20050719

Bridges

I love bridges




Beautiful
Humble
Powerful
Graceful
Dark
Ugly
Bridges


I love to stand at the foot of a bridge -
In New York, London, Trenton or wherever -
and look out at the other side.
Then I begin to wonder why I love them so.


Am I drawn to images of grandeur?
Am I tempted by the apparent danger of such a steadfast construction?

A bridge is duplicitous, after all, in nature.
Dangerous but constant.
Each a world of opposites.
They allow things to both come and go.
They are apart of constant transition but,
They are permanent.

They connect worlds and cities and hearts without ever touching either side.

Once we get to the other side, it is no longer a bridge, it is a road.
A road we traveled which a bridge helped us cross.


I love majestic bridges spanning skylines
Glorious in stone arches or steel.
Bridges that connected empires.
I love humble bridges, small and wooden
That shield you from the rain.
Rain that the road does not protect you from.
I love bridges in music.
Bridges in trust.
I love the bridges built between days.
Between years.
Between lovers.
Between memories.
I love ugly bridges of rusting iron.
Bridges over industrial towns
From Newark and Camden to Detroit.



Bridges scarred and weathered that find themselves beautiful.
Haunting.
Industrial. Powerful.


I love ugly bridges that span the deep beautiful gorges.
From coal mining country near Youngstown,

To the silver mines of Colorado.
I love bridges.


Ugly Bridges surrouned by beauty,
and so, beautiful they become.



I love bridges built by Roman armies.
Bridges that conquered the world.


Bridges like those crossing the River Tyne.



I love humble bridges, small and wooden
That shield you from the rain.


I love small humble bridges that aspire to visions of splendor
In a rather bourgeois way.


Bridges under which lovers and trolls make their homes.
Bridges that cast shadows for trout to laze in, in slow summer streams.
I love the memories made by bridges.
Memories they conjure up.




I love bridges.
But I find much dissatisfaction in transitions.
Transitions and turmoil. Uncertainty. Unknown.
A bridge is always known.
A Bridge is a connection.
Permanent.


Cups of cold coffee at midnight
in a diner on US 1 in Rahway
As moments of change float in the air.
And today is fading out
Like the static interference of an overnight phone call to the local sports talk radio.


"Hi this is Bill from the Bronx,
long time listener first time caller,
I just wanted to say I love the show.
However Steve, I have to disagree with you.

I think the Yankees . . . . trade . . . fssst . . . . . Alex . . . 12 homeruns . . . . . Pitcher . . . 6 wins?"


"I'm sorry Bill, we're losing you.
We'll have to go to Stan in Staten Island here on WFAN.
Stan, thanks for calling."



Each cup of cold coffee
Ushers one day into the next.

Cold coffee is a permanent.



We each have our bridges.

The George Washington Bridge has always been my bridge. I remember how seasons would come and go, slowly, outside the windows as a child in Harlem. Without fail the same green glow would cool the hot and damp apartment in summer and warm the gray winters that crept through drafty windows. Peering out those cold windows with Grandma, the bridge became our bridge. And we've never let go eventhough I've moved away. Seasons come and seasons go, quickly, but at midnight my bridge, our bridge, stands over the Hudson, unencumbered, and glowing with cars that glide across with a certain felicity. East to west, west to east, over and again, a car comes, a car goes, over and again, on into perpetuity, our bridge endures.






We travel on roads,
We cross bridges.
We cross mountains and deserts,
But we travel miles.
Mountains are of the earth and miles are abstract,
Bridges are apart of the earth and therefore
Bridges must crossed or burned.


Bridges make us solicitous.
Pick a definition and use your imagination,
You'll find this line works.




I love bridges. But I, in shades of Robert Frost,
I will tell of the time that I
I enjoyed the paths taken by
Degrees and turns
And I shall one day sigh
And proclaim
"Oh, how I love the paths we travel
that bridges help us cross."

"Oh how I loved the in-between time
we passed while drinking cold cups of coffee."


And I will lie!
I will deny that I loved bridges.
The conversations are lost
But the coffee never dies in my mind's eye.



Bridges.

Seasons come and seasons go and there stands permanent bridges.

And I love bridges



20050718

20050624

the red death




i sat tonight and watched a flame
i lit slowly die as the moon began to rise:

the midnight oil burnt
and the flame flickered
and cast shadows on the wall
when the wind blew
through the mapel leaves
outside the window
the moon cast red into black
and the light
purple gray glows of pearl
cast shadows on the wall
when the wind blew
through the mapel leaves
shadows scuttled across the floor
then things began to come to life
in this room rented over an old warehouse

the insomniac can't sleep

as visions come and visions go
yet dreams, they are not.
the coat thrown across the chair is a friend, waiting.
out of the corner of my eye,
when the wind blew and the maple leaves fluttered
and the flame began to fade,

a shadow stretched out her arm
and a memory came to life.

the midngiht oil burnt away
the flame died
the wick began to smoke and smolder red
in color

in color
for a split second
tonight
the moon and the wick agreed.

20050525

memories and names

Of a thousand memories on a hot summer evening
I remember matadors who killed their pain
Spilt blood in the sand and drifted away.
Angels who tattooed onto their arms, names.
we Dremt lethal dreams into the light of day.

I remember
Little yellow flowers who turned
Their petals against the steady rain.
While later that night Pete tripped
A trigger
high on cocaine
Across town the shadows gave life to a girl
Who
spent her life staring into the sun.
Sam was lying naked in my bed
Rubbing her arm in a hot shiver.
The ocean sent its salt waves and
She spoon-fed her soul a dark river
As the fading of a pearl moon begot a new day.

Of a thousand memories on a hot summer evening
I remember all that was right as we danced through the night
Alive with the beating of a thousand hearts.
Midnight laughs of love with no regrets.
we Fell to pieces, slept alone and drifted away.

I remember white roses cast on a grave.

20050429

on the wind

Raindrops drip down the window
and cast shadows on the page
I write
The sky is crying.

she came to me
walking on clouds
in a fairy tale
on wind swept dreams

A drop falls
words blur in a smudge of blue ink
I write
The sky is crying.

she sails from me
over clouds to be free
in a fairy tale
on wind swept dreams

20050312

a thousand years wide



Why does the oak stand so tall while the willow gently weeps?
Does he not see her cry?

She cries, alas, but she dreams.
She dreams and dreams dreams.
Dreams! let her keep.

When the river dries she will die.
And, the oak.
The oak will stand a thousand years wide.

20050311

II

Leaning against a pedestal
sharing a cigarette with a girl I'd never met before
I noticed that the
he sun was hemorrhaging
purple and orange through a grey sky.


Slowly the sparsity of color increased;
darkness ruled; finality ruled.
Down on London Bridge I had been dropping
little white pedals into the swift current.

The sun kept hemorrhaging.
Rain was coming.




20050308

fireball

20050227

Freedom, Fitting and Sweet



The sky was ablaze as explosions filled the air. Hundreds of uniformed men tiptoed through the city streets as machine gun fire pulsated through the night. Children filled with dread appeared in the same shade of green as the enemy soldiers who shouted as they galloped in an out of doorways that, only a few months ago, must have been the doorways to countless homes, but now are the doorways to memories. Of course you can’t see any blood in the screen shot. Nor do you see the bodies of the uniformed soldiers being whisked away by stealth spirits in the night. It's an elf word on the screen of CNN as if God were looking through a green party balloon.


This is what I see on a warm fall night as I sit at a bar in Manhattan, pleasantly noting that I never volunteered to visit the TV world, let alone fight in it. The story is a little different for my friend, lets call him Nick, who volunteered after highschool and must involuntarily return. With my natural reaction against all things empire I asked him if he had a choice.

"I took an oath he said" as if this would satisfy my answer. I bought him his fourth drink and a second for me. He deliberately fingered the vodka and tonic, shut his eyes and gulped, all while I was still in the process of re-arranging the position of my quaint brown straw and the damp doily.

By degrees his world was entering a slower, more honest world and I presented the question again to which the reply was similar. "I took an oath to defend the constitution from all threats foreign and domestic" he said in a voice that indicated he had made another revolution downward into the great abyss. Eager to explore the depths, even at a sacrifice, I began to mention that we were not defending the constitution.

"We are building a democracy" was the programmed reply.

"Over throwing dictators we placed two decades ago so that we can place another now-favorable puppet only to find out that the new system is dangerous to 'our interests'."

"It's noble" my best friend since highschool said as the green images flickered above us. He looked up from his fifth drink and pointed to the screen. He began to quote the doctrine he swore to defend: "That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed . . ."

"But" I interjected, "the Iraqi people never consented to be governed by the provisions of America."

He put down his empty glass and motioned for another.

" . . . Let Freedom Reign."



Tomorrow, he would be on a Greyhound bus. The next day he would begin training for his re-deployment. It would be his fourth tour of duty. His second in Iraq.


Quite some time ago, I heard about the story of Pat Tillman. What would possess someone to turn down a $3.6 million contract offer from the Arizona Cardinals? Perhaps honor. Perhaps patriotism. Perhaps Pat though that his calling was to defend the constitution. I found some information in the Washington Post on-line archives.

It was true, Pat turned down a $3.6 million contract offer from the Arizona football team in the wake of the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks in New York, Washington and Pennsylvania. "He proudly walked away from a career in football to a greater calling" coach Dave McGinnis said of his strong safety. "Pat knew his purpose in life."

On December 6, 2005, the Washington Post reported that the Army's initial press release of Pat's death stated that "He ordered his team to dismount and then maneuvered the Rangers up a hill near the enemy's location," and "as they crested the hill, Tillman directed his team into firing positions and personally provided suppressive fire. . . . Tillman's voice was heard issuing commands to take the fight to the enemy forces."

The plaza outside the new Arizona Cardinal's stadium will be named "The Pat Tillman Freedom Plaza.

"He is a hero," said Michael Bidwill, the Cardinals' vice president. "There are very few people who have the courage to do what he did, the courage to walk away from a professional sports career and make the ultimate sacrifice."



But, "according to dozens of internal Army documents obtained by the Washington Post" Pat Tillman's died of fratricide after a "chain of botched communication, a misguided order to divide his platoon over the objection of its leader and undisciplined firing by fellow Rangers." The Washington Post continues: "The statements included a searing account from the Ranger nearest Tillman during the firefight, who quoted him as shouting "Cease fire! Friendlies!" with his last breaths."


As the Roman satarist Horace so delicately put it "Dulce et decorum est pro patrima mori" - it is sweet and fitting to die for the fatherland."

I began to think about our definition of a Hero and, more importantly, a leader. Is every soldier a Hero? Is every soldier a leader? After all, the truth is that Pat Tillman wasn’t a leader in the Army. But the Army said he was. I began to reflect on a time not so long ago: June 2001.

The summer after highschool I drove to Florida with two of my friends, Don and Nick. It was a hot June evening when I received some award for nothing in particular which our once-heavily-muscled principle with a gray flat-topped head clamored about for hours. All hundred and twenty of us got an award; thirteen got the same special award as me. Everybody was recognized for being unique and brilliant. The three of us took off an hour after we played our role in the graduation ritual.



When we broke out the encrimsoned horizon was pouring through the passenger side windows down I-95. We passed the Mason-Dixon line in less then four hours, filled our tanks, and drove until the sun was squarely positioned to our left. A moment ago we were teenagers with ambitions unknown. The open road knows no bounds; we had found the essence of freedom.




We stopped at the worlds largest tobacconist in North Carolina and burned fat cigars like wealthy businessmen with thick eyebrows from Houston, or, like the ones with crooked noses from New York. We sipped bourbon whisky and ordered a platter of crackers and cheese with concord grapes and slices of crisp apples. We sat in big leather armchairs, the kind with thousands of brass buttons embedded in the soft, firm arms. We watched the Fox News channel. Sobered up. And kept on driving.


Dusk was around the corner when we spied the world's largest fireworks warehouse. We fired up roman candles and held them in our hands.

At 2:00 AM we arrived in the great state of Florida, home of the worlds largest people trap operated by a mouse. We settled into one of the condos that Don's grandparents own in New Smyrna Beach. They were spending the summer at the Jersey shore.

Equipped with bad fake ID's and an unquenchable thirst for freedom-loving girls, we enjoyed our last summer of freedom so that we could prepare for the next steps of our lives. Don and I were preparing for college. Nick was prepared for the Marine corps. For Don and me, the vacation was a requisite for the assimilation into college life which itself was a requisite for getting a "real" job. For Nick, joining the Marine corps was intended to purge his life of such debauchery so that he could find "real" meaning and honor.

Reality waxed and waned and eventually we returned to New Jersey to wait for the future. I took a job bartending in a local establishment and Don did likewise in a café across the street. Nick began to train again. Everyday he worked out in our highschool's musty weight room to the delight of the jaundiced football coach who was eager to demonstrate to his freshmen players that with dedication to hard work, team and God, you could join the marines as well as winning the states.

The Exxon corporation, whose New Jersey headquarters was located behind the school, promised to renovate the athletic facility because it supported quality community values and helped establish the leaders of tomorrow. Never mind that it was people like Don and myself, people who never dreamed of stepping foot in a highschool weight room, who populated the highest ranks of the corporation.

Nevertheless, Exxon was committed to our highschool and to the future leaders of tomorrow. They bought the highschool countless computers for the biology lab and the school library. The same computes that got a friend suspended for researching cancer for health class when the word "breast" set off a decency alarm and unleashed the stiff vice-principal; the same computers that failed to alert the hunchback biology teacher that the class was blowing up aliens while he was demonstrating how to dissect a frog. "Dude, you got fragged!"

These are the future leaders who were being cultivated. These are the slowly graying men and women who, after four years of experimenting with stimulants, will choose caffeine and join the procession on the Garden State Parkway each morning at 8:00 AM. A procession duplicated in every metropolitan area across the nation from New York to Los Angeles in four 8:00 AM shifts set in motion by the rotation of the earth.



The future calloused soldiers are found in sticky weight rooms, each with good posture and soft cheek bones covered in a fuzz so fine it can hardly be shaved off. They too are recognized as future leaders.


Everybody is a future leader. Little did we know that, as future leaders, we would be told to be obsessed with freedom. And, by the end of the summer, we were told that freedom wasn’t what we had found that summer.




Now, every once in a while, I am treated to another freedom speech. Below are a selection of presidential lines concerning America’s role in establishing freedom in the Middle East:

. . . "I believe that we must assist free peoples to work out their own destines in their own way.

. . . "We shall not realize our objectives, however, unless we are willing to help free peoples to maintain their free institutions and their national integrity against movements that seek to impose upon totalitarian regimes them. This is no more than a frank recognition that totalitarian regimes imposed upon free peoples, by direct or indirect aggression, undermine the foundations of international peace and the security of the United States.

. . . "I believe that it must be the policy of the United States to support free peoples who are resisting attempted subjugation by armed minorities or by outside pressures.

. . . "Or confusion and disorder might well spread throughout the entire Middle East

. . . "We must take immediate action, resolute action

. . . "In addition to funds, I ask the Congress to authorize the detail of American civilian and military personnel

. . . "This is a serious course upon which we embark

. . . "The seeds of totalitarian regimes are nurtured by misery and want. They spread and grow in the evil soil of poverty and strife.

. . . "We must keep hope alive. The free peoples of the wold look to us for support in maintaining their freedoms. If we falter in our leadership, we may endanger the peace of the free world - and we shall surely endanger the welfare of this Nation. Great responsibilities have been placed upon us.

. . . "I am confident that the Congress will face these responsibilities squarely.

I put my library copy of the Truman Doctrine and picked up the New York Times. I couldn't tell the difference between Bush's speeches and Truman's 1947 call to defend the freedom loving people of Greece. "My job was to scare the hell out of the American public" he later said of the Doctrine.




So, are the American people scared? I don't know. I was sitting in a bar in Neptune, NJ which is conveniently located two blocks away from my apartment so I don't have to drive. The CNN Headline News ticker rattled off the stat. No feature. Not even a fifteen second blurb.

"Conservative estimate: 100,000 dead Iraqi civilians."

A few people cheered.




BBC News story of photo

A few more cheers.

The Headline News ticker said something like this: "for further details go to CNN.com." So, I did. And this is what I found:

LONDON - Public health officials report 100,000 Iraqi civilian have died since the end of major combat in Iraq. While there has been no official government figures, conservative estimates of a study designed by Columbia University and John Hopkins University account for over 100,000 dead. This estimate would be much higher if the study included Falluja and other hot-zones within the Sunni Triangle.

Les Roberts of John Hopkins told the AP "As an American, I am really, really sorry to be reporting this . . . I was opposed to the war and I still think the war was a bad idea, but I think that our science has transcended our perspectives."




Dawn rose and there was nothing. There was no food. No clean water. The pan was filled with grease extracted from the scraps of a neighbor's goat. The goat had died quietly one night and the meat was not safe to eat but, death could be cooked out of the fat.


Mother woke her two sons. Rasul rubbed his eyes and scratched his stomach. Naib rolled over and forced himself to continue his dream of the girl that often accompanied him in his sleep. He pulled the wool blanket close to his body leaving just enough space. If the blanket was pulled to tight he would get cold. When there was just enough air in the blanket the warmth of his body filled the empty space. The girl would claim her space too. In bed nothing could get him.

Rasul's soul slipped out of bed just before he did. Dawn was rising and if he hurried he could join his friend who watched his father's flock of sheep. Rasul had a father and a flock of sheep. God sent stealth spirits to steal them in the middle of the day. Stealth spirits cast no shadows as they fly. There was nothing to distract Rasul. He grew hungry watching the sheep. Rasul and Naib ate well the night before but the stomach doesn't remember what you did for it. It is only concerned with today. Rasul decided to gather fire wood. The cold mountain night would be coming soon. Perhaps Naib would be tired of nothing too, and feel eager to help his brother with something.

Since last August, U.S. armed forces claimed and occupied an old Soviet airbase in the city of Shindand near the Iranian boarder in Afghanistan. The position provided American troops with a tactical base where troops could monitor Iranian movements from a small distance and still maintain a minimal presence to the local Afghan populations.




On February 17th, 2005, the New York Times ran an article about a family in Afghanistan:

Two men were killed yesterday cutting firewood beside the road at 5 p.m. when a pickup drove by followed by a black sports utility vehicle. At the sight of the S.U.V. the two men dropped their tools and ran back to the village. The vehicle stopped and four American soldiers opened fire on the fleeing men.


The Americans picked up Rasul and dropped him. "I realized he was dead" said a witness who was brining his sheep down the road. "When they moved toward Naib, Naib put his hand on his side and tried to roll himself over. He was face down in the snow. One American shot him three times."

A second witness claimed that two of the Americans saw him watching from behind a wall, he ducked, and they sprayed the wall with machine gun fire. Afghan police later found small splayed bullets around the wall. They confirmed that the body of the second man contained two rifle bullets in the abdomen and three pistol bullets in the head and chest.

The exit wounds in his chest and head indicated that he had completed turning by the time the third pistol bullet was placed into his brain. Naib's body was drenched in blood indicating that he died slowly until he was shot through the forehead.

"Americans always insist on human rights in the world. But in war, when the enemy is injured, they do not have the right to shoot him, and they shot him with three pistol shots" said a local leader.

The Americans denied shooting the wounded man and noted that they gave the family $2,000 to help with their "immediate difficulties."

Haliburton was reimbursed by the government over $100 for each case of soda they bought for their contractors. I picked up the same case for less than $10 bucks at a wholesale depot. How much would real supplies cost if marked up in such a ratio? $1.8 billion a week is how much. $1.8 billion a week is uncomprehensible.

$2,000 worth of tears. The contractors drink more than that a day.

Ask Eve why she stays so calm when a mother cries. Ask Dawn why she still will rise. Is it fitting and sweet to die for the father land? I don't know. Is it honorable? Perhaps. Perhaps it depends on who you ask. Perhaps it is honorable to whom death brings profit. Perhaps not. Why then does Exxon fund the highschool that trained leaders both corporate and armed? Why was Exxon one of the three largest contributors to Bush's balls which celebrated his election?

On January 8, 2005, The New Standard reported that “nine elaborate balls,” “three candlelight dinners” and “a rock concert” will be paid for by the Exxon Mobil Corp., Bristol Myers Squibb and former Enron President Richard Kinder.



Nick is going back to war at the end of March. I've lost track of Don. He might be a leader all ready, fitting himself into the 8 a.m. rush with a cup full of caffeine after years of experimenting with other stimulants. I'll graduate college this semester. I don't think I want to be a leader, I don't want to do anything heroic. How could I fight? How could I work in the corporate world?


I'm going to drive across country. Nevada is nice. This time I'll head into the sunset because the crimson horizon knows no bounds.



But first, I'll fill my tank. It will feel like suicide but, I'll do it.

20050226

50% say God created humans 10,000 years ago. If you're scared, I know a safe place to hide.

Click hear and fear for your life.

This helps to explain a lot of what scares the shit out of me.

BUT, if you're in the neighborhood, drop by to the safe place where the philosophers hang out . . . We are like the old professors at the end of Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451. We sit outside the craziness and remember in our little cave. As quoted in the Sunday New York Times:


Lunch is the busiest time, when downtown office workers vie for a seat. Graduate students from Rutgers Law School, just around the corner, sometimes commandeer a table in back and suck down juicy, fist sized hamburgers while poring over books and briefs.

Skully will never let us down, and neither will Mike.

All who enter are greeted with a boisterous “Helloooo!” Mr. Scully, keeper of the taps and flame, still works the bar at lunch, ringing up orders, making change, answering the phone. And his back-bar patter never lets up: “How are you doing lads?” “Hey, Mr. C – how are you?” “Mike, can the boys have two beers?” And occasionally, he utters a line that seems lifted from another time: “The gentleman on the other side of the bar would like to buy you two a drink. Will you let him do that?”



Sixty-four years of a city’s history have passed through the two front doors. The ghosts in the back room –vigilant, benevolent and thirsty – keep watch over the living. And Mr. Scully, the current master of ceremonies is simply grateful that the place has survived.

The crowds keep coming and Mr. Scully is a big part of the reason. But whenever a patron tries to tell him that, he always simply says, “We serve a good drink at a fair price.”

20050219

a mortal earth

http://freenepal.blogspot.com/

NY Times - The Secret Genocide Archive

They scream out in vain for a mortal earth
to remember that they lived and died;


Yet it's the souls of the departed and forgotten
for whom God cries.

Ask Eve

http://iraq2005.blogspot.com/

Ask Eve why she stays so calm when a woman cries.
Ask Dawn why she still rises.

20050207

yesterday



i ran into my love yesterday.
her dirty wings spread out in the dry hot day
ready to set sail into the sandy air.

and a guitar begins to play.
the cool lick of blue.
slowly it plays.
quietly it moves.
slowly it lingers on one, simple, dry, piercing note.
two short licks.
a lick of blue.
and the whisky begins to pour.
the warm lick of blue.
slowly it pours.
quietly it moves.
slowly it lingers on one, simple, dry, piercing tongue.
two short sips.
a sip of blue.

i ran into my love yesterday.
i wiped the sweat off my forehead with a greasy red bandana.

a skull rested by my feet.
a rattlesnake ten yards off.

i ran into my love yesterday.
i ran my hand through my damp oily hair.

a guitar plays.
whisky pours.
the night whispers.
memories fade.
a rattlesnake lingers on a patch dry of ground.
two short sips.
a lick of blue.

i ran into my love yesterday.
her dirty wings spread out in the dry hot night
as she set sail into the sandy air.

20050206

the toll for thee

the phone rings
she stops to answer.

a sparrow falls
holy water rusts in its well
a bubble floats away.

as the bell now tolls
the bell will never toll for thee.

20050205

The Death of Marat


The Death of Marat
For some reason, I feel that Marat is appropriate right now.

20050204

the falcon calls me home

A gray stone protrudes at the head of a soft mound.
A spray of pretty pink flowers and yellow ribbons
Colors a field of green grass and a sea of white roods.

Afterlife believers stand with they who, at messianic hope, scorn.

The words of a divine man diffuse into thin air,

A white collar is undisturbed by the summer breeze that ruffle his hair.
He weaves his meretricious words, a fine craftsman is he.
Like a mercer he weaves his fine silks for a small fee.

But beyond the reaches of the green and pink-specked land,

Up on the mesa that transcends the heart of man
There flies a merlin up above in the sky.
It flies above the tree tops, and above patriotic eyes.
It flies above the love poisoned by mankind,
And replenishes the earth as it dives from the sky.

Night falls on the stones, the autumn chill sets in.
The harvest moon, full, eases the memories of sin.
The panorama falls back. One stone, then two.
Step back and observe the millions in view.

And suddenly, everything grows lonely.
Ghosts scuttle silently.
Stealth fears slip patiently in and out of dreams;
They sail away with the cowards and the brave.
Sterling glimpses of angels fade in and out of shadows,
Salvation they find in their escape from the soul.

They flutter across the open plains,
They sweep through the soft summer breeze.

They inhabit the universes from which they depart.
They flutter through cracked panes of glass in tenement halls.
They sweep across amber waves of grain.
They discover the mortality of those who are lost
In the lonely, cross-white, moon-light domain
Of patriotic slaves. Salvation remains
in the hearts of the rebels, those who are truly brave.

And the river runs,
A torrent of consciousness muddled into the confinements of its banks.
It yearns for the freedom of angles. Its altars are set in stone.
The stones want to run.
But the epithets tattooed into their strong breasts like chains restrain.

And the angles fly,
They fly in the cage of a lonely paradox of principles of worth.

To the altars they fear to tread, the fools have talked them dead.
And slowly a Star Spangled state fades into the sunset of yesterday.
Born is the empire of a new day.

And I? I am reborn into the fabric of tomorrow - I shall never die
As long as I am willing to say goodbye.

So Goodbye old earth! Goodbye old pride!
So long to the burdens that plague mankind.
So long to the tears I shed as I cried,
Over the joys of life that plague my mind.
To face this I leave you alone
As my dust blows home.

The great lumbering stones are left in their place,
The epithet: "1982 - 2008, by fellow man disgraced"
But a soul flutters through the winds that blow over the plains

of memories and glories and amber fields of grain.

Salvation flutters in the zephyrs which pass through the night
And pour through the cracks of broken tenement window panes.

It enters my soul and carries it through the sound of the trumpets' tap.
It whispers softly for me to come home.
It echoes over the twenty one guns salute my soul.

Goodbye old earth and all of mankind's ways.

Goodbye old pride, so long painful days.
I'm tired and hungry, and can not stay here alone.
Thank you sweet Earth, but forever Goodbye.
Echoing over the land, the black falcon cries.


20050203

fire and fire




Venus and the Vine
sisters love and wine
fire and fire the tonic boils hot

Imparadised on a couch with midnight vapors lovely,
The needle to the vinyl is entrenched.
In eve's candlelight an empress is born of a universal lover.
Marveled by the gods a goddess she becomes.

And from an argent field above Amore's arrows fly through azure skies.

Leaves warmed on their solar walk in circles begin to run.
High winds begin to rise.
Through trembling limbs a flame runs and warms the breast
Of heavenly bodies behind the cloud topped hills.
The earth trembles from a groan.
Neptune to the scales of sensual powers ascends
And floods the earth with the elements of life.
Carried on whispering zephyrs the elements soar,
Detected to be passions by sagacious senses.
All creation stuned with musical spheres;
Nature thunders powerful, pleasing to open ears.

Let earth from its orbit fly!
Let two doves imparadised by midnight vapors lovely
Stir the tonic until it boils hot.
adding love and wine
fire and fire

Let two doves from the isthmus between two worlds fly away.
The needle in the vinyl entrenched,
Scratches the out the melodies of another day.


20050202

To Other Systems Circling Other Suns

"From brutes what men, from men what spirits know:
Or who could suffer being here below?
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed today,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleased to the last, he crops the flow'ry food,
And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.

Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish or a sparrow fall,
Atoms or systems into ruin hurled,
And now a bubble burst, and now a world."

Standing at the forefront of our children's fallen age,
To our heros we run, to our chained gods we pray.
Our star-spangled martyrs, each a fallen sage!
And everything we've known stealthy sails into the sunset of a time far away.

So when the wind blows cold on holy ground,
And waves ripple over the seas where bluejackets drown,
Run to the land where slaves grow bold
and bleed the Christian thirst for gold.
Don't let the sun set on this fallen day.
Move along, Be on your way.

I don't think I can live another day,
I'll just keep on running, running far away.
I'll run over the sunburnt amber waves of grain.
I'll run through the valleys, laboring on through pain.
I won't ever let the sun set on these fallen plains,
As desires I can hardly restrain threaten the Great Chain.
I've grown tired of the low ambitions of Kings;
Come now with me, leave all meaner things; for us the garden sings.
I'm tired of star-spangled men aspiring to the forbidden fruits
Of civilization embedded with promiscuous roots.
They call to their fallen gods, to their sages the root runs
Without ever understanding other systems that circle other suns.
I've grown tired of men clutching their crosses daring the devil to obey.
Can't they see that innocently the little lamb skips and plays?
They tempt fate like lightning to a rod,
But if you listen closely, it is the poets who are liberating gods.
Why does the little lost lamb skip and play?
Oh the little lost lamb joyously has lost his way!
Oh this rusty blade cuts a canyon through my soul!
My tired heart lies bleeding, I'll never grow old.

Yet I won't let the sun set on this forsaken day,

Red blood may run over a white veil yet I'll be on my way.
I'll burn a hole through the obstructions that abound;
With unweariable endurance I'll search for truer ground.
I'll keep on searching for the land where divine flames glow
And illuminate the shadows of darkness that plague my soul.

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