Fast Day 8 July 27 2007 {Poem for Fast Day 8}

The War continues.

Saw the movie "Gandhi" again.
God must have an odd sense of humor. He says "Every time I send a good person to you humans, you kill 'em! What's with you people? I mean, I even sent my own son...and you CRUCIFIED him!"
God shakes His head in disbelief.








Poem for Fast Day 8
When the City came to destroy the vegetation along Adams Road.

every growing stick has a face
wild flowers grow…like wild, you know.
diverse populations…
they piss some people off. I forest walk...
the legs of my pants smell like mallow
and stem juice white.

men come to spread death’s carpet.
wet lands with cats tails eight feet tall…
looking down on our heads…
they beat them down. broken.
my shoes are muddy and smell like herbicide;
I hear raccoon breath at 3 a.m.

If I care, I feel so sad; so why care?
why should I care…or connect.
a gas powered weed whacker comes,
mighty roar of fossil fuel. We run.
my shirt fruity with sweat
and hot memories of Adonis.

who cries for Adonis? am I his keeper?
there are weed control laws.
you are a weed, too, if you piss us
off! Free...you forget your clothes…
you walk nakedly trees…
the forest remembers you!

Fast Day 7 July 20, 2007 {Ferlinghetti's Big Bang}

Ferlinghetti's Big Bang

I didn’t get much sleep last night,
thinking about dark matter.
I mean, what if it isn’t there after all?
suppose we have to back to square one
and start all over?
sometimes I think that my cosmology
should square one back to Apollo
and his sister Artemis;
to Zeus and Hera enthroned
upon heighty Olympus;
where I would wear a long locked wig…
and rest upon my weighty book;
a sybilline caricature of rest,
captured in a toga net…
Sybil of mantic prose...
Sybil of the Day...

Peregrinus expectavi
pedes meos in cymbalis

weary from my writing,
hung-over with heavy eyes…
wine stains splashed upon my prophecy!
Ahhh…what’s the use?
let me see…where is that scrap?
that thing foreseen?
If I could only remember…or find the
damned cocktail napkin of the gods
where I chained my promethean thought
in a wicket of adamantine inks!!
I’ll get a ticket to Cumaea
and go by Greyhound bus
to the dark matter casino
and act like Apuleius’ ass
bewitched by powers I cant resist!

Fast Day 6 July 13, 2007 {Holy Poverty}

Yesterday there was an interim report.

We shall squee-e-e-eze something out of those Iraqis which will make us feel justified.

The Australians have admitted that their participation is for Oil.

Yawn...and die.

Six foot iambics...like a Greek Tragedy, only not nearly as interesting.



Holy Poverty

The bull who weeps the stars, says Antoine Oleyant,
he has a rope of Kongo beads and chromo-lights.

The triple horned bull resembles Guernica;
the three-fold horns a triptych halo of Bon Jesús.
So we go where the young men are, and desmoiselles:
the House of Elegance, a great White Way of life!
We only rent this dump; we have no medical:
Our lives - installment payments, interest adds up.
Our assets we cannot allocate; we have none.
We are the poor and bear the vision of grandes personnes
who look upon us down from haughty skyscrapers
from black eye slits of windows, blind to all below.
We see the good we cannot buy with credit cards;
we see the loves we cannot touch, nor ever hold.
So we go voguing: college students, Wall Street types-
the kings and queens of dreams – and “Metropolitan”.
A subway series madness; a subway flight from pain!
No ticket, nor a respite, pity, nor reprieve.
O Simbi of the horn, O Simbi of the sea;
and like a bull of many horns he spins
the night away, a pinwheel parlous turning.

The bull who wears the starry sky is named Bosou,
he has a rope of Kongo beads and chromo-lights.

Fast Day 5 July 6, 2007 {Father Ghraib and Mother Gitmo}

I am looking forward to another fast day.
I cannot wait until the first chance to turn up my nose at a platter filled with french fries...or some other equally nauseating carbo deep fried in grease.

We had a large thunderstorm with hail as big as...not grapefruit, blueberries.
The acequias of my garden ( water channels) are undoubtedly breached and will require labor in the hot sun.
I shall take shovel in hand and repair, carry water if needed, and the only canal left empty will be the alimentary.

I read a poem about Guantanamo yesterday. I did not take a fancy to it, so I wrote my own:


Father Ghraib and Mother Gitmo


Behind the garage there is a garden,
in the wastelands. The builders
stole the soil; they sold it
to pay the landscapers crew!

Water channels dug into sand and stone,
through broken concrete and asphalt,
recycled crap from everywhere.
Experiment to see what will grow…

builders just throw trees into holes,
toss flowers into trenches…
no mindfulness, no husbandry
no botany, no lasting beauty…

trees…symbols on an architect’s sketch:
seen from above
pointillistic circles with bent branches
twisting around a circle
like swastikas deformed.

But something grows in this waste land!
A tree surrogate with leaves like elephant ears
of a wide florescent green on a stem
thinly veined in burgundy kermes;

a desert spike with compounded eyes
of saffron lids bepetalled;
walking sticks with purple crowns,
mille foil clouds, creeping parasols,
great pendant hearts, explosions of the briar,

Hemlocks where we hang our hearts;
covert agents of desire,
spies of reproduction,
texting with chromo-semaphores.

The fairies pippin, Mab’s nonpareil,
spanish pearmain, grizzly muscadine,
early Margaret and scarlet crofton;
all fruits of rich imagination!

In the midst of this, on the verge
of a small isle in the streams,
stands a vulgar hyssop unseen
among the vibrant pageantry.

United around its upper course
juvenile aphids clutch and huddle
in prison suits of blood-orange:
silently there and nowhere else…
and wait for the time of their fulfillment.

A denumerable crowd sits as if
in dreaming prayer, bidden to the masjid
of stinging nettle and menthol,
alone and stripped of their imam
whose sermon they cannot ken.

I watch in fatal fascination
this epithalamion symbiotic,
not knowing if we rise
as ladybirds to dry our wings…
or swarm to our demise.

June 29, 2007 4th Fast {What Would the Anti-Christ Do?}

The fourth fast is over as we swing into the holiday week.

What's "on tap" for the fourth, as they say on the news shows around this neck of the woods.

I like the way they use slang from the bar room, the casinos, and the public urinals in this general area to make their communications clearer.


My creation this week is a mosh-mish, but it is the best I could think of.

I call it "What Would the Anti-Christ Do?" ... or "W W A-C D?"
Note: "Dajjal" is the Islamic name for the anti-christ, meaning "deceiver".

W W A-C D?

dajjal sits in falluja town
drinking the wine-red blood,
feeling down and desperate,
betrayed, misunderstood.

He’d won the Uruk lottery,
a date with the queen of death.
dolled up like a wedding bride

within a veil of Meth.

She bared her ugly fangs…
he would not fall for that.
he ran to dusty red Samarra
where she then left him flat.

And now he yearns for lovely death,
no voice to fill his ear,
no taut skinned bulemic body
to orgone this time of year.

Oh, allegory of appliance!
bacteria of the mind!
an iPhone for your thoughts, my dear!
and what we’ve left behind!