Sunday, August 30, 2020

Proverbs ~ Sunday, August 30, 2020

Even to a poor man, a small amount of wealth can bring treasures indeed!

Very few people know the sorrow of money enters the mouth of hell.

Endless lines of people wait to ride the roller coaster of poverty.

No one but the wealthy realizes money brings no satisfaction.

To the wrong man, money provides no safety from complete destitution.

Only the right man knows how to handle money in a sound investment.

Assets in a savings account truly offer a safety in numbers.

Property values rise and fall according to the merits of neighbors.

Only a dog who eats kibble from the same bowl understands loyalty.

Observe mercurial mischief by those who seek the kindness of strangers.

Righteousness brings virtue and strength of character to the destitute man.

Money is nothing but a means to more money or the hell of sorrow.

Ask God not for money but for intelligence in handling investments.

Neither heaven nor hell save lives during a storm for a boating party.

Answer me why money is taboo to discuss except among the rich.

Small men may never know what it means to walk tall with head high and mighty.

Measure not wealth by cents of copper-coated zinc; Lincoln withstands the worst.

Abraham Lincoln sought to save this great union not by freeing the slaves.

Lincoln, a man of great integrity is found everywhere on the ground.

Look down any distance and soon enough you'll find a penny reflects light.

A measure of kindness, a moment of thanks for the inconsolable.

Mounting credit card debt and utility bills leave no sense of solace.

Only a great woman does not care that she is the best man for the job.

Until people create a language without sex, gender takes precedence.

No inequality goes unchallenged for long, power resides in stasis.

Tatyana only wants pets, food, love, shelter, and toys for her to play.

On the surface, we seek to find a level field to play a game of ball.

Forget the past, present, or even the future, time is ephemeral.

Wealth does not come from work, work creates an income but not wealth in itself.

Each woman or man makes a wealth from small treasures, just as children with toys.

As we desire safety over a sense of risk, we care not to gamble.

Let those who win it big bask in glory, when luck shines down to bestow wealth.

Tatyana suffers the life of an old soul struggling for freedom.

Her awareness allows her to follow the path to end this mortal coil.

Cats mirror their owners, their caretakers in mind, manifest qualities.

Animals other than other human beings belong to the planet.

No person belongs here unless they care for earth not as a mere plaything.

Billions of dollar bills would never be much fun to count into hundreds.

Religion teaches us how to act in public as well as privately.

Ignorance of the law assures us that justice remains blind to see truth.

No one seeks to do harm, it is a consequence of seeking to attain.

Guns in the hands of blind shooters offer random acts of violence life.

Tragedy is no loss, we always gain to lose, life and love is absence.

Remember the future offers only what past masters could not achieve.

Enlist in the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, or Coast Guard while you're young.

As jobs go, bread-makers rise earliest, writers sleep when newsprint ceases.

Silence flows in sanguine crimson rivers, murder by violence seeks calm.

Unless we stop murder by gun violence in Chicago, we are doomed.

Remember past mistakes arise as obstacles, hurdles to leap over.

Endless suffering brings us no closer to clear understanding of pain.

Surrender to the god, to the muse, to the force that brings you happiness.

Indeed the world is mad, mad indeed, but a few remain sane for the rest.

No sorrow is too great to let go unto God, whatever you believe.

Disciples of the Lord walk in splendor with God a few paces behind.

Ego drives the drunken insatiably mad with desire to devour souls.

Ego ergo ogre, the beast within us all, supressed to save our souls.

Devil or God, Heaven or Hell, I have no fear of death, I'm not afraid.

Saturday, August 29, 2020

Zubeneschamali ~ Saturday, August 29, 2020

Zebulon studies stars
under his raincoat,
blocks out ambient light
ever-present as cars,
naturally, he climbs
everyday like a goat,
sheer cliffs pose no threat, slight,
centered, without worry,
his telescope sometimes
aggravates his balance,
muscles in his bare feet
arrange thoughts like a dance,
lift up, step down to meet
insults in a hurry.

Friday, August 28, 2020

Perfectly Still ~ Friday, August 28, 2020

Pi survives as Archimedes' constant
irrationally numbered accountant.

Impermanence marks Pi, his days, numbered;
marked, as only a marked man, encumbered
persistently by innumerable,
endless debts he finds insuperable,
remuneration never wipes the slate
markedly clean, residue marks the date,
anguish never subsides, a vacation
never feels like he leaves his workstation,
ergonomic and efficient, his chair
needlessly follows him, while solitaire
consoles his disconsolate wife, she plays
endless games over his grave, where he lays.

Epic Impermanence ~ Friday, August 28, 2020

Epic, this word we say ironically,
particularly when we witness time
impressively moving ever so slow,
causing gridlock along the expressway.

Impermanence, a language game we play,
making objects appear and disappear,
pushing the envelope sardonically,
ear to the ground, listening down below,
remarkable how we seek the sublime,
moving through space into the atmosphere,
arrogate to irrigate the desert,
noble Vitis vinifera, we drink
en plein air, painting in situ, we think,
neglecting to brush the canvas, alert
creative control, the magnificent
empire offers terroir munificent.

Thursday, August 27, 2020

...and a very good time it was... ~ Thursday, August 27, 2020

Once upon a time 

                  whilst time stood still 

      and it was very good 

                        for time to stand still 

            for just a moment 

      for just a very brief moment 

                  there was a clatter 

            behind a bookcase 

                        and this clatter 

      was very loud 

                              that night 

                        just before dawn 

      and this clatter whined 

                  and this clatter squirmed 

                              and this clatter cried out 

            very, very loudly 

      for a little help 

                        for this clatter 

            which wasn't really 

                                    a clatter at all 

      but a very, small fox 

                  pinned behind a bookcase 

                                    in my study 

                              whilst I read a book 

                                          at the library 

                        just before dawn 

Trial and Error ~ Thursday, August 27, 2020

Conscientious action, what does it mean?
On the surface, it involves our karma.
Not the tit-for-tat of Baudelaire's spleen.

Splenetic rage aside, what may we glean?
Conscientious action observes dharma.
In short, we encounter. What does that mean?

Envision past events before nineteen.
Neutrality is key to view karma.
Transcend mistakes without rancorous spleen.

Indeed we plant the seed at age thirteen.
Of hopes and dreams, we follow the dharma.
Uh, yes, but still we ask, "What does it mean?"

Simple, remember life on a mindscreen.

Actions causing harm create our karma.
Conscientious action does not cause spleen.

Truth is visceral when our guts are clean.
In experience, we block out karma.
Open the mind to cure our purple spleen.
Negate all negation. What does that mean?

Wednesday, August 26, 2020

Aaron, the Elder Brother ~ Wednesday, August 26, 2020

In the Green Room 

nothing illegal 
      (allegedly) 
                        ever happens, 


that musicians 
                  smoke dope 
      along with DJs 

high is all good 
            for Mr. Hopgood, 

even though he says, 
      "we lit..."


Green is not the color 
                        of the walls, 

really, I couldn't tell 
            you why, 

even if my boss 
      knows the reason, 

everyone knows 
                  it's off-limits, 

no one but guests 
      of the establishment 
            may enter...


Remember when 
                  back in the day, 
      when we worked, 

on a good night, 
            the money poured 
      down like manna 
                  in the desert, 

oh the crowds, the women, 
                        dressed up to party, 
      to twerk, shake and swivel, 

maybe we weren't rich, 
            never saw ends meet, 
      couldn't afford to pay 
                        rent, let alone 
                  a new pair of Nike Air, 
                                    but we had fun, 
                              yes, we had fun...

Saturday, August 22, 2020

Mid-life Crisis ~ Saturday, August 22, 2020

My infatuation as a passion with life passes into old age,

yes, this body ceases to enjoy its youthful flexibility, pain

instead enters these joints, inflames and disables the working parts for good,

no one said growing old would be fun, live it up while you're young, you'll be dead

for sure inside a corpse, if you wait for your chance to do the things others

asked you not to enjoy because of their so-called concern, selfish desire

to keep you safe, alive, all in one piece, no parts or phantom limbs missing,

understand, parents care, they try real hard to keep you alive, to survive

and procreate like them, so you can have children, care for them as they did,

to say that is the point of life boils all meaning down to ridiculous,

impossible standards, if we make it alive past eighteen, their job done,

on that note, you must learn to fly away as far and fast as possible,

no time to take your time, your life will be over by fifty, job well done,

after that the body declines double-time fast compared to twenty-five,

so while your body bakes, roasts, broils in the oven let your hair down and dance,

at thirty, the body declines until fifty, then you are flat-out fucked,

pretend you are twenty again, still, your body knows as you become stiff

at the joints, bend over, touch your toes if you can, if you can't, your body

says to the world, you're old, you're done, you're a has-been, your time in the sun, gone,

simply accept you're fucked and move on, what you want makes no difference no more, 

if you never became who you wanted to be by forty, no one cares,

oh, they might patronize your sorry-ass but you, my friend are flat-out fucked,

no one hands out awards to poets unpublished under sixty years old,

we admire youthful verve, swerve with vim and vigor, a jigger and swivel,

inflexibility loses the game, you're done, you lost your mind when young,

tough luck, others lost more in war, at the office, they lost limbs or their soul,

how we praise the writers under forty, twenty each year with accolades,

life passes as you wait in traffic, in gridlock on the tollway of time,

if you wait for your chance to ride a motorbike that glides past as you wait

for your turn to move up six feet, a full fathom down, your watery grave,

enter the game awake, awoke as fuck, no fool gonna pluck my feathers,

passion passes, subsides after fifty, take pills, stay erect for four hours,

answer the door, the man in a cloak with a scythe doesn't want your money,

simply submit body and soul to the reaper of the harvest of lives,

sit back, relax, play games in your own livingroom, never accomplish much,

enter old age bitter you didn't get it on with your babysitter,

still, you got laid enough to count on just one hand, what a joke, game over,

if the shoe fits, wear it like a badge of honor, you laughable dumb-fuck,

no one wanted to fuck with you because you were insane in the membrane,

the fact you have no kids proves you failed to provide the world with your birthright,

only you feel different, you twisted the facts round, rationalize defeat,

on the one hand, you are godparent to your friends' children the world around,

let it be known, you failed to make the world better, you worked hard all your life,

despite this fact, you failed as a human being on so many levels,

and so, whatcha gonna do now that you're fifty, become a volunteer,

given you have no skills, nothing of practical value to help others,

exactly, you can't do anything you wanted to do when you were young.

Friday, August 21, 2020

Passing the Acid Test ~ Friday, August 21, 2020

All we could ever want, / good jobs to pay the bills, / a roof above our heads, //

little something to fill / our vast empty stomachs, / hungry from dawn to dusk, //

little did we know then, / the world was ours to change / in any way we liked, //

want never to pay rent, / abolish the practice, / reinvent the reasons, //

even if we wanted / to change the government, / we didn't know...it's ours, //

create label buttons / with our favorite slogans, / question authority, //

only we would become / authority figures / ourselves, fat and greedy, //

undernourished children / in Africa need food, / play a concert series, //

little did we know then, / we paid to make the world / a better place for all, //

despite knowing nothing, / our opinions mattered / all the more so to us, //

everyday we consumed / the industries we built / with our hard-earned income, //

virtually nothing / leftover after rent, / so we bought books to read, //

even if we held on / to the reins of business, / could we drive the horses, //

rest until noon, work late, / get drunk after long days / of mindlessly waiting, //

when opportunity / came knocking at our door, / too stoned, we laughed it off, //

and forgot about it, / until we became old, / and slaves to industry, //

no one climbed Everest, / not even skied the Alps, / we did nothing worthwhile, //

to rebel against those / in power, authority, / was all we knew to do, //

good God, nobody cares, / old folks bitching since time / immemorial, lost //

out to the almighty / dollar bill to buy stuff / ten years from now is trash, //

only if we had known / we had sold ourselves short, / nothing better to do, //

difficulties later / in life, like no savings / and no retirement fund, //

just played into their hands, / to show we were helpless / as children without hope, //

on TV, commercials / for elderly Russian / Holocaust survivors, //

buy into helplessness, / hopelessness, charity, / we become those people, //

still, we send hard-earned cash / to help their hopelessness, / they will never live large, //

the almighty buck drives / the chariots of fire / across the skies to dusk, //

only somebody else / holds the reins, never us, / we gave up our future, // 

pay to play, the only / way to win the game, get / in their my son, get some, //

as my father beckoned / me from beyond the grave, / eat well, don't die like me, //

yet, we mimic actions, / like apes in the jungle, / primates we are as well, //

transparency becomes / the big new thing, tell us / how we're getting fucked up, //

how we've been fucked over, / too late now to go back, / mesothelioma, //

everyone suffers life, / it's inherent, our wealth / comes from our own sorrow, //

blind as youth to the wheels / crushing the bones of love, / squeezing from every drop, //

ignorance until truth / smacked us upside the head, / a friend dies, we wake up, //

little did we know then, / the world was ours to change / anyway we wanted, //

little did we know that / we just had to tell them / what it was we wanted, //

still, time took more friends' lives, / our bodies became stiff, / inflexible, codgers, //

as we learned to grow old / gracefully with yoga / and other practices, //

relying on others / to help us meet our goals, / to make us feel worthwhile, //

only we helped to build / the economy twice / during each recession, //

only we called others / the greatest, better than / our own, generation, //

for real, were we really / all that bad, did we not / try to better the world, //

alright, some of us were / criminals and felons, / hitmen and mob bosses, //

but even they are good / down deep, just as we are / morally-flawed beings, //

our knowing right from wrong / didn't stop us hurting / others as we saw fit, //

very much so, we knew / it was wrong to cause harm, / who really understood, //

everyone watched in vain, / as planes hit the towers, / we're THAT generation, //

only if we had known / how our government made / all of it possible, //

understood the covert / operations around / the world, even at home, //

remember how we tripped / on acid in high school, / thanks to the CIA, //

how we chose LSD, / Project MKUltra, / influenced by the Beats, //

even we knew better, / but found our temptation / too strong to look forward, //

acid affected us, / hallucinogens won / the war on cheap dosing, //

despite being fucked up, / we all went to college, / got an education, //

still, what more could we want, / free tuition for life, / abolish student loans... //

Wednesday, August 19, 2020

The Gravedigger ~ Wednesday, August 19, 2020

Ancient brain case rests upon my workspace, 
no one remembers, ""Alas, poor Yorick!" 
contrary to opinion, this ace face, 

in all his glory, does not simply grace 
emptiness palpable upon my desk, 
no, his grim skull smirks upon my workspace, 

this empty stand once held an ancient vase.

To imagine his mouth chatters, click-click, 
whimsical to watch the teeth on his face, 

if I could choose something to take his place, 
see me in hell should I win a quick pick, 
the lottery I won with my workspace, 

enter my office, you feel no disgrace, 
despite proof of the carrot and the stick. 

Kama, an ancient longing, may deface 

all my ancient twisted karma, to trace 
relations back to this man is the trick, 
my studies led me here to meet his face, 
all stripped of flesh and brain at my workspace. 

Tuesday, August 18, 2020

While the Others Stand There Watching Me Die ~ Tuesday, August 18, 2020

Before November, no one knew nothing, 
eventually news broke before Christmas, 
first, no one believed it could happen here, 
of course, we would be spared the tragedy 
repeated in hot zones around the world, 
except, the illness needed no passport. 

No border guard could prevent the virus 
of entering our nation by airline, 
virtually every time in the past 
each version of the illness came this way, 
maybe we could have foreseen this crisis 
before it was a global pandemic, 
except worst-case scenario vision 
relies on hindsight as twenty/twenty. 

No one can see the future exactly, 
only guess how diseases can evolve. 

On that assumption, we provide a plan, 
next to no one observes the protocols, 
even the President acts ignorant. 

Killing his constituents with neglect, 
nobody can hold him accountable, 
even if he is not above the law, 
we watch justice crumble under his reign. 

Nobody answers for the violence, 
only children keep getting shot, murdered, 
these random acts of injustice allow 
harbingers to herald a new era, 
if looting and murder are summer games, 
no one understands where the police stand, 
given at least one kneels upon my neck. 

Monday, August 17, 2020

The Brown Fox ~ Monday, August 17, 2020

Once upon a time there was an old book, 
and inside this old book there was a fox, 
and this fox lived inside a library, 

at night, with no one around, he'd sneak out 
to play with other animals hidden 
by day, at night, they could frolic and say 

what they thought of the world behind closed doors, 
what they thought of the old librarian, 
what they believe the world outside is like. 

At dawn, all the animals would return 
to their respective books, hidden away, 
old, dusty, forgotten by their readers. 

One day, a girl with golden piggy tails 
entered the library just before close, 
as her tummy didn't feel well at all. 

Her mummy was nowhere in sight, at work 
along with her papa, so after school, 
she would stay with a friend until night time. 

But one day, she decided, after school 
she would play in the park, to the dismay 
of her friend's parents who were left confused. 

Little Penny, for that was her name, felt 
unwell after eating a bag of worms, 
not real worms, of course, but gummy fruit worms. 

Penny went to the loo to do her thing, 
when the librarian checked to make sure 
no one was there, she didn't see Penny. 

And as Penny was too busy to know 
the library was closing, bolted shut, 
she was left to do her thing in the dark. 

Went she finished, she washed her hands and left 
the washroom, she found everyone was gone, 
even the old lady librarian. 

Penny didn't know what to do, she tried 
the door but it was bolted shut, she tried 
the windows but they were too big to lift. 

So she sat down at a table and slept; 
around midnight, she awoke with a start, 
somebody was asking her a question. 

"What is the square root of sixteen?" She looked 
up and saw a brown fox on the table, 
quickly scurrying to the ground and back. 

Was this a dream? Penny couldn't be sure, 
but she knew the answer to his question, 
and quietly whispered the number, "four". 

Everyone on the floor ducked as a ball, 
a golf ball to be exact, flew across 
the room over everyone's lowered head. 

The fox, dressed as a Scottish golfer, said 
"Correct!" "How many feet are in a mile?" 
"Five thousand, two hundred and eighty feet."

"Correct again!" The fox said. Then he asked, 
"How many pennies are in a dollar?"
"That's my name!" Penny got all excited. 

"That is incorrect," said the fox. "No, no, 
the answer is one hundred," said Penny, 
but my name is Penny and I am lost. 

Then the fox said, "Correct, correct, correct." 
"But what's that have to do with why you're here?" 
Penny replied, "I don't know why I'm here." 

"I ate some gummy worms and felt unwell."
"I'm sorry, Penny, but what can I do?" 
"I am just an imaginary fox." 

Then Penny cried and fell asleep. She woke 
up at dawn, the fox long gone, and the door 
unlocked and wide open. So Penny left. 

She walked home only to find police cars 
outside her house; she was scared, but went in 
to hear her mom call out her name, "Penny!" 

Hugs and kisses, so happy she was home. 
After that night her dad bought her a phone. 
Her parents overjoyed that she was safe. 

But Penny went back to the library 
to see if she could find the fox. Nowhere!
Never again did she see the brown fox. 

She told the librarian what happened, 
but the old lady could never believe 
such a tall tale from such a little girl. 

Indeed, no one believed a word she said 
about that strange night, nobody knew what 
she went through, maybe it was just a dream. 

Phantasmagoria ~ Monday, August 17, 2020

When I was a child, all the world was strange,
how fantastic, phantasmagorical, 
enter the world of the magic lantern, 
nothing but ghosts in the Assembly Hall. 

I could not know the world, full of spectres 

wandering the earth for generations 
as men, women and children do today, 
still my eyes did not deceive me back then, 

as children see what adults cannot know, 

children see the ghosts of our present selves, 
how we pass through this world as images, 
in the flesh, ever real, in one moment, 
left changed, a semblance of what we once were, 
doomed to grow up, to grow older, decline, 

as the body changes, this body mourns, 
left to wilt in the sun, a desert flower, 
lest we remember, adults act busy, 

tragically we forget the ghosts that pass, 
haunt the world as active living beings, 
ephemeral memories, former lives, 

wordless, this veil of pure intuition, 
only children can see, smoke and mirrors, 
remember the images on the screen, 
lest we forget the passage of vessels 
drawn from one shore to the other side, why,

when everything we need to know is here, 
all we have forgotten about the past, 
simulacra of our former selves, ghosts, 

spectres, only children can see, adults 
take the world too seriously, freak out 
remembering the passage of lost time, 
angles, curves, lines, all that is visible, 
nothing more than geometric patterns, 
geometry and algebra, useless, 
even calculus cannot build this bridge. 

Sunday, August 16, 2020

Un Opéra: European Dreams Smeared ~ Sunday, August 16, 2020

Paris, a dream smeared across the mindscreen, 
a memory decades in the making, 
remember when I found my father's books 
in fourth grade in a box with reel-to-reel 
sound recordings of primary lessons. 

After four years high school, three years college...

Distance makes the scholar study harder, 
reading magazines and writing journals, 
entering third year Advanced French Grammar 
arriving in Memphis after madness 
made me reassess my bad decisions. 

Spring Break 1996, we travelled 
midnight express across the Atlantic, 
ending up napping on an empty plane 
across four seats with the flight attendant 
requesting we relax until morning, 
entering Paris with turbulent sleep, 
decided to read Seamus Heaney's speech. 

After very little sleep, we arrived 
city bright to stay with my roommate's friend, 
receiving hospitality with cheese, 
old, hard bread, table wine, a place to stay, 
sleep, shower, drink coffee out of small bowls, 
stayed up all day to decide logistics. 

That I would stay with another family, 
happily able to use a language 
entirely learned within a classroom. 

Maybe if I wasn't so high-minded, 
if we didn't begin to drift apart, 
nothing that two philosophy students 
dependent on hard argumentation 
skills can't resolve, but another friend brought 
clear across the Atlantic from the sticks, 
riding along after his bride bailed out, 
entering Paris with no language skills, 
even a good ol' boy from Tennessee 
needs time out to talk with an old buddy. 

Saturday, August 15, 2020

Mindscreen ~ Saturday, August 15, 2020

electronic dreams smeared across the screen,
-
Devil be damned with deviled eggs and ham,
resort to subterfuge to win the game,
eggs hatch, chicks awaken, mother unseen,
aspirin as an anticoagulant,
mustard gas dissolves lungs to blister jam,
spread the butter thinly to defer blame.

Shame devours our values within culture,
marriage decides who acts somnambulant,
electronic dreams smeared inside the mind,
asthmatic doughboys die without gas masks,
religion factors nought when deaf and blind,
embittered spouses hide within port casks,
depraved children watch chicks eat a vulture.

The Burnt Match ~ Saturday, August 15, 2020

My first year of high school in 1983 took me for a wild ride. Yet, a fourteen year old, clueless to the future, could never be grateful. 

Foreign-born but grew up awkward and eccentric, out of place, out of time. In my first week, trouble. Diagnostic essay: I write a porn story. Right away. Dean's Office. Expulsion? Suspension? Out of Honors Program. Stripped from the very start. I should have known better. Played by the rules of war. The old slag, what a hag. But everyone loved her. She did her job. She taught. 

Yes, I lost my stature, my position as smart, little Asian student. English became boring. Except no one noticed. Because nobody cared. As I made friends, I learned not to be a fuck up, end up at Wintersburg. Really, how I survived my first year, freshman year, I don't know, I can't say. 

Of course, I nearly died from drugs at a party. They were drugs that I brought. Fucking "Bloody N-**-**", that's what they were called. Speed. The red and black capsules I took. 

How I drank schnapps and beer, smoked weed, took speed, threw up and nearly overdosed. I may exaggerate, but I was a burnt match, useless to everyone. Gain a reputation at a football party and get teased forever. How the fuck did I know the rules of engagement. I didn't. This was war!

Shallow, dumb teenagers bully other students since they don't give a damn. Compassionate teammates? No, I ran cross country and track. I liked football. However I was small, skinny, not tall, but light. Eight-stone Flying Squirrel. Only I was trouble. Always getting myself in trouble with the law. Of course, I needed help but my older brother and his fraternity left me helpless to find my way through the minefield of school in the eighties.

If I knew then...but no, life doesn't work that way, in reverse, so to speak. No, I was lost to God and all humanity, an Indian outcast. 

Nineteen Eighty-Three. I lost a testicle at Sunset League Finals. And I came in eighth place. In the ER, doctors stitched me up, good to go. My teammates visited. Nothing could destroy me. I felt like I was cursed. I recuperated. Even if I could know, if I could understand, but no one could help me. Track next year was horrid. I was afraid to run. We all ran long distance. Even if I could choose a different race, hurdles, short distance, anything... Everyone sucked it up. Some of us ran better than others. I lost heart. Nothing made sense. Not home. Not school. Not life. Nothing. I learned how to be bad. 

Except I did badly at being bad, not good, but not Hollywood bad. If I did one thing right, dressing up as Gandhi at school for Halloween. Gandhi was the closest I would ever achieve as wholesome acceptance. However, I was not Gandhi at a party seducing Minnie Mouse. Yes, I said the wrong thing to her friend the next day and she dropped the burnt match. 

Try as I might, I failed with women my own age, I was a pariah. Homely, not yet handsome, if in my mother's eyes, I gave up on dating. Really, I was awkward, eccentric, in my head all of the time, thinking. Even philosophers learn how to talk, to chat, to discuss with others. Everyone had problems but some talked with their friends, their families, or a priest. 

Trouble was, I was smart as a scholar, but dumb when it came to people. Only I couldn't trust anyone, no reason, none that I knew, at least. Of course, I became drawn to punk, The Sex Pistols, The Clash, The Damned, Buzzcocks... Kings of the Wild Frontier, we dreamed California within California. 

Moronic to rebel against the sun and surf, the beach lifestyle, the waves. England had the music. What did we have to hate? The Eagles and Joe Walsh?

Fourteen years old, angry at the whole fucking world, bourgeois economics. Only, I felt repressed but didn't know shit yet about psychology. Really, therapy is for people with problems, but I didn't know that. 

Ask me if I'd return to teenage rebellion, to hating the whole world. 

With all my ups and downs, my success and failures, I drank and smoked dope. I learned to cope, with what, I didn't have a clue, but forty years later... Learned to steal alcohol and drink with friends at the community center. Despite my parents trust in me, I stole from them, I drank as my dad drank. 

Riddled with Catholic shame, I became bitter and confused with their rules. Inventions of the mind, rules and regulations, all I knew, punishment. Discipline, the flipside of fucking up, getting my mind on the right path, eventually would come, decades later, training for my fourth marathon. 

Thursday, August 13, 2020

Plagiarius Plagium ~ Thursday, August 13, 2020

She celebrates herself, 
                  every atom belongs, 
      belongs to belonging, 

her house, her room, her own, 
                  she breathes in, the fragrance 
      intoxicates her soul, 

embraces her with arms, 
                  the atmosphere invites 
      to go to the bank, 

clear and sweet is her soul, 
                  undisguised and naked, 
      plump upright, braced, she beams 

electrical, the song 
                  rising to meet the shine, 
      supple boughs, trees delight, 

lean and loafe and invite, 
                  observing summer grass, 
      a spear at ease ripples, 

echoes, whispers the wind, 
                  the wood by the blood bank 
      is full of crowded shelves, 

boughs wag and play, the shade 
                  is odorless, no taste, 
      her mouth breathes the fragrance, 

rocks sniff perfumes of hay, 
                  dry, green leaves, dark and mad, 
      words loosed, belched by the sea, 

assume, always assume, 
                  inspiration beating, 
      respiration passing, 

taste the distillation, 
                  respiration beating, 
      inspiration passing, 

eddies forever smoke, 
                  lungs colored, certain, sure, 
      do not talk of the end, 

spectres look through her eyes, 
                  feed on second hand books, 
      the dead lack mystery, 
            
haughty as a stout horse, 
                  she sees the unseen proved, 
      she receives proof in turn, 

exactly, distinction, 
                  identity, a breed 
      of a sound beginning, 

ripples, echoes, whispers, 
                  elaborate dimness, 
      opposite to all sides, 

she dances, laughs and sings, 
                  the shore filters her voice, 
      she vexes age with age, 

echoes, whispers, ripples, 
                  her equanimity 
      screams, gazing down the road, 

leaves in silent baskets, 
                  as God is her cipher, 
      as good, her bedfellow, 

familiar to admire, 
                  and urge an inch ahead, 
      advance to no avail. 

Tuesday, August 11, 2020

The Big Picture ~ Tuesday, August 11, 2020

Conformity requires no energy, 
original creative solutions 
need people to address given problems 
free of platitudes or leadership-speak, 
organic ideas need people to think, 
recent waves of violence need answers, 
murder rates rising creates apathy, 
inspiration doesn't come from posters, 
true motivation sees light at the end, 
yes, the world's a mess, stop saying be nice, 

remember, if everyone is the same, 
everyone loses their unique nature, 
quit acting like sheep, we are not a herd, 
under the circumstances, even teams 
in sports need different attributes of strength, 
real compassion is tough, stronger than nice, 
everyone being individuals 
silences the need for conformity, 

nice really doesn't cut past the bullshit, 
only those who detect are effective, 

energy creates, maintains and destroys, 
no one survives outside this narrative, 
even if everyone were really nice, 
really, how boring would everyone be, 
given the problems our world now faces, 


yes, nice is nice, but tough gets the job done. 

Monday, August 10, 2020

Plotline ~ Monday, August 10, 2020

Mumble Bunny was born the bastard son of an illustrious preacher and a back-alley dime-bag prostitute known as Crack Whore Nellie. 

The illicit congress was a one-and-done deal. 

The preacher never saw the sex worker and Nellie was too high to know who was shagging her from behind against a dumpster full of rats and Chinese restaurant garbage. 

Mumble Bunny was born inside an old abandoned house where he lived until he turned two with Nellie caring for the boy before moving on to a career smoking crystal meth and losing all her teeth along with her poverty-stricken mind locked away in a sanatorium for the criminally insane. 

One day her pimp told her who the father of the boy called Mumble Bunny was and told her to make him give her some money to take care of the boy who never even had diapers. 

The preacher scoffed but his wife took interest and obtained custody of the toddler. 

Then Nellie lost her mind and her pimp disappeared as if money took care of these people like a problem in a mathematics textbook with the answer being two in the back of the head and the body dumped in the lake weighed down by hundred pound chains. 

Mumble Bunny quickly learned to read and write with the preacher's wife and forgot all about Nellie inside a sanatorium for good. 

However, Mumble Bunny had trouble speaking and all the kids at school teased him calling him the son of a preacher and a prostitute. 

When he tried to ask his mommy, the preacher's wife, why the other children would chide him so with such an outlandish idea, she only said to go put some ice cubes inside his mouth and recite the Bible for her. 

Mumble Bunny never learned about his biological mother in an asylum but he did start to speak better with ice cubes in his mouth like Demosthenes with his stones. 

By the time Mumble Bunny turned nine years old he learned how to speak clearly but also learned the joy of fire and burned down the mansion with the preacher asleep inside. 

The police decided it was an accident and did not prosecute the boy with homicide. 

The preacher's wife received a hefty sum from his insurance policy and kept Mumble Bunny. 

When Mumble Bunny turned eighteen he learned about his biological mother who died inside the sanatorium from an AIDS-related illness since she blew every man she met who paid her attention and gave her cigarettes. 

Crazy Nellie was cremated and her ashes scattered in the lake where her pimp rested. 

At eighteen, Mumble Bunny fell in love with his mommy, the deceased preacher's wife, and married her after he turned twenty. 

No one ever said anything to the couple to disparage their May-December romance because down deep they knew Mumble Bunny had no morals and would burn down their house while they slept soundly inside. 

Mumble Bunny and the dead preacher's wife had identical twin daughters whose names, Thunder and Lightning, turned heads everywhere the couple went in town. 

Of course, the girls were smart and did not take after their father with his speech impediment or their mother with her felicity. 

As they grew up, Thunder was left-handed and Lightning became right-handed as she disliked being called a witch by the kids in school but Thunder paid no attention to their taunting and hateful bullying. 

When the girls played soccer, Thunder became a left-wing forward while Lightning became a tall goalie as they both took after their grandfather, the dead preacher, whose height was remarkable for a Norwegian. 

As grandchildren of Norwegian descent, the girls took an interest in Norse legends. 

Their favorite character was Loki, the trickster god, who could shape shift or change himself into another form like a salmon but they enjoyed how he could wreak havoc or act kindly according to his political whims. 

The girls grew up quickly and entered college on athletic scholarships studying PPE (philosophy, politics, and economics). 

They married the same man whom they met in Utah while hiking through Arches National Park as he was a preacher of Mormon faith. 

But one night during a party on Christmas Eve, Thunder and Lightning saw their husband kiss a young woman under the mistletoe. 

Of course, his fate was sealed and the sisters fled to Norway after he disappeared. 

Mumble Bunny grew old after his wife followed her twins to hide away in Stavanger. 

He missed his mommy-wife but did not wish to leave the fireproof mansion he rebuilt and enjoyed as he slept knowing it could not burn. 

Sunday, August 9, 2020

Defective Parts ~ Sunday, August 9, 2020

Muscles? Not my forte. Irony? Sledgehammer. Silence? Soft as a mouse. 

Yet, conspicuously average for an Asian. An underachiever. 

Obviously, I'm smart...but socially inept. I get by like others. 

Very few Indians are charming and guileless. I am neither. My spouse? 

Enough about women. As a man I have failed too often to mention. 

Remember, I get by. Neither good nor evil. I am no believer. 

Cock-up from start to end. I was born a Rooster to four or five mothers. 

Obviously, I'm sharp...but slow, methodical. I'll catch up in a week. 

Muscles on other men make me look pathetic. I lack such pretension. 

Puerile since my childhood. Perhaps I'm simply stuck. Nobody notices. 

Everything has it's place. A place for everything. Still our place is a mess. 

Not that I lack all charm. I was a married man. Don't send condolences. 

Still, I wish I could be like others, but I can't. I can't even confess. 

As for the Church, I gave it up for Lent. Bad joke. I know. I mustn't speak... 

The dead? Like my father. Like so many old friends. I'm as bad as a louse. 

I lack humility. California swagger. My path? Good intention. 

Obviously, I paved the road to perdition. Perhaps I am a freak. 

Neither wife, nor children. No property. No car. No shotgun shack. My house...