Half-life: The Mechanical Reproduction of Photogenic, Iconoclastic Light ~ Tuesday, February 23, 2021

To reflect upon this hall of mirrors,

oblong, obverse, opposite of reverse,

reflect upon a coin, flipping through space,

even-steven, this world full of errors,

full of joys, full of terrors, bittersweet,

laughing, crying, restless sleeping, light dreams,

endless screams reverberate in shadows,

countless memories, what is the inverse,

the real world, flashing, fleeting, set in place,

until phenomena shifts, the death throes

push identity beyond the heartbeat

of recognition, pressure splits the seams,

nudges a sense of difference from before

to years later, assess, address, redress

history, personal, spiritual,

impossible now to settle the score,

since people change over decades, suppress

human instinct, vengeance perpetual,

aspects of people change over the years,

let alone three decades, revenge absurd,

let memories subside, the bride long gone,

only harm begets harm, violence bears

fierce horrors of childhood, no shame, no blame,

murder abandoned for sanity sake,

in the face of trauma, the need to smile,

remember to laugh at God, in a word,

resemblant of mirror image, times done,

old and new, black and blue, too bruised to file

right past the last fifty years, what a game,

silence, behind closed doors, life is heartbreak.

Beyond Recovery ~ Saturday, February 20, 2021

Hi. My name is Luís. I am an adult child of an alcoholic. I've come to this meeting for the last seven years. But I can't understand how my friends never knew what happened at our house, how nobody could tell my dad was violent. He had a bad temper, and I was a small child. Even after he got sober, my life remained beyond recovery. I've been in the program for over thirty years, since I started college. My first year, I broke down. I cried at school each day of my third trimester. I dropped out of college on medical withdrawal. While at UC Irvine, a social worker gave me a book where I learned about ACOA. In 1988, this book was fairly new, released in paperback the year before.

It spoke to me from the first page, from "Chapter 1: Vignettes". It Will Never Happen to Me made me upset in a visceral way. I got good grades, but life was another story. For me, the big picture wasn't on the big screen, or on television, but an idea, I learned about from a buddy, one of my brother's friends from his fraternity. Fitting in with others was always a problem, even with my family. But I started meetings and found others like me; too bad no one has fun, too scared to enjoy life. The big picture swallowed me whole inside a whale. Forever in the dark, unable to relate, to find my niche, to live.

At this point, I just want to ride a motorbike from Chicago back home but first, I have to learn how to ride a bobber, and get a state license. My dreams at 52, a deck of playing cards with no jokers, are gone. But I may start over from scratch, begin anew. Learn martial arts again, play drums and go running, learn how to be a kid, and roll with the punches. After the pandemic, I can get a new job, travel to foreign lands, learn another language, fly back to India, and visit my homeland. The land of my birth place, where I never returned because of finances.

One day, I must retire but I have no savings, all to graduate school. At the school of hard breaks, I learned to trust no one, even at these meetings. Part of the laundry list, I've a long way to go to find recovery. To forgive and forget, to move on and let go, to live in the moment. I hope before I die, I will achieve some small glory in the real world. But it doesn't matter, so many people died from coronavirus, dreams of the big picture become moot to others, although we all suffer. Whatever the future offers, to be content, water off a duck's back, no matter what happens, life is never easy, but questions have answers, and some prayers are answered. Too bad I don't believe in God, the big picture, or that anyone cares, since life is meaningless without a shred of hope. Thank you for listening, I'm grateful to be here, grateful for the meetings.

Polyphemus Devours Humanity ~ Friday, February 19, 2021

I am an American, am I not?

As my father was an alcoholic.

Mind your own business who outs a dead drunk.

And I dropped acid, ate 'shrooms and smoked pot.

Not until high school did I lose my way.

Americans don't care to see beyond

measureless borders, or my own backyard;

exactly how I found hyperbolic

reason as a cure for the ice blue funk

institutional psychosis unbarred

causing catastrophic morphic dismay,

ask not what it means, or why, at the pond,

noticeably lost, I observed a duck.

A duck with one webbed foot, and I felt shame,

much to my chagrin... I, too, felt crippled.

I don't believe he saw this as bad luck.

No, ducks just are or are not, they don't blame

obvious misfortunes on the tide-rippled

tragedies that occur once they forgot.

La Saeta ~ Thursday, February 18, 2021

For the love of a bullfighter, she sings A

old songs about spilling red wine and blood,

restless, young men in the corrida die...

The matador survives for what he brings,

he brings bittersweet love and brutal death,

estocada, sword to the heart, no good...

Lest he not hear the crowd, their roar, they cry

out in fear should this be his final breath;

victims of poverty know the bull well,

even the rich desire this brutal hell.

Of courage that befalls the fearless, brave

fool who enters a pact with God to live

A life without dilemma, noble, pure...

Between the horns of the devil, we crave

untold riches, luxury, wealth and fame;

left to the lucky few who work to give

lovers and friends their thanks but to endure

ferocious beasts, sweating, tired, hungry,

intent on survival, the need to maim

glorified toreros, killers of bulls;

honor adores the bold, worships the sword,

terror in the round, gravel, sand, life pulls

elastic puppet strings, one severed cord,

red blood splashes this color blind country.

She sings old songs of Spain, at the refrain,

he hears his name and knows where he will sleep,

encounters with women, always fair game...

She seeks his love, yet with nothing to gain

in public acceptance, he may forgo

needless suffering, death makes women weep,

given his winnings, he shares in no shame,

she'll never speak of their child's birth, such pain. 

Never Ask to Meet Your Heroes ~ Thursday, February 18, 2021

I am mai am I not? And spring is sprung

armed with a ton of scents, I have begun

my attack on the senses of mankind,

man unkind, humankind, or am I blind,

abled and disabled alike feel such

intensity, a rush to see so much

anguish and beauty all rolled into one,

majestic landscapes overwhelm the sun.

I stare directly into the starlight,

nothing empties my mind with such a bright

omniscient spectacle from outer space,

to watch the coolfireblue, my eyes, my face...

As all thoughts melt away, I am certain

nothing can stand in my way, the curtain

drawn, the stage set, ready to play my role,

save I am old, old as the wind, a hole

plays with energy just beyond my reach,

resplendent the dark mass, what I could teach

industrious, young minds, and aged fools

nostalgic for lost nights, they know the rules,

given time dissipates over the years,

if I could hold your hand, or wipe your tears,

silly how I forget... you can't see me,

seasons change, summer approaches, I flee

possessed of time, by time, and within time,

returning each year to run and to climb,

urgent messages pass from star to star,

nothing you could ever understand, bar-

gain for love, barbecue and horse's dung.

~ ~ ~ 

Inspiration: Fanny Howe, "Unloved" from Eggs, 

Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston 1970.

I am just seventeen

& it is spring.

Drishti Dosha ~ Tuesday, February 16, 2021

Okay, don't worry... I don't expect you to know

killing all hope in a small child is not a crime,

although, the success you find in life is not real,

yet, you believe my failures stem from lack of growth.

Don't worry if you forgot who I am, brother,

only a text message on my birthday is time

never better spent for a stock broker, to feel

terrible for ruining a life is no shame.

Worry not, as always, you are like no other,

only I can't absolve you of sin, like a priest,

remember drishti dosha follows you always,

remember, you're not accountable in the least,

yes, as the first born son, your love never decays.

I know in this lifetime that you are not to blame.

Don't worry, drishti dosha concerns your fortune

only if you believe in such superstitions,

not someone of your faith should these ideas bother,

to imagine your legacy meets misfortune...

Expect no calamity befalls your family,

xenophobic strangers are no strangers but friends,

pretend no one is a stranger, no harm shall pass

endlessly down your birth line for generations,

crocodile tears you cried for our deceased father,

terrible how his father died from an abscess.

You, Publius Terentius Afer, lamely

observe the world, watching the market as it bends

under the will of unknown and unseen forces.

To know you are Abel and I, Cain, the keeper

of madness and scapegoats by the powerful few.

Kiss the cruel world goodbye, know through my veins courses

no blood in relation to our mother, sleeper

of dreams destroyed by you with callous hands once blue,

worry not, no one reads my poetry, no clue.

A Red Giant ~ Sunday, February 14, 2021

Frames Stoakley, like Oprah, dislikes hearing

rough language, the n-word, used by his friends,

as a writer, he believes in free speech,

maybe as a black man he is clearing

entry for a new age, where the n-word

shames everyone to own up to the past.

Stoakley wrote people off, a real big shot,

took language too seriously, he sends

offensive letters to create a breach,

a hole for writers to breathe in the rot,

kiss his anus, otherwise go unheard,

literature allows readers to cast

each vote for or against like politics,

yet, fishermen cast nets to trawl the sea.

Literature is a young person's game,

if a writer over forty throws bricks,

kicks down the doors, speaks in all honesty,

entering the context within a frame...

Oprah interviews them to see them squirm,

pretend writers put together their books,

readers are few and books are plentiful,

ask a bird the best way to catch a worm,

how discipline comes naturally for some.

Dawn takes place on the horizon of time,

if fishermen don't cast their nets, their haul

simply doesn't exist, even their hooks,

little by little, turn to rust, mindful

in practice, little birds, however small,

kiss life goodbye, no bigger than a thumb,

ever aware finding food is no crime,

simply to survive is never enough.

Honesty and telling the truth is tough,

early birds catch their worms as darkness turns

a cheek towards the morning light, a bright

ray causes the retinas to burn, the blue

image of the radiant star that burns

nearly ten billion years before the light

grows enormous, a red giant falls through.

Little Demons Invade America ~ Sunday, February 14, 2021

They told me, as a child,

how I could never be

even for a moment,

yes, my classmates were wild,

to be the President

of the United States,

literally no one

dared contradict the sea,

maybe I'm heaven-sent,

even without the fun

and games from the hell-bent

sinister kids whose fates

are unknown to this day,

children are born evil,

how they mimic adults,

intelligent to say

little for medieval

darlings slinging insults.

To the Devil with My Brother, the Good Fellow; Bugger the Hypocrite Reader ~ Friday, February 12, 2021

Hamburgers and hot dogs, the American Way, are we not what we eat?

Yesterday, I woke up for no reason at all... no work of any kind.

Pretend my word is bond. Imagine we are free. Though I lie through my teeth.

Ordinary people don't give a damn about poetry, not the beat,

Caesurae in a line, not the internal rhyme, or the scheme of end rhyme.

Real people don't have time to listen for the rhymes in a poem. We read

In newspapers online whatever interests us, keeps our interest before

Time tells us to move on, get going, make money, and don't get left behind.

Even during lockdown, people hustle for green, terrified underneath

Light skin, dark skin, pigment... a figment we contrive to believe knows the score.

Even if the surface, like height or weight, reveals little about our time,

Causing experience to falter or flourish, how we fail or succeed.

To say we bleed for love, or the want of regard, high or low, does it show?

Eventually, we find what we need, what we hope for remains but a dream.

Unless we are lucky, with our eyes on the ball, and paying attention.

Remember, no one cares about anyone else until love makes us grow,

Makes time pass slow, we go with the flow of money. When it's all gone, we scream.

Only no one robbed us, we done run out of cash. It goes without mention.

Nothing in this country is not without a price. Nothing is free. We see

Sailboats, new cars, houses, not food, clothing, shelter... but property as theft.

Enter the world of harm: car jackings, smash and grab, armed robbery, murder...

Morbid mentality, muscles for violence. We never sit for tea.

Burdened with past mistakes, we become one with crime. We become our actions.

Life loses all meaning, all value, life and death, empty categories.

Associates in crime, by association, provide guilt without shame.

Babies killed in drive-by shootings, collateral damage, families bereft.

Left with unexpected, irremediable loss, we feel our ardor

Evaporate like smoke, the child we love is gone, nothing makes sense but blame.

Murder begets vengeance. Justice, a blind alley. We make transactions.

Only there is no end to violence, murder, killing creates stories

No one cares to read since we live with the legends, neighbors in our city.

Forget our past mistakes, to forgive is divine, but how can we forgive?

Remember, many crimes go unsolved, unresolved, perpetrators unknown.

Energy invested dissipates over time. Compassion takes pity,

Resolves the injustice, the injury of loss, the insult, how we live

Everyday reminded of the sorrow of love, as sin casts the first stone.

Seven Steps of Legend ~ Friday, February 12, 2021

According to *Master Yunmen...

For peace on earth,

with one stroke of his staff,

the Master knocked him dead

and fed him to the dogs.

Immediately after being born...

Siddhārtha Gautama,

Buddha Shakyamuni

Pointing with one hand to Heaven,

with the other hand toward earth.

While looking at the four quarters,

walking in a circle in seven steps,

He spoke...

"Heaven, as above, so below...

Alone, I am the Honored one."

---

*Section 218, p. 194.

Master Yunmen: From the Record of the Chan Teacher "Gate of the Clouds"

Translated, Edited, and Introduced by Urs App

Kodansha International, Ltd.

Tokyo, Japan, 1994.

All rights reserved.

Postcolonial Saṃsāra ~ Tuesday, February 9, 2021

We may have been oppressed,

equally lost at sea.

Maybe we don't wear it

as well, although repressed,

yes, for five hundred years.

How the world never hears

aspiring voices shout,

voices drowned out by free

enterprise, sponsors quit...

Beneath the skin, we doubt

even for a moment

everything, how it went...

needlessly looked over.

Overlooked... in clover,

power recognizes power,

provided you got game...

restless beneath the skin,

evidently, the hour

still exists until death,

shaken not stirred, the shame...

endlessly we begin

despite our final breath.

A Joyous Occasion ~ Tuesday, February 9, 2021

So you wrote a screenplay...

on the other side of the world,

yes, children are starving;

on this side of the earth,

understanding has little say...

winning and losing is all that matters,

remember the invisible children,

on the steps to the cathedral,

those very steps your wife died in childbirth,

exactly seven years ago...

auspicious start for your daughter...

since then your flag unfurled,

closing that chapter of your life,

remember the juniper breath of the sad men

entering the empty chamber,

exiting with your young starling,

no, you were not home, then...

pretend you hear a brown sparrow chatters

lyrics about a lamb gone to slaughter,

as you walk through the woods, you see a doe,

yet, no matter how beautiful...

oblique shadows cut like a knife,

no one could forewarn you to such danger.

Sweet Drops of Amber ~ Tuesday, February 2, 2021

To let go of the past and start over,

hidden stories arise out of nowhere,

even to make amends, it is too late.

To learn, as a kid, I was an ogre,

riddled with holes of memory unkind,

ask no one, childhood friends cut loose the bear,

gathering honey by the hive, the bait

entices with its scent, hell-bent on sweet

drops of amber tumbling down, was I blind

yet could see clearly my self-deception

of a past where I harmed other people,

forgive and forget, my self-conception.

Atone for my past mistakes, the steeple

reminds me of the bell that tolls, to meet

temptation in the eye, accept the past,

honor the people I've harmed, my mistakes

unraveled the life of my cousin, stakes

riddle each vampire, my heart holds fast.

Closed-caption ~ Tuesday, February 2, 2021

For the reader is greater as bearer

of the right to decide what is worthwhile, 

rushing from the Blue Line to catch a ride.

That your phone is at two percent, leaner,

hungrier days ahead, you left your flute,

empty-handed on the train without guile.

Rescue efforts on the news, without pride,

enter the awareness of the viewer,

as interpreter of signs, a deaf-mute

deals with images without sound, to read

exactly mimics the process but signs

refer to a system of thoughts that lead

in the direction of meaning, guidelines

simple enough to follow but skewer

great interpreters of literature;

restore people's faith in humanity,

even for a moment. Return the gift,

a flute purchased not by an immature

troglodyte but by a real musician,

exiting the Blue Line of vanity;

regrets for his lack of wherewithal sift

a stone from lentils, his inheritance

shaken from the tree. The news transmission

believes in hope, even in the city;

entertaining as schadenfreude blues,

a deaf-mute hears nothing. What a pity,

replaying video recordings cues

empathy for mistakes made. Who could glance

reflectively at the screen and still dance?

Underdog ~ Monday, February 1, 2021

Enjoy the moment, it will pass. Cast doubt

not on the beautiful impossible;

just relax. Anything is possible,

only if you believe... then scream and shout,

you deserve to realize hard-earned clout.

Take a moment to breathe. Let's not quibble

human frailty. You got this. Dribble

entirely the length of the court, Scout.

Make sure you have no regrets when you pass

on to the next stage. Wherever you go

make the most of each moment. Your slam dunk

entered the books for the win. Full of sass,

no matter. You play ball to win. Not show

the whole world you sleep on the bottom bunk.