On Nirvāṇa ~ Saturday, February 22, 2025

On Care, Concern, and Consideration

I, literally, wrote the book

let words speak for themselves
if you wonder for whom I speak
to ponder this world, I mistook
emptiness for pleasure
rearrange the books on the shelves
asinine, if I reach the peak
language flows red off of my tongue
literally, blood flows, treasure
yesterday as today, forget

women, wine and song, mate
religion fucks people up, [bet]
only I want nothing, I grate
the cheese of industry, I clung
each day, to past ideas, my fears

treasured by Borges and Kafka
humble before Joyce, to rejoice
each day, as the sirloin steak sears

burn my writings, what do I care
only death breathes life to pasta
only if I had but a choice
kiss me, kill me, this voice, I share

Want for Nothing ~ Saturday, February 22, 2025

Sméagol just wants her ring, a sapphire
maybe she wants all the trappings as well
enter the happy weddings industry
ask her later how this all goes down: fire
gates of heaven or gates of hell, who knows
only the jeweler who bargains to sell
live on the edge like a worn simile

junk in the trunk, everything changes, fun
until it happens to her, nothing shows
stick out like a compound fracture, she feels
tiny, as her thin body disappears

work out, go running, caught under the wheels
as the baby industry, full of fears
needs nothing but her money to function
tragic, how nobody cares about needs
silence crimson, her veins cut, thus she bleeds

humans want their happy endings, no joke
everyone fears the stigma of divorce
reality sets in, nobody knows

remember, she is here to die, she broke
industry with her needs, whiny requests
nobody cares, she's stuck, the river's course
gives her time to reflect, the dick she blows

asks nothing but that she be his first wife

sugar is sweet, diabetic inquests
answer the riddle to life but who cares
precision in the cut of a gemstone
personally, she doesn't care, she stares
hurt, she loves him like no one else, just phone
if he's out with the guys, all full of strife
remember, she feeds their babies, the ring
each day washed clean, Precious, she feels the sting

The Heritage Foundation ~ Wednesday, February 19, 2025

If you expected anything less than
figureheads run by corporate think tanks

your political acumen thus lacks
objective order to measure and span
under the underbelly of thug life

even gangsters know kickbacks offer thanks
xenophobic government, men in slacks
persist in eating flan and getting fat
even politicians know about strife
classic stupidity, years without grace
triumphant gibberish, orange hair ghoul
even worthless relations earn their space
demonstrably rent-free, in my head, rule

anarchy with principled tit for tat
nobody cares about anarchy, Kat
yet, government reigns supreme to ruin
the spin parties place to defend their right
honestly, ill-conceived to overcome
ignorant bliss, wisdom is a bruin
nothing but pure folly, with hands, so red
given so many women, must we fight

live and learn, we churn milk into cheese, dumb
excessive temperament, beat the children
simply having fun, turning down their bed
simply painting the town red as adults

teach us the way to truth, hidden by thoughts
heaven and hell, constructs thought up by cults
anarchy without government, God jots
neat words, idle chatter, the truth hidden

To a Dreadful Monster: Born Under a Bad Sign

"Prologue"

Monsters are not born but made.* As babies, they are given names and even baptized, but as children, they grow into monsters, creatures with wills beyond their own control, villains their parents cannot discipline. And thus, they are reborn as archetypes of mythology but not as heroes, or gods and goddesses, but as monsters, inexplicable facets of nature, necessary to keep the scales balanced, not the scales of justice but of context, to allow humans to make sense of dark forces beyond their ken of clarity, for what is opaque to understanding is a gift that leads to enlightenment. Behold divine wisdom, I am that child, I am the Minotaur of King Minos, son to Queen Pasiphaë, forced to walk the Earth, a wandering Jew, for the myth is a legend not a fact.** As I come from the seed of the white bull, I am half-divine, and a royal figure, my name, Asterion, is little-known, that I escaped the Cretan Labyrinth, even less-known, save for those who have aided me in my journey as an immortal child of Poseidon***, or Zeus. Who my father is, I am unconcerned. I can only say to others: "I am not a monster! I am not a bull-man! I am human! I am a man!"**** Though my head be misshapen, I am not deformed. My appearance may be ghastly, and for this I was imprisoned underneath the palace.

At least, they brought me children to play with. Though I was hungry, I did not devour their flesh. I have no need to eat the tender flesh of the lambs in the fields, their beautiful faces, their tiny skulls so easily crushed with a palm-sized stone, the blood mingles in pools along the bed of sand, the white and gray worms escape the confines of each cranium and squirm gently down my gullet by the handful, sweet with Topikos Oinos (Vin de pays), left in a wineskin with each flock that enters the labyrinth. The quickest way to end the childrens' screams is to carry the palm-sized stone; it is my dearest friend, though swift and brainless, he is merciful, as per the gods' demands. After I struck a child, he or she slept, for days it seemed, perhaps weeks, months, nay, even years. Their dessicated bodies lounged around the maze, no longer dancing for their lives. Then, the flies came to inhale the putrid scents of rotting corpses. Only much later did I learn what the merciful one did was wrong. It was not wrong in technique, for the art of the palm-sized stone was exact, a good thwack between the occipital and parietal lobes, in the back of the head, and all the beautiful worms would spill out like candy for me to gobble up. Quenched with the oinos from the goat-skinned wine sack and the flavors melded so gloriously on my palette. No, it was not wrong in technique, but ethically it was abhorrent.

However, as ethics had yet to be revealed by Plato and Aristotle, and was not delivered to me in my prison, as these beautiful children were, I was judged innocent by the gods, but presumed a monster by the Cretans and Greeks alike. But still, they brought me children to play with. How strange those primitive peoples were before they were offered the fennel branch by Prometheus, the fire-bringer. Who in society is decreed a monster is decided upon entirely by the status quo, those who hold power to judge. Those who are decreed monsters may simply be infantile morons...dull-witted, uneducated fools, like myself. Until knowledge was bestowed upon me by Theseus, who strangled me, allegedly to death, and decapitated my gruesome bull's head, did I realize my luck, in that, I am not unlike the gods, as, I am immortal.
· · · – – – · · ·
*"Woman is not born: she is made. In the making, her humanity is destroyed. She becomes symbol of this, symbol of that: mother of the earth, slut of the universe; but she never becomes herself because it is forbidden for her to do so."
~ Andrea Dworkin
--
**"There was a story -- which Thucydides is too austere to mention -- that each year the Athenians had to pay the tribute of seven youths and seven maidens to a dreadful monster, the Minotaur, who lived in a labyrinth at Cnossos, until they were set free by the royal prince Theseus, who slew the Minotaur, aided by Ariadne and the ball of string which she gave him to guide him out of the labyrinth. Such was the legend: here are some facts. Of the name 'Minotauros', the first half is obviously Minos, and the second half 'tauros' is the Greek for a bull; and from what Evans found at Cnossos -- friezes, statuettes and the like -- it is quite clear that these Cretans worshipped the bull. Then, if anything ancient looks like a labyrinth it is the ground-plan of the vast palace which Evans dug up. Further, there is abundant evidence that these Minoan Cretans used, as a symbol of divinity, or of authority, a double-headed axe of the kind that the later Greeks called 'labrys'. Finally, Attica certainly came under Cretan influence culturally, quite possibly then politically as well: it is therefore not at all unlikely that the lords of Cnossos did in fact take hostages for good behaviour from noble Athenian families, just as the Turks did many centuries later. Theseus seems to be a mistake, as he comes from a later period, and so far no one has substantiated the romantic Ariadne or found the string: otherwise the legend emerges with credit." (Page 17) ~ Kitto, H. D. F., The Greeks, London: Pelican Books, 1951 (Penguin Books 1957, 1991).
--

*** "Poseidon Opines"

Pleasure leaps at the chance to satisfy
Or peruse the loins of a sacred bull.
Sure of her artifice Pasiphaë peels
Ears back to withstand and to gratify,
Ignominiously, the divine bovine.
Decisively, she lures the beast with dull
Onomatopoeia, how a cow feels
Need to bellow a "moo" to fornicate.

Originally, Daedalus supine,
Peering at the stars from the Labyrinth
Invented wax wings to escape his debt.
Needless to say, for Icarus, this state
Engineered to take flight became a plinth
Sending him back to Earth, full of regret.
--

****John Merrick: I am not an elephant! I am not an animal! I am a human being! I am a man! ~ The Elephant Man (1980)
· · · – – – · · ·

Chapter One: "The Secret to Running"

On the 4th of July, the pain crept up his leg from the metatarsals to the head of the fibula.^ He knew he was done for...the pain was excruciating. He decided to walk back home as he was hobbling, a new hobby, his gait broken. His hopes to run° the Chicago Marathon in October dashed. Anxiety pulsed through his temples; he needed to get home, shower, dress, and get his sorry-ass foot to the nite club to shake a leg and work the box office in two hours.

He'd been running since September last year (when he was laid-off at the bookstore, where he'd worked for eleven years) to keep up his spirits. A veteran bookseller with twenty-two years under his belt, now, "simply forgotten" ("out of sight, out of mind"), the former events coordinator for A Labyrinth of Books in Chicago.

He had six-months to find a job and get back on his feet, after receiving severance and a final paycheck, including vacation time. But that wouldn't last long, even with unemployment insurance checks coming bi-weekly for six-months at two-fifths his pay rate.

He was about to go on vacation the day his boss, the Director, asked if they could have a talk down in the basement. He was looking forward to relaxing at home, a "staycation," making order of the boxes of books, papers, and other clutter in the two-bedroom apartment he shared with his girlfriend.

Hyde Park was an anomaly on the South Side of Chicago. Safe, even with all the university police, a double-headed battle axe (labrys) of concern. But he could walk home after the club closed and not worry about getting mugged or beaten-up for no good reason other than being drunk and easy-prey.

Skinny-fuck with high tolerance for pain, and alcohol, he loved to run ever since childhood, when he and Sam, the Dream Weaver°°, would race for fun ("wanna race?" "sure.") during recess back in '79, just to see who could sweep over the lawn with wings of the messenger god, Hermes. Sam was not tall but fierce with a swagger typical of men from Southern California. At nine years, Sam's mother allowed him to sport shoulder-length golden locks like a Grecian hero. By ten, Sam often plunged his dip-stick into the under-aged girls who loved him with their lips covered over with peach-fuzz.

I was dark from the sun, the desert heat that scorched the coastal towns. Intelligent but socially awkward, I couldn't even stamp my feet to catch the attention of my classmates. Running was thus a blessèd state, where the coastal breeze was my closest friend, the only friend worth an ounce of fidelity, the ever-present guardian spirit, Daimonion. But, I did not have a name, at that time, for this breath of inspiration guiding my destiny.

Little did he know I, the Cretan Minotaur, was five thousand years-old and hidden inside the body of his small body. A boy of Goan-descent, born in Bombay, on the most important date reflected in the mirror of modern history, June 28. But it meant nothing to the child, whose mind my spirit entered at birth, and left him utterly confused for four decades.

The Daimonion of karmic enslavement decrees, after the body dies, my spirit will move on to another body, as a ghost, a spectre of Greek mythology and legend. But, for now, he and I are bound together by Daimonion.
--
^He didn't realize the exact location of his pain until much later. When he self-diagnosed his injury by referring to the Trail Guide to the Body, a book he owned from his time studying massage therapy and kinesiology, anatomy, physiology, and pathology at the Chicago School of Massage Therapy, better known as Cortiva.
--

°"I ran because if I had not, I would have died. No one told me that you take your world with you, that running becomes a habit, that the secret to running is to know why you run and where you are going---and to leave behind the reason you run." From "Two or Three Things I Know for Sure" (1995) by Dorothy Allison
--

°°"Dream Weaver" (1975, Gary Wright)

I've just closed my eyes again
Climbed aboard the dream weaver train
Driver take away my worries of today
And leave tomorrow behind
Ooh dream weaver
I believe you can get me through the night
Ooh dream weaver
I believe we can reach the morning light

Fly me high through the starry skies
Maybe to an astral plane
Cross the highways of fantasy
Help me to forget today's pain

Ooh dream weaver
I believe you can get me through the night
Ooh dream weaver
I believe we can reach the morning light

Though the dawn may be coming soon
There still may be some time
Fly me away to the bright side of the moon
And meet me on the other side

Ooh dream weaver
I believe you can get me through the night
Ooh dream weaver
I believe we can reach the morning light
Dream weaver
Dream weaver
Dream weaver

Chillum ~ Monday, 29 April 2019

That room, inside that room, the Green Room, Entropy at The Promontory, 

hindered, hindered, by what, success, fear of success, problems, solving problems, 

as a matter of fact, yes, the fear of failure, billowing from the room, 

through ventilation ducts into the main office where the managers ate, 

riddled by the failure, the bankruptcy, before they took over the space, 

only they never thought, not even a moment, that karma inhabits, 

only their lack of funds, their inability to garner capital, 

made them stoned, like statues, before the snake goddess, the dreaded Medusa, 

in the fat of their brains, the chemicals from smoke, left a safe deposit, 

nobody ever thought, the history of space, of ghosts and poltergeists, 

simply unheard of, ghosts, what a ridiculous idea, you must be mad, 

insane, to think this place, once a Borders Bookstore, now a thriving business, 

demented, you must be crazy, to think like that, why only a madman 

enters with a lantern in the daylight, holding it up high, high enough 

to see faces clearly, look deep into their eyes, to observe their conscience, 

he is looking for, what, an honest man, how mad, and yet, how sensible, 

as he is a madman, at least, others say so, they see his behavior, 

that it does not conform, that he does not obey, that he is not confined, 

restless, the managers sleep inside the Green Room, where everyone gets stoned, 

on a leather sofa, exhausted from meetings, and drinking at the bar, 

of course, the bar downstairs, inside the restaurant, where they get their free meals, 

managers get free meals, part of the benefits of working so often, 

the perks and the privilege of their entitlement to unveil their status, 

humans act as mortals, humble, with gratitude, for the little they get, 

enter the managers, like gods, divinities, Zeus, in all his splendor, 

God, grant me the wisdom to know the indifference of divine managers, 

restless in their slumber on the leather sofa, smoky from all the blunts, 

endless amounts of weed, copious amounts, grown in green houses elsewhere, 

enter Serenity, like a prayer, religion, dressed in their Sunday best, 

no one has the courage to speak their mind out loud against the managers, 

Rooster crows loud at dawn to wake up the farmers, to till the fields, plant seeds, 

only the farmers stand, stock still, stoned, like statues, before the snake goddess, 

on a shield, her image, to turn the enemy to stone before battle, 

mighty, the sword of peace, love and understanding, funny how no one wields 

Elegance with panache, except the tall, the strong, the brave, Queen Christina, 

nothing could stop her but the managers saw past her strengths to her weakness, 

the need to love was strong in such a strong woman, but her tongue was stronger, 

restless, the managers sacrificed to the gods, to no avail, they set 

on a victim, a fool, to take the fall, for all the failures of success, 

pregnant with thought, the fool, a poet, knew nothing, he didn't care a lick, 

yet, he felt so tired of getting kicked around like a tiny pebble, 

as it entered her shoe, she did not notice it, her feet hurt from dancing, 

the life of a dancehall queen is never easy, but now, her foot swollen, 

Timeless as the cosmic dancer in ecstasy, the Lord of dance in bliss, 

his dance of destruction, to destroy and rebuild, his dance of creation, 

even as he maintains the entire universe within a single dance, 

Perseus, with his sword, arrives to cut her head off, no, not Medusa, 

restless on the sofa, the manager, asleep on the job, on duty, 

on his laurels, he rests, he dreams of Perseus, flying with sword in hand, 

monsters appear in dreams, the manager awakes, tired, hungry, grumpy, 

on a whim, he sends home the fool, clock out and leave, the fool, who knows nothing, 

notices all the work he would normally do, shrugs his shoulders and leaves, 

terrible beauty sleeps in his own bed, troubled by the news of the world, 

ordinarily, not worth a glance, but today, the Synagogue shooting, 

remember the pogroms of Europe, we now hold candles in remembrance, 

yet, nothing can bring back the dead, or change the past, we live, full of sorrow. 

Absurd Sparrows ~ Monday, February 17, 2025

In one hundred words, the meaning of life
narrative contest, pyrotechnics rage

over generations, beaten with skill
nothing but pain to note, love full of strife
even alcoholics murder the soul

haunted by the abyss, war is not sage
under the influence, how not to kill
not to murder the souls of children, dumb
dumb dumb progenitor, diamond black coal
rage ages at this stage, the answer, death
even alcoholics fuck just for kicks
dead fathers, dead mothers, dead brothers, breath

worships the blood as wine, rooms full of pricks
over generations, turbulent slum
rewarded with enlightenment, who knew
decisively quiet, speak to no one
sober yet drunk, a monk born yet to die

tragedy but a joke, burn coolfireblue
hovering over the Bunsen burner
each day as meaningless as the last, son

myself as my own son, clouds in the sky
ephemeral as convoluted rhyme
ask not ragdoll, Richard Andrew Germer
nothing but emptiness breaks the surface
intensive intensity inflects flecks
nothing but dust, ashes and dust, smoke base
given drugs to forget the real aspects

over generations, burdened with time
forgotten communication, unheard

language, forces beyond darkness, shadows
ingrained over centuries, these habits
fornicate in darkness, shadow rabbits
empty vessels to fill, on the gallows

Sovereign of the Seas ~ Saturday, February 15, 2025

Sovereign of the Seas

Nobody thought to or wanted to help
only to laugh at, torture, and do harm
but to hurt a child, ignorant and blind
of actions and consequences, to whoop
demonstrating a total lack of sense
yes, there is punishment, set an alarm

thus, denial of free will, they're so inclined
how priests forgive actions, all in good faith
obviously, the child destroyed, how dense
underneath dark waters, how dull a choice
given the lesser of two children, pick
how to dispose of a once vibrant voice
terminate the soul, not the body, thick

torpid brains, unreflective, form a wraith
of the child, their son or daughter, parents

or siblings, extended family, as well
resolved to do their worst, as if their best

work and alcohol warped their brains, the dents
akin to linebackers, back in the day
nobody knew nutrition, bodies swell
troubled with edema, give it a rest
everyone makes mistakes, aspersions cast
defend the indefensible, they say

to focus on accountability
ordinarily, without faith, a child

haunted by events, instability
everts the feet, a child cannot run wild
lingers in imagination, a mast
posted upright, tall to set sail, so fast

Dziękuję ~ Friday, February 14, 2025

I shake hands with the devil, no worries

stupid interpretation of legend
how myth lingers in society, show
arguments to contrive others' glories
kill me now, please, strangle me with bare hands
even the most brave within one second

harbors reservations as if we go
ascendant or descendant into hell
nothing but supposition in the stands
decisive in judgment, where is heaven
still, you see my two hands, the world on fire

women know craps, if I roll a seven
in a game, before the point, the liar
tells me to go ring the bell, ring the bell
honestly, I don't care, I live, I lose

the handsome demons play jazz all night, bop
hard and fast, glorified minions won't last
even Trump plays the fool, figurehead, choose

decisively which side of history
each day, you die, not as a flat beat cop
vindicated but dead, the die was cast
in heaven or hell, what lies, check the math
living in this world is a mystery

no answers, no solutions, just questions
only nobody knows, nobody cares

worries pile up, no one has suggestions
only everyone blows, and no one shares
resort to derivatives, take a bath
really, no power in a shower, salts
in the water, Satan's daughter, her face
elegant as a princess, without faults
suck it up, as they say, love, my disgrace

Przepraszam bardzo ~ Friday, February 14, 2025

Valentine's Day

It must be nice to be young and pretty
terrible things rarely happen, and yet

maybe you will live fast and die young, no
until you turn thirty, in the city
still, if you are nice, you won't come to harm
to believe this bold-faced lie, if you bet

beauty beggars belief blow after blow
each day, you may ask, why am I alive

nervously, you sense you hear the alarm
in this world, for no matter whom, bells toll
clearly, not for you, handsome and smart, time
enlists angels to watch over your knoll

to play Jack and Jill is never a crime
only Jack and Jim, Jill and Jane, survive

belligerent hate crimes, par for the course
ever unaccepted but by the law

yet, even the law is not always right
ordinance for slavery as a source
undermined principles, hate was a choice
nervously admitted, hate is a flaw
guaranteed to destroy the need for sight

as blindness keeps hidden the truth you bleed
nothing but metaphors, as ethics voice
diminished fifths, augmented fourths, compose

pregnant pyrotechnics, sparrows chatter
recently, bent over to smell a rose
each lazy bum gets fatter and fatter
temptation to judge, or to plant a seed
try not to lord your youth over my death
yes, I long to die, no soul, no last breath

Przepraszam ~ Saturday, February 8, 2025

Sorry, but if you don't have compassion
obviously, for yourself, yet expect
reasonable people to show kindness
relatively, past a sense of fashion
your need for gentleness comes at a cost

bitter almonds, cyanide, as they suspect
unless you confess to murder, blindness
transforms your vision, even your mindset

in the case of drug use, no one is lost
forever, say, if they are still alive

yellow may be your favorite color, green
on the other hand goes well with this dive
underneath the table, you'll find my spleen

deliberately left at the scene [bet]
ontologically-speaking, I don't know
nothing about this ontic mess of hair
teeth, weathered face, the smell of piss and shit

how damaged can a human be, you show
anarchic tendencies, fly the black flag
visions of Theseus, his sails unfair
explain the nature of myth, bit by bit

calamity comes with neglect, the need
of course, to serve and protect, an old hag
makes me an offer I cannot refuse
pretend ethics is tied to the dharma
as a dutiful son, I must not choose
service is allegiance to our karma
select actions over words, for words bleed
in this world, pleasure is not dispassion
overboard, I throw myself, I accept
nothing goes your way but this mindlessness

Luck: The Art of Avoiding Ill-fortune ~ Saturday, February 8, 2025

Gaṇeśa

Clutter clatters the clotted cluster-fuck
leave this mess to Herr Klotz to mishandle
unleash the three-headed dog of Hades
trickle-down economics without luck
trades wealth for lies, a legacy of harm
err on the side of caution, a scandal
releases the flood waters first ladies

catch at the rodeo, not their first time
lash the bull with a whip, swipe the alarm
answer yes to the matador to kill
the bull for you, for your charity work
take some time off after your cards fulfill
every prophecy in the book, a fork
rattles on the linoleum, a lime
salted with juice on the thumb gives a shot

to a spotted cow, an agave farm
how illustrious the tequila brand
eagles chase me, catch me, fuck me to spot

christian louboutin soles in four-inch heels
loose change on the ground, a shot in the arm
old cows, new vaccines, fallen grains of sand
tremble before death, the future unknown
turbulence in the sky, Icarus feels
each muscle weak, the wax melted, he falls
decide your legacy is newsworthy

calamity on Fifth Avenue, Smalls
literally, you're killin' me, scurvy
underfed knave, one day, you'll be full-grown
suck it up, you're no bigger than my cat
tell me you're not the runt of the litter
everyone waits for Ganesha to clear
right through a path to feng shui, wind-water

forget the past, events disappear, scat
under a rock, fossilized, tastes bitter
cow dung with ancient ergot fungus, fear
karma in this life, don't touch my daughter

« S'ils n'ont pas de pain ? Qu'ils mangent de la brioche ! » ~ Friday, February 7, 2025

Sexual frustration, an uncertain
emancipation, no invitation
xenophobic reconciliation
understood as otherness without pain
anxiety comes and goes, peaks and flows
liberation, nobody ever knows
listen, as the pain never shows, but grows
yellow with the scent of sulfur, this blows

Frustration, no satisfaction, ask Mick
rolls off the tongue, lyrics sweet as honey
understood, in certain circles, money
strikes a chord in every heart, Franklin, sick
take me out, take me out to the ballgame
rape me and leave me for the dogs, no shame
ask Mick, I get no sympathy, we shake
to seal the deal, to show no swords, our hands
enter a pact, a solid bond, the sands
drop, grain after grain, love is vain, eat cake

With a Song in My Heart ~ Thursday, February 6, 2025

With a Song in My Heart

If I cannot cry that is not because
forgetfulness and dementia riddle

I Remember snippets by Joe Brainard

context and perspective both set on pause
as if the meaning of life made no sense
nothing but a bowl of Corn Flakes, spittle
nearly covering my whole chin, a guard
or chinstrap, a football helmet, I fall
to the ground, or on the table, a dense

cloud in my head, I think I could fiddle
remember when I played bluegrass, the band
yellow-bellied sapsuckers beat kettle

timpani drums, the symphony on hand
had for fledgling musicians, I recall
although, my brain is Swiss cheese at this point
tickle my feet or my belly, the child

in me screams in terror from past abuse
sickness runs in my family, out of joint

naturally dysfunctional, how I wish
of course, that I were never born, a mild
temperament never helped defend a truce

brother, oh brother, oh what a bother
exactly because I cannot, this dish
considered my wife, no longer a phrase
as it is offensive, as objective
underscore objectification, raised
second fiddle, not first born, still I live
even though I don't know why, o' Father...

Cantiga para meu pai ~ Wednesday, February 5, 2015

Cantiga para meu pai

Are poems written to make grown men cry
relatively simple to answer, no
even if my father could read this verse

poetry that makes grown men cry, may try
overtly, not unlike a film on loss
everyone loses someone, though to show
maps of pain and sorrow becomes a curse
sketched by an artist, wrinkles and crow's feet

work their masterpiece across each man's cross
relatively impossible to ape
if I were smart enough, we could have spoke
turbulent relationships form a shape
tormented and troubled, as if a joke
experienced by all were told to cheat
neurosurgeons and rocket scientists

traumatically, of their sense of status
of course, the trauma is mediocre

maybe it would make someone slash their wrists
as if suicide were the basest act
kiss the girls and make them cry, the stratus
evokes dark clouds of war, a pawnbroker

gains from artifacts found after a dig
relatively unknown, the truth as fact
obviously uncovered, once hidden
working archeologists play along
nothing lost, nothing gained, words unbidden

minister to the dying what went wrong
even if it were just a big, fat pig
nothing gained without loss but at what cost

crimes against the state make other men poor
relatively stupid, I am a boor
yet, bad faith guides me to those I have lost

Bootstraps ~ Monday, February 3, 2025

Sometimes people hit rock bottom
otherwise known as nowhere else to go
maybe they bring a jackhammer
even if they try, they could never reach
the center of the earth
if they try to dig their way to China
maybe just proverbially
even if they try, they remain
stuck here in Chicago on the Red Line

perhaps we are all in this together
even an hallucination
otherwise known as the collective unconscious
perhaps if one person
lifts up another person, we all rise
equally above the fray into flow
humanity is strange, as we don't care
if others don't succeed
this may be a result of capital

results are not consequences
otherwise known as effects to actions
causes arise from intentions
kill or be killed, the social atmosphere

bless yourself and bless others on the path
otherwise known as the journey
to succeed, to help the most downtrodden
the failures of the world, New Yorkers step
over, but are we really so callous
maybe this is late capitalism

Dead Wood Central ~ Saturday, February 1, 2025

Please don't buy this book, you'll just kill more trees
lessons learned at a bookstore in Hyde Park
eleven years and then they let me go
as dumb as they come, everyone agrees
sensational gossip in a poem
exactly the point, wipe your arse with cork

director, one day, got rid of the lot
only now the schmuck is a rabbi, fuck
no one needs this nonsense, always Goan
twenty-year revenge plan is in the works

bitchin' Camaro, dude, let's just move on
until all the pinheads, justified jerks
yes-men, from the start, live to face their con

take a moment, read the NDA, suck
hellfire shit from the ass of HR
in this world of acronyms, no one wins
severance check in hand, do not shake hands

because the director is no black star
only a shooting star is worth my time
only the crash and burn, loaded with sins
kiss my ass goodbye, worthless desert sands

yesterday, I took a look at the past
only, I was not at fault, not to blame
unless, I passed by and I was so fast
literally, on the run, what a shame
licensed to speed, breaking the law, a crime

jive-talk, you shuckin' us, Rooster, you lie
unless you see me pass by in Boston
say, you'll never know the truth, hidden deep
trust no one to help out, in a pinch, cry

kiss your dreams goodbye, 'cuz nobody cares
invested in vested interest, the don
likes his shirts crisp and clean, another creep
liquid assets work the best to pay off

ministers of justice, for he who shares
of his own wealth freely, makes, of us all
reactionary insurrectionists
eventually, the rabbi must fall

truth, we can't openly be communists
rest assured, my name is not, Ulyanov
even if it were, poems are dead wood
even if they were not, poetry frees
several Amazonian forests, should

Shepherd's Delight ~ Saturday, February 1, 2025

Yolk in my face, wake up, in bed, not mine
older woman smiles, really shouldn't care
under the circumstances, though, I do
red skies, dawn or dusk, I feel, down my spine

little feet, pitter-patter, a tingle
eggs and bacon, toast with butter, we share
goodness for breakfast, I ask, who are you
silly, I know, but I can't remember

scents of cigarettes and perfume mingle
perhaps we met in a bar, memories
repeat in my head, were we good in bed
eggs for breakfast, known you for centuries
again and again, round two, your legs spread
deep, between your thighs, a ruby ember