One Hope: Our Humanity

If

If there is one person

hungry,

it denies our humanity.

one child forsaken

one man ready to kill

a woman living in fear

a family terrorized by war

one person ill without care

a person in prison without trial

if an infant abandoned…

it denies our humanity.

We are
One love
One soul.

Palestine Burning: Rape of Sanity

Sanity sodomized again this week.
Children
Muslim, Jew and Christian
killed in their sleep.

1. Inferno

Palestine is burning.
Gaza in flames. Children
and families buried alive as Israeli
warplanes bomb their homes.

A child’s lifeless arm rises
from the rubble.

F-16’s emblazoned with Stars of
David offers a holokaustos from
morning till night. Bullets,
petrol, and rockets
for the slaughter of Palestine
paid for by US taxpayers.

King David pimps for General
Sherman as he rides through the
Holy Land shouting,
“Burn! Burn! Burn!”


2. Lamentations

My eyes will flow without ceasing, without respite,

The tongue of the nurslings cleaves
To the roof of its mouth for thirst
The children beg for food
But no one gives to them.


Eye for an eye, the law of the
Talon, and the building of
the Third temple is underway.
The mortar is crushed bones,
moistened with fresh blood,
anointed with children’s tears.

Is there redemption in the Levant?
Is there a garden of peace in Jerusalem?

3. Fall of the Temple
She weeps bitterly in the night,
Tears on her cheeks
Among all her lovers
She has none to comfort her.

IF my deeds could truly turn back the clock,
wrest the hands away from the deadly grip that
clutches the throat of cousin to cousin, brother to
brother, and turn back to the moment before
Adam bit the apple and Eve conceived
a child, then my quivering pacifist finger would
drop like a Roman Emperor to start the fire--

Burn the Koran!
Burn the Bible!
Burn the ‘Gita!
Burn those lies
that aspire to holiness.
Burn every image of a prophet.

If we truly desire to love God,
let our genuine spiritual desire
be devoid of God, Allah, Jah,
Jehovah, Yahweh, Jesus,
Krishna, Mohammed, Satan and
the whole lot of those imposters.

Burn the Koran!
Burn the Bible!
Burn the ‘Gita!
Burn those lies
that aspire to holiness.
Burn every image of a prophet


3. Sacrifice

If there is a need for destruction, for Isaac
to be bound or Ali to be killed again,
then let those lambs be offered freely! Their
pulsing hearts ripped from their chest
and offered to the sun. Let the gnarled olive trees
and sinewy scented cedar roots be the fuel
to burn their corpses completely.

If there are shards of bones let vultures
take them skyward, near to the heavens,
like Daedalus drawn to the sun, let the
vultures devour and digest each
molecule of vitriolic bile and hatred.

If religion is the root of insanity
that is killing our world--
then I say:

Tear down the Holy City of Jerusalem!
Destroy the dome of St. Peter!
Bulldoze Mecca!
Crush the Kaaba to dust!
Level the Temple Mount’s walls!


Burn the Koran!
Burn the Bible!
Burn the ‘Gita!
Burn those lies
that aspire to holiness.
Burn every image of a prophet

4. Salvation

But
will the destruction of the word
return us once again to Spirit

to the instant when god first took clay,
moistened it with a kiss, blessed it with
a breath, and set it free?

In place of a cross, let it be a common pebble;
where once a mosque let it be a glade and a river;
let the Chuppas once more be the sky itself,
and a prayer - let it be spoken as -- Love.

Day at the Gun Clib

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I had been struggling with the noise of the adjacent gun club for some time, large semi-automatic rifles blasting periodically, disrupting my sleep and work. To be clear I had opposed the 2nd amendment to citizen’s bearing arms and foolishly believed that people killed not guns. The argument was somewhat tangle: What kills – People or guns?

Do guns kill or do people kill? It was difficult to remember the correct bumper sticker of ideology, so I decided instead of railing again guns and gun violence, I needed to seize the day, and come to a genuine understanding.

Saturday, in late May, everyone at the gun club was out for their Memorial day shoot, gun members from Connecticut, Massachusetts, and one from Virginia came to celebrate all the skeet shooting, target practice, and good natured noisy fun that a rifle range is open to. I was a little hesitant as I’m a die hard leftist libertarian and realized I needed to challenge some of my assumptions about guns. The guys and the gals at the club couldn’t have been more friendlier, though they did look askance at my “Send Bush to Iraq” bumper sticker, they knew that I was trying to reach out and connect with my southern New England neighbors who love to come up to Vermont to shoot. Liberals only can dream about having so much fun. I leaped on to a monstrous ATV with my 12 gauge shot gun strapped across my shoulders and on my hip was a 44 Magnum that would have made Dirty Harry proud and zoomed away to the practice range. I had finally found my tribe. Little kids were out there with 22’s and a skinny bleached blond girl in a black leather jacket was firing on her little uzzi like a proud aspiring assassin. These are serious folks, no wonder the liberals can’t win an election… they need more firepower. There is little that more orgiastically exciting than coming out for a day of shooting with the semi-automatics, the shot guns, and a hand pistol. As I saw the American flag in red, white, and blue on the hillside I had a lump in my throat, a tear, as I saw the blasting of rifles on that glorious afternoon and recalled the bombing of Fort Sumter where the flag held through that night. Holding the cool long steel barrel in my hands and feeling the portent of pulsating hot plasma of fire, I knew that I was on to something big.

My new found friend Big Jim and Bubba are two good old southern boys (Southern Vermont that is) who love to hunt, fish, and hunt. A few swigs from Big Jim’s Jim Beam and I’m feeling in the cozy warmth and familiarity of “my tribe.” Despite all the progress of humanity, bigger firepower, and bombs of all kinds there was something so reassuring about the basic connection with ones own tribe in the hunt. I was beginning to wish there were a few liberals romping across the field so I could feel the real thrill of the kill and asked Big Jim about it.

“I know what ya mean about getting something meaningful, like taking down a beautiful 12 point buck or dropping a big old black bear. Man, there are few things that compare to that.”

“How about sex?” I asked

Big Jim looked at me kind of strange, “What ya man, sex.” Then looked around to make sure no one had heard him.

“What’s better sex or killing a big trophy deer? Or is there that same rush of sex you get when you kill?”

Bubba said, “That’s a might strange way of looking at it. Why don’t you go over to the target range on yonder and think about it a bit.”

“Sure enough.” I’d give them a little bit of time to think about that one. I had my Magnum and was itching to try it. Suddenly I had an epiphany.

“Big Jim! Bubba! Come back I want to try an experiment!”

I walked over to Big Jim some ten feet away from me, raised my gun to his head and fired point blank, took a half step to the right and shot Bubba once between the eyes. Someone else came by raised a gun and I also fired back at them. It was the slow dream of carnage in the carnival of death. Then everyone ran into the woods. I was so angry, I had made the effort to connect with the club, got over my narrow prejudices about guns, finally made a breakthrough and then they all vanished. I realized that Big Jim was right, guns don’t kill, but people do. Thought I did feel a little badly for him, I knew that he, Bubba, and the few others wanted to make sure I was dissuaded of any of my liberal notions about gun use. I can now cogently argue that it makes perfect sense to keep guns legal.

Winter’s Ferocious Tenderness

winter returns

a hushed lullaby
of sadness

draping the land
in memories

Sheila Jordan: Jazz Child: First Lady of Jazz

Jazz child
you lift us up
inspire us to
believe

holding to the
higher power
the muse of
jazz and love.

Jazz child
Fairy Godmother of swing
Bee bopping Queen
Scatting rifting...

a voice that can rise,
soar, and whisper
into the intimate
space of our souls

Your voice thrills
us with the perfect swing.
You've lifted us up and
held so many with love & care...

Charlie Parker, Duke Jordan, legions
of jazz cats, and
your many students and fans
around the world.

You've blessed us
with your love
and graced our lives.

Jazz child
Fairy Godmother of swing
Bee bopping Queen
the consummate and sublime

First Lady of Jazz.

Super Fly O: Lion of Babylon

Super Fly O! Hip New Cat on the scene
Strolls in looking regal, fine and lean.

Do you know this HNC getting down?
It’s the Hip New Cat rolling into town.

In our darkest of night will he set it all right?
In our darkest of night will he set it all right?

Will our man of the hour hold that power?
Will the Repubs lay down and soon cower?

Super Fly O will soon set it all straight
Greedy fat cats to quickly meet their fate


Oooh, Superfly O!
You're gonna make your fortune by and by
But if you lose, don't ask no questions why
The only game you know is "Do or Die"

Super Fly O! Fearless so cool, his mind is his own
No patience for fools as he steps in the zone

In our darkest of night will he set it all right?
In our darkest of night will he set it all right?

War, greed, and hopeless despair on the run.
With a heart of a lion and love like the sun

Super Fly O! Hip New Cat leader we need
Yes we can! A brand new day, soon we be freed!


***Curtis Mayfield thanks for letting me sample.

Desire Again

October thrilled my soul
with her colors,
every shade of intimation
of fire:

Red savagely burning
thru my soul
with simple desire.

Violet loose strife,
the cold edge
of fire, ablaze in the
softening light.

Yellow alluring as
a whispered
shadow
falling.

The sky with a
blue so
essentially crisp
with blue

the yellowing leaves
sighed in
resignation as they
fell.

A Stranger too Often

A Stranger too Often

Fields of flowers

in late September --

mountain asters,

purple loose strife,

golden rod with

bowed heads and

autumn colours

thick with

expectation --

a season of

enduring.

Though I

can name each

flower in the

meadows

and marsh…

I do not know

how they call

themselves.

How does

the seductive

purple flowers

invite the dapper

yellow golden

rod to swoon

in the falling

tumbling caress

of a pirouette?

Are the white

asters so innocent

with their blushing

intimation of desire?

How has the memory

of sunflowers’s voluptuous

embrace of the sun

been spoken?

I will gather this

bouquet of colours

and fire, hold them

close to my soul,

and listen to their

true secret names…

namaya@vermontpoet.com

The Ku Ology of Love in an Existential Key that guarantees no exit:

Introduction

Om, mani padmi Ku, Om mani pad mi kum,

om mani padmi kum,

Kwam, Kwam. Kwam. Kwam. Om Mani Padmi

kumm

Om. mani padmi katti kati Om. Om mani padmi

kati Me. Ka Me. Ka Me Om. Om Mani Om Mani

Love. Love. Ka. Ka Mi. Ka Ma. Ommm Kammma

Kamma Om. Ommmani padd mi kaddmi

ommm.

Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku KuOm Kap kaddda

omn.

KuoooooO. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love Kamma

Love kamma mu. Love kamma mu. Love kamma

kamma. love kamma kamma mu.

l.

don’t worry, this

won’t be some far out

instigation of madness, some

meandering words that

vanish in a sentence or

leaves us dumbfounded

and flottering on the flotilla

of irrationality,

flumfloxed by vowels and

consonants that

refuse to behave in the rise,

fall, declination

and the silences that occur

between each note

in the key of Ku.

Jazz has become excessively

addicted to rationality,

a victim of its success and

its failure to venture

into the key of Ku.

Flats? Sharps? Minor chords

that lead to a window,

an insight.

In the key of Ku the obvious

would be that there is

a Kool Olgy, mentholated of course,

since all Jazz Kats and Kitties

aspire to some degree

of hip step kool.

2. Be Bop: the Cool Bee Bop Thrill of Ku ology

The Ku of Kuology

Kool ology is something like Be bop blues

descending once to the minor

key of ku

transposed to a sixth

A… P!

Not just your ordinary sloppy pea

hanging out on the edge of your

fork waiting for the buttery comfort of

mashed potatoes:

No,

ordinary Peas in a pod nor

a podunk piddly pish tosh P:

this was one who wore a high top,

spats, tails, and did a two step

while rap tapping of the sixth suavely

opened the door to T hanging out

on the 9th of T. Curious, how a ninth to

the 3rd will leave you six more than

the 21st letter of the alphabet.

The Tautology of Tu tantalizing to

the tumescent reality of

Te Deum in the glorious swinging

of the 9th that rests so easily

to swinging on the saloon doors where

kUuuuu most easily hangs.

The Kutology of Ku wherever phoneme

enKapsulates the kwintissential

Konspiracy of love.

Bee Bop Blues

is transmuted to the sharps and

flats of love:

redemption:

fire!

In the inspiration and exhalation of love,

the minor rolling keys

Ku

Po

Tu

One, six, and nine with a fleeting scat

and rip tap thrill to the third.

Ku

Po

Tu

A periwinkle sagacious blue

sailing out to the

potent personal

tu.

Sotto voce, mi amour

Sotto voce.

Who could argue with perfection?

Kuology of Ku is a bee bop thrill

of words

dancing

in

the round resonant

kuuu esscence of Kool

Ku

Po

Tu

2. Kuba Libre

After all that hard voyaging on the seasons of love, there is nothing like a rum and coke,

drinking to the revolution, to the liberation of all sentient beings.

3. Kwanza KU

Ku A ba Ku A ba Ku

Ku a Baa Ku. Ku a Ba KU

Cante Libra

4. Kudos for the Kosmology of love

In the first and last syllable of

time, when god first

breathed and whispered to being

the infinite colors of

love

in a minor key

that will open

the soul to a more

profound loving.

4. Change of Profession: Ku to the Nth Degree of Love

Reverend’Jazz AKA Dr. Namaya has given notice that he will abandon his

homeopathic clinic, his avocation as a performance artist

and poet, tennis maven, humanitarian, vagabond, poseur, aspiring pimp, and the miscellaneous tasks associated…he is devoting all of his creative and professional talents to his new profession as a Ku-ologist.

In this nascent emerging field that Kombines kutaneous kumbustion,

constant kinetic motion that incorporates the 2nd law of Kosmetology

and its relationship to kosmology, kastor oil and Kastididitation and

personal flagillation of love unlimited. To paraphrase, reiterate and hold the mirror of the sainted first Bishop of Ku Olgy – the Hip Gan, “Dig infinity.”

“But Rev’jAz what of your parishioners? Oued Kirk? Isn’t this your chapel?

Isn’t redemption worth more than the price of bread? What of the salvation of the A minor, the comforting kind of words that leads to a narrative, and the chambered nautilus of desire?”

The Rev reported to have said, “Ïbbbidy bibbiddy bop.”

Appointments are available on request at 1 800 Ku Ology. Of course needing

to find the right band frequency of Ku is imperative. You Kan NOT, even

hope to wander in the klinik or Kuerk of Ku without some earned karma. To be an initiate in the Kingdom of Ku one must first speak some basic Ku.

One Kan not enter into the Kingdom without some kind of Klue, key or kwaint kombination of Kuessence.

Reverend jazz will abandon his profession! Dr.Namaya will fall away in the Ku essence of words and sounds:

K falling,

Ku whispering

of Kacophony

Ku Ology

The Rev and Doc will fuse to a new identity Ku as the kwintissentially Koolest KuOlogist of Love.

But Rev’what exactly is kuology and one of your verbal presdigitation?

Ku is the indefatigable derrigible that sails serenely in the face of such maddeness.

Konnaissaince? Por Que Pas! In the kingdom of Ku there are Mu and Loos, secret potties that lead to the chamber KaKaphony, where Karping Karp o philiaXs, Kopulate at noon in the Kwiet river of Kwai. It is better for kwiet when one is communing with their kolon.

I shall not walk or tumble, find my way

Don’t fraternize with the inmates! she said. I am the Queen of Ku, what ever that fool by the name of the King should decrees it is Ka Ka Kakophony. A distant sound resounding in the far circle of hell where the K mart fled. A flatulent fleeing fleecing of sanity. All the K’s are on sale, having rowed down to aisle 3, lingerie, kitchen ware, kar parts.

Aprokrophia the Memory of Love

“I was a child and she was a child there be the kingdom of the seas…”

As a voyager I am kareful to leave bread krumbs on the trail, kasual reminders where I left all the k’s the Cu’s, the reminders of love, the sheltering and shadowy images that saunter like a mistress on Place Pigalle shaking from the jones, tubercular coughing, and mascara tearing. She was a marionette with exaggerated mascara dripping from her eyes as we parted.

I paid for the visit and we stepped inside the cubicle, the size of a confessional or a koffin depending on your perspeKtive, she was a frail, but to me a holy grail, her tubercular white skin stretched like a corpse, her blue bulging veins at the temples throbbing, needing a fix in an hour or two, bonny blue eyes that dared to look eye to eye with the black Krow, her feet filthy comme une pied noire, mais cette femme habite dan les soutterain de Paris pres de catacomb. Peut etre aprez quelle que mois elle reste ca, avec les autre que reve les memoire des autre, toujoure nous avon le memoire de soleile, le memoire de vivre, le memoire respire

Yes, I am paying, and I would like you completely undressed. Mais oui, complete, pas de vestment.

She turned the lights down, but the blue muslin curtains blew back. She was a cadaver posing as a young woman. I was a vulture posing as a saint. The stained bra thickly padded fell to the floor, flat chested as a boy. Yes, the underpants, the pelvis as clear as a skeleton in an anatomy class; black tracks on the arms, behind the legs, and speckled on the pulsing blue veins. I took my undershirt ripped it in half, dipped it into the sink, and with the shard of soap washed her slowly.

Ultimate of kinky ain’t it? I was naked sitting on a stool in a room that size of a large coffin washing Marie who was sweating and shaking simply wanting to get the 50 euros and buy a fix, but she stayed and sweated while I bathed. The other girl outside the room was shouting and screaming, “Fifteen minutes. What the fuck do you think you are – A courtesan! Get out bitch!”

I threw ten Euros out to the hallway. For a day or more, we stayed, laid naked in the room, but oddly we didn’t fuck: We sweated, puked, and cold turkeyed in the cubicle. Tout le meme. Hundreds of clients who fucked on this foam thin bed, the hundreds of hits of heroin shot up here.

A child is starving in Darfur, I’m spending a 100 euros on salvation. A 9 year girl is sold as a slave in a Mumbai brothel. A six year old black boy is working in the tiniest seam of a coal mine in Brazil; the fat rich man in Hollywood dying of loneliness, the last tree in barren north Dakota chopped down: More pain on the planet that the heart can hold in an hour.

At 3 am Marie had a seizure, the bed rattled, banging on the walls, as if some demon was trying to escape, and then she died.

I left her there on the bed, covered in the white sheet, the blue pulsing veins disappearing into the alabaster skin, the face drawn like a cadaver, she was already half way to a skeleton when I met her, now a few centimeters closer to redemption

I walked through the catacombs later that day. I snorted a bag of heroin for courage, I couldn’t take the needle, it violated my privacy and her memory. I tuckedher blouse in the crevice where two skulls met: the hollow eyed sockets peered out through

Yum manni padmi. yum mani paddmi yum yum manni paddmi yum

Yum mani padmi yum many paddmi yum manni padddi manni padmi ku

Yuman Manni padd mi Kummm. Kummm mani padmi Kum

Yo mani paddi manni kadd mi yom paddni kom many pad me kom.

Duhm

Dah

Dahm

Dahm

Dahm. Mani padmie dah mani. Mum. Mooom Mooomm Mooom paddi

yum paddi yummm, paddi, mummmmmm, paddi yummmmm, dumn paddi kom,

paddit humm

Redemption. Love. Fire.

Five votive candles in each eye socket and made a pentagram on the floor. In the five points of Kardinal love – the immutability of love or desire – each placed in the corner:

Ku to the nth

Mu in a minor key of love

Tu a transparent intimacy

jAz as Murder

Ineffable: In the effable instinct is murder

The Immutability of Murder in the House of Love:

As far as I am Koncerned she said with the well flossed vowels of the Windsors

Speaking of which for a Kommerical notice: There is a Blue Light Special at K Mart. Have you noticed how strange the customers are? Not quite from Kweens or Kondordia, the Place de Koncorde, where the Kween Herself was severed from her spinal Kord, another kord of wooden souls stacked up in the shed of karmic retribution. Innocently she said, “Eat Kake,” That begat the revolution. Did she know there was no bread in the humblest of hovels. If a gateaux would it have inspired them to nibble on toes?

IN the Konstellation of Ku, light transcendent from here a million miles up the Kolon of the Universe, with none of the charm of Kologne before of the war. Do you remember the sekret alleyways in the narrow steps that lead to the inner sanctum of the Kathedral, a winding spiral step down in to the belly of church, the Navum, where the first stone was placed. A church is kryptonite to spirituality.

If a god wanted to make a True church he would say, “In this meadow: On this field of grass: All shoes removed, all soks, all Klothes: Naked as the moment of birth. Niene de Kirke. IN truest sanitorium is Oued Kirke, Neue Kirk, all the children of Babylon gather by the river to pray and ask for redemption.

` The Anti-krist in drag comes strolling in like Marlena Detreicht in the Blue Angel; not that I didn’t not love and adore Marlena: Adolf did and why can’t I. When the allied destroyed the old Kathedral of Kologne, a thousand years of prayers fell beneath the bombs. The leaded glass with the stations of the kross, the ardor of god’s love

Om, mani padmi Ku, Om mani pad mi kum,

om mani padmi kum,

Kwam, Kwam. Kwam. Kwam. Om Mani Padmi

kumm

Om. mani padmi katti kati Om. Om mani padmi

kati Me. Ka Me. Ka Me Om. Om Mani Om Mani

Love. Love. Ka. Ka Mi. Ka Ma. Ommm Kammma

Kamma Om. Ommmani padd mi kaddmi

ommm.

Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku KuOm Kap kaddda

omn.

KuoooooO. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love Kamma

Love kamma mu. Love kamma mu. Love kamma

kamma. love kamma kamma mu.

Vermont Yankee Blew Its Top

When Vermont Yankee Blew Its Top

When Vermont Yankee blew its top

the whole world turned to stop

Windy morning in March

when all hell broke loose.

It was history’s fatal arc,

our town swung by a noose

Wind blew the fatal curse

Yesterday’s news was torn,

as fate drove in a hearse

but no one left to mourn.

20 years past its prime

it was a ticking bomb

and in a second of time

our fate was entombed.

20 years past its end

Entergy knew it best

as it lied to defend

all of its failed tests

When Vermont Yankee blew its top

the whole world turned to stop

Miles of pipe lurking

a coiled snake to strike

fatal chance was stalking,

a lightening quick spike.

Old sagging pipes blew,

from a crack of steam,

a string of mistakes flew

then heard a scream,

“Boys, head to the hills

this one is going to blow!

Grab your families and run!”

The brave stayed to fight

but too few to stave the fate,

as execs quickly took flight,

there was no time to wait.

When Vermont Yankee blew its top

the whole world turned to stop

Winds blew wild that day

a radioactive wind of fire,

roared each and ever way,

in the skies an unholy spire.

For miles, roads did clog,

too few could flee or run

as if stuck in a mud bog,

light chilled to a black sun.

Chilling and killing wind

seized everyone instead.

The old, infirmed & blind

quietly died in their bed.

When Vermont Yankee blew its top

the whole world turned to stop

Years now since it blew

Brattleboro long gone,

but skies again are blue

with weedy grass lawns.

All seems back to normal,

a few birds wobble in flight,

natural selection is natural,

with the return of corn blight.

Starlight peeks thru the sky,

in the cold fading twilight,

never asking of Man’s why

or indifference to insight.

Am I worthy

I’m surrounded

by a dense forest

of towering hemlocks

to the west,

birch and maple

to the south and

a rotting oak

struck by lightening

stands by the pond’s edge.

When I first came here,

out of breath from NYC,

I walked through thick

underbrush to the pond,

barely visible from the hill.

I stood out there with

the Real Estate agent,

as if a dollar or a million

dollars could purchase

any of this. An abandoned

beavers’ house was by the

far shore. From the northwest

a great blue heron

slowly soared across

the cattails, effortless

landed atop

the beavers’ house

and turned to look

at me directly. Not

in an idle scan of

her surrounding, but

a look that seemed to

weigh and measure

my worth as her

neighbor on this pond.

He said I prefer not to

He said, I prefer not to

homage to Bartleby the Scrivener

A. INKA

Standing on the Edge of Time

Standing on

the edge of time

feel my soul

just

slipping away.

Standing

on

the edge of life

feel my soul

just

slipping away.

Dancing

on

the edge of a rhyme

If time could fly,

love to heal &

words to mend

I would be a shadow

marching amongst

the may mad fields.

Would you dance?

Would you dance

in the light of a

May bright moon

where love,

redemption

and

fire

dance,

a tango

with

sultry

evanescent

steps

of

desire?

Standing on

the edge of time

feel my soul

just

slipping away.

Less attached to the daily current of life. Leaping inside a thought, a word that changes shape by the moment, a hint of color that slips inside an emotion, and then vanishes in a turn. A word that dances in a provocative minuet, the shape of a note that twists and turns inside, a shallow well that we draw inspiration from, and when I drop the bucket, splashing down deep over fifty meters or more I hit the cold springs of memory.

Revelation held in a puddle of water, my hands part the image, and the drops fall one by one. Each year of my life held in a thimble then tossed to the sky that seems to laugh at my presumptions of knowing.

How could you leave? She asked. And the madness? What of the madness? How is desire revealed?

X. di N ka

Ichabod said, I’m a mystic made of dark Belgian chocolate who melts desires on your tongue.

Ibidy bibbid di bop! said the moon to the sky.

Ink a dinka – dink a do! said Mrs. Kalibash to the burlesque dancer Lars on loan from the Swedish ballet, but glad to offer a lap dance in exchange for a morsel of love.

Staying is returning close to memory and memories are shadows that drown all of our recollections. I’ve seen the shadows dancing figures trace their death defying images on the walls. A corridor that leads to a long passageway turns to the left: It was a left even though it turned round and came back to the beginning

IV. Do you remember – how words fell off the blackboard?

First, it was a simple matter of a single letter that seemed to slip off the blackboard – Was it a T?

A, “T”?

Yes, that’s my name. And so your name fell away!

Exactly!

Then what did you do?

I found a mate, an accompanying and accommodating note – not a long note – but a B flat found at the bottom of a horn, that sounded like the wailing cry of a loon, the echoing song of an epiphany by the name of, Iphigenia the half sister of Eros who was a tranny queen who worked by the Williamsburg Bridge.

Ωإ۔

If love could cure and angels would be redeemed. Where the shadows appear and disappear, where the night falters, and love finds its way home. Shall I find you among the shadows?

Then you left? How could you leave when the memory of time was so compelling?

No, it’s the memory of a lie, you idiot!

The memory of a lie echoed like a round resonate note in the culvert pipe by Santa Monica Boulevard. We played bee bop there when the river was dry and the rolling notes of a saxophone would orgiastically exhale. The full burning embers of the hookah pipe glowed in a simmering burn, an E minor sizzled on the grilled.

Sunny-side up! called out the bandleader. Soon enough! said the drummer as he gave tingling snip snap brush of the snare.

The culvert, yes that one, the drain storm, as big as a worm hole by the planet Andar. That one that we slip easily between the realms of here and there. The journey is not so difficult, it begins, generally with the e minor bee bop rift, in a II, VI, IX progression that Charlie Parker wrote on the back of a napkin. Then he nodded off and never finished the ballad.

Do you remember the night of dreams?

Ż

Turning back she faced the oval mirror by the pasture and looked at the winter scene as snow devoured the land. Night’s shadows returned. At midnight the moon was so luminescent the snow was burning white as our ski tracks disappeared in the wake.

The drunken sailor from Leeds said, “An Irish funeral?”

“Christ sakes… this is a literary adventure, turns, twists of the plot, little graveyards if you will, but wakes …. damn, lad, why such a literalist you could be mistaken for an English teacher!

If love could lead, if a song could heal, if our words could leap beyond shadows, would we find ourselves at the end of the day in a room much like our imagination? Would the night falter or would it open gloriously wide like virgin lovers.

“Leeds United!” screamed the lad as he poured out of the door and tucked into the waiting arms of a drag queen who was only too happy for a sea food snack. Barracudas circle closer and closer… less real, more vivacious, and alluring.

Less attached to reality, less attached to the nuance of day to day, less, less, less. Unable to navigate between the faces and desires, the lurid expectations, the small etchings of shadows, a stark jagged line that appears and disappears, the late breeze of summer blows across fields of lilacs and daisies, luscious yellow sun saturated blossoms, and the porch window was left ajar – enough for a bee to saunter into the room – searching between the magnetic points, the reference point of alpha to omega and all the train stops between, in the fields of poppies – lascivious reds overflowing with memory- the hummingbird feeder filled with the succulent ruby juice of fire

Here’s this journey which is obscure but filled with clues like bread crumbs along the trail, nothing is obscure in this journey backwards to home, always to home, the revelation of self.

Spinning

in the enchanting

choir of love’s

enchanted fire.

Hold me close

while time

fades away

Standing on

the edge of time

Inside/Out: Mu Jazz

Inside/ Out

never make much of the journey I step in and then I step out Why bother where the line ends or begins Monday morning the moon is voluptuous lilac ascending to lavender dissolves into a minor fugue – e minor raised to a fifth – a moody bourbon soaked shade of reverie – the dredges at the bottom of the glass stares longingly at the rheumy eyes and wonders of all the dreams and loves those eyes beheld

Andar was the last stop on the tour- sorry did I leave too soon The point of departure expands Photons are the passports for possibilities Beam me home with love said I to customs Customarily immigration is glad to see me She slithers a hand forward a reptilian slither of flesh extrudes from a smile that smokes like a crevice from a volcanoes steam vent Silly silly silly eartharian It is a steam vent – we are fire and longing Follow the reverie the enchanted wisp as the flautist from Benarres seduces the cobra

Welcome to Andar

Anything to declare

Only my desires – longings – lust 2-glad to be the ambassador for love

For love she queried In that case, welcome home She closed the counter for the day all the other citizens from near and far we’re given a hookah – smoked the finest blend of Stellatian & Vermont flowers Red Queen to Knight 4 she said while sprawled on a mufraj couch and made love right there in arrivals lounges

The ecstasy of an orange poppy waking to find itself bedded next to a deep purple iris jealousy enchanted with a white virginal daisy and a succulently yellow core waiting to be devoured Desire Alpha & Omega

I am the Ambassador of Love 2 she said But on our home planet Love is hello and the intimate embrace of lovers resonate vivaciously She turned to me as I parted with immigration and as our eyes locked never faltering in gaze we stepped out of the mere guise of formality and for a quotient of time allotted lovers we stepped inside each unfulfilled desire Full ripe pearlescent moon illuminated the shadows of our caresses

How simple is desire

More than a star can dream – peer through the keyhole a kaleidoscope that turns shatters and dissolves Alpha & Omega

Casually Madam Curie rolled the dice Bones ossified

Do that Shakespearian rag said poor Tom.

Inside out forward back open of course always a right action and the contrary Elegant billiards is the universe said Heisenberg

one opens the other closes Love is fire and longing and in the incineration of desire do we find our way home Carry us Carry us home it was the C minor 7th that got me While we open our hands to heaven wonder of the universe that fills the chasm of our iris and invites us to peer just around the corner

Peeka boo! said the goddess Athena in drag as a Greek diner.

Bippy di bippy di bop said the satyr to the voyeur Can you peer into a question and find the love longingly ascribed to you or are you always peering into the key hole What lewd indiscretions are you finding While on Andar each room is separated by the desire for privacy with words offering an invitation Then as my ship of photon light appears on the horizon there is an ecstatic shout from the focsal – Andar on the starboard port Light years slip away as graciously as her slip fell to the floor in puddle of magenta as we lusciously embraced in the dimming twilight and the night slipped further into reveries Our tongues traversed each desire

Curious, curious, what you find on the other side of the door.

A concerto of all things a baroque variation of Tutti Frutti

Li Pon Calling Andar: Half a Li Half a League Onward

Li Pon Calling Andar: Half a Li Half a League Onward

Lars is an ambassador and Smith is from the enemy kingdom disguised as an ambassador to Andar.

When I die I will give all my money to a dog by the name of Fred who goes by the name of Joe. Joe will ask that the money be laid out on the floor, cook a few juicy steaks, after all Namaya made such a big deal about being a vegetarian and was such a pain in the ass about it, it is important to make sure he is part of the feast. Well to make the scenario complete let us sprinkle some of his ashes on the feast. Yes, Namaya, was always into the theater thing, so we had a huge bonfire, a Hindu thing, then we burn the fucker, it will have a lot of invitations, but no one will come… a few curious on lookers, but no family, they will say he was “mad” and therefore, “We are not mad and to ensure we aren’t mad, we will cast him to the fires of our memory. We will be vanquished, our love for ourselves will be redeemed, our sanity will be restored, and we will launch him on the funeral pyre.

“Good riddance to you – you --- you Crazy fuk!”

“The word is fuck. Ignorant mother fucker!”

“We know, but we are in such polite company, that to say fuck would put us in a state of disrepute. We are trying to distance ourselves from the po8.”

“There you go fucking with the language again, it’s po ET. Like the Emperor Po who just Et? Dig. Dig. Dag. Dug. Snug as a bug, your mama danced the hoola hoop on the rug. Did the shimmy shake coco bop love rock and then, when she was done the boys in the band serviced her every need. Even did a pedicure while flossing her teeth. A woodpecker rapping out a beat is telling me that the story line needs more punch.”

“Thar’ ya go again. Fuking crazier than a loon in heat. It’s time for the immolation Namaya. Suttee. Who will jump in the fire first? Will the cow jump over the fireplace – or will the cow eviscerate herself, leap bung side up, and land as a nice rotisserie of meat? Wasn’t that the Christ thing – the offering of spirit to meat? Baet Lahem?”

“So Namaya, will you give the crowd a big cheer, give them something to celebrate and be so kind as to jump on the auto de fie?

“Can I wait to die first?”

“No, no! A live sacrifice is always best! Will you be a sport?”

You can be the suttee sacrifice of you own immolation.

Then we vanish. Completely gone. Disintegrating. Vanishing in a breath. Hi ho silver! Away! And the Calvary? They’ve impaled themselves on their vanities, surrounded by the Fu-kowis, and now the tribe is on the loose. Another incineration, another incarceration. Metaphors exceeding the weight and ability of similes to carry themselves forward to the nexus of love. In the nexus, plexuses, and – Jesus Christ you know where I’m going nex us – Oedipus Plexipus – a lost species that was a derivation of an illegitimate birth. Bastards! Row to shore. Pirates on the stern and the gang plank. Send the odd, winken blinken, and well basted turkeys to the oven.

Audience, reader, whom- the-fuck-ever. But the stern gang? Jewish terrorists bombing the King David. Mazel Tov love! Zionist rapist!

As we sailed on the Ganges river in the dark. Like sacrificial lambs we were lead down a street to the river, then an alleyway that was damp and smelled of donkeys and shit, we found ourselves on a narrow pier, it juts out to the water, a rickety leaky skiff with a blind man at the oars was prepared to take us down river on the Ganges. The morning tourists watching the svengali abolutionist bathing in the hepatic waters. What doesn’t kill you, will make you stronger. In that case, this remedy of Ganges water is bullet proof. If you survive your daily bath in the Ganges, nothing will kill you.

The blind man with the tubercular cough leaned on the oars, a rattle in his chest and a stream of blood tinged spit leaped into the water, it was dark when we departed, but a tubercular cough with a death rattle it is fair to imagine the bright red blood from his lungs

PART OF THE L

S

D

Or if the LDS was truly hip and polygamy recapitulated into fellatio then Queen Isabella would be fulfilling her wondrous roll. They named a stamp after Phi lactic Philistia. Better then filling up your gas tank.

THE LAST SUPPER:

Where Jasus, 2/3 rds brother to the prophet and James, sat down had a cold case of beer and split it with the boys. While Mary and the J-man copped the scene and were working on the transcendent plane of the Kama Sutra, 747 special express, greased, lubed and ready to roll.

“Raise a glass! To the J-man and the half pikers.”

Time is a permeable membrane. Back on the river—a single streak of orange squeezed from the night, saturated the horizon, and spread like the glass of juice clumsily knocked over by a hand. Hell, that is a fucking clumsy metaphor. I pretended that I had taken a hit of MFA acid and see my writing was completely buggered. Stay away from the MFA’s—more seductions there than on a Friday night at Neukirk in Amsterdam. Red lights. More of the colors of the river.

What compels you? Can someone help the old man row. I look into his eyes, cataract covered, I splash water from the river on my hands, its practically alive with vermin and parasites, I touch a bit to his forehead, and kiss each eye.

He’s still blind, but it made me feel better. Isn’t that ultimately what healing is about?

It’s about me, isn’t it.

Okay, I was teasing you, don’t take it so damn personally. The real story is this – rowing to the sea, abolutionist, fakirs, naked saddhus, and the goddamn bloated corpse of a brown and white cow was floating by. A Holstein? Shades of Vermont peer through the curtain.

To the left, is the most famous brothel in all of Benares overlooking the religionists on the shores, one holds the power of god and the other is phoning their stockbroker. But Saddhus on one leg is like a stork and he submerges his body in the river.

I too seek absolution in my madness. Resolving the imponderables by making this voyage, the river smells of decay and feces, and to make things juicier

Row, row, backwards in time. The onomonopia of onanism