Namaya Vermont Poet: Poetry

Art, Internet Technology, and Entrepreneurship

2010-09-14T12:20:00.000-07:00

Internet technology has revolutionized how I work and create, and as an artist/ writer, peace activist, and entrepreneur it has been an invaluable ally. It doesn’t replace the creative process, but enhances it and enables me to reach a broader audience and market.
I had always liked the atelier (workshop) model for artists, where a team creates art, and the internet and the technology enables me to create a virtual atelier
I have a team of part time workers that I only interact with via the internet. I have an administrative assistant and a web admin person in the Philippines, one short term assistant who is editing videos from a recent play, one SEO (Search engine optimization) person in Bangladesh, a designer in Italy who is from India translating my drawings of a Peace Garden Fountain to a CAD and engineering drawings, a telephone transcriptionist from Jamaica who transcribes my voice memos, a writing editor in Texas, and an audio person in Florida who is engineering my new CDs. Depending on my needs and the work flow, I can utilize these people as little or as much as I need. They have the choice to work on multiple assignments around the world and they set their own price. When I need photos edited there is a specialist in the Czech Republic who does this for me quickly. Today, I needed someone to assist with a Peace project in Washington D.C., I posted the job at 8:30, and at 9:30, a person with a terrific resume and long experience in this applied for the job, at 9:40, I hired the person for a week.
My virtual assistant world is O Desk, where I can scan for the employees I need. More importantly, it gives me the time and the privacy to write and create using this group of very talented employees. By using this pool of workers, I can increase my creative time and effectiveness. Odesk has been one of my major creative tools in the way that a computer is an essential tool for me. I live most of the year in southern Vermont where the high-speed internet access is erratic and I wish that the authorities in Vermont recognized that internet access is not just "an interesting new fangled thing,” but an essential tool for work.
On this current project "B4 Peace”, I have SEO (Search engine optimization) people who are creating a social media, viral and twitter campaign. I use the team to manage and assist with our various community development projects like www.gracecares.com. When I went to Haiti for medical work my "virtual assistant" helped to coordinate many aspects of the trip. However, even for me, the technology can be a bit bizarre. This morning I went on the computer and my assistant in the Philippines was on my computer and transferring files. It’s as if she was sitting at my desk instead of 5,000 miles a way. I am also able to reach out more effectively to a broader audience. It is the ultimate democracy of the marketplace. I publish my books directly on the internet at www.namayaproductions.com; E- books can be downloaded directly from my website; combined E-Book with photos, audio, and music Vermont My Home on Blue Heron Pond (pending); and a series of CDs without the hassle and ecological waste of CDS. It is far easier for someone to click a button and download songs, stories and music to the web with an MP3, and if they want the nice pictures and lyrics, we include them. The artwork like the Vermont My Home series we have as “physical copies,” but we’re working on downloading the “virtual art,” however, people can still purchase the pictures.
I plan and continue to use the internet in a variety of ways and see the internet and the social media marketing not solely as a tool to promote my art, but as “art” unto itself. In the project called “Pornography of War,” it is in a virtual museum tour of my artwork against war, videos, and performances. It is enormously difficult to get new and controversial works out, but with a relatively modest budget, the internet provides an opportunity to interact and engage with a very broad audience. More importantly, it provides a way for audiences and galleries around the world to see my work. My play “Beatnik Café,” is very expensive to produce and promote it, and what makes a far more cost effective way is to record it in a video studio, edit it, and then have it for view on the internet on a high quality site for the admission price of say $2. Again, the internet, like any technology can inspire us to think more creatively and to reach a wider audience. Live performances are ideal and will always be the preferred way to see a show, but the internet, wisely used can help us to achieve a broad market.
Some people have complained that I’m using cheap offshore labor, but as one assistant said, "I love working for you, I live away from the capital, and there isn't enough work for me as a programmer, but I can work remotely at home, for an excellent salary.” Though I do have profound concerns about all the cheap manufacturing abroad, as many other things in life, it is the wise and judicious use of resources. When I can, I use and work with my local workers, but the pool of talent is not always available; nevertheless, my Vermont Art Projects are produced and made in Vermont
The key is not to have the technology overwhelm the creative work, but to complement it and magnify it. Skype enables me to talk and have a video conference with employees in the Philippines, talk to my music director for a show and play music in real time during the call, plan a community development project with a colleague in the Dominican Republic, and even taking a guitar lesson from a teacher in England.
My new novel "Jubilation" I recorded on my I-phone for about 6 hours a day for two weeks, uploaded it to the computer, and then a program automatically changed it to written text. Unfortunately, the technology is a bit behind the curve on this, and my I-phone only uploaded 75 percent of the files. Nevertheless, I was able to send those files to my transcriptionists in Jamaica and the Philippines, and in a few days, a completed document arrived at my inbox. The creative process is intact and the foundation of the novel written was done in a fraction of the time. I am able to focus my energy on editing and rewrites.
This whole realm of technology is a phenomenal leap in all the ways that I work and create, it doesn't make my creativity any better, it just makes it far easier, and gives me more time to focus on what I do best writing/ art.
Despite the technology, I love the care and the craft of what I do as an artist and poet. I love the privacy and joy of writing a poem with pen and paper. I will always delight in the sensuous creativity with pastels and pencils.In all the technology we have, there is still the powerful, necessary instinct for me, to create directly, and to explore a blank sheet of paper. If I am making a sculpture I want my hands to feel all the dimensions of this sculpture and as a storyteller or performance I want the live audience. The internet helps me to make that connection with as wide of an audience as possible.
The internet technology for this artist and writer has opened a new world of possibilities and audience connection, and used wisely can be a marvelous ally. Nevertheless, while I like and well use the technology, I will always value the intimacy and art of a blank sheet of paper and a pen. However, it is empowering when I’ve finished a drawing, I can scan it to my website and publish it after I’m done, or that I have written this blog entry and now anyone can read it. Imagine the powerful and creative uses of the internet and technology.

Slugs as Great Lovers

2010-09-02T19:32:00.000-07:00

Precious Time

An odd spring,
one day
t-shirt and
shorts
weather,
then the
next
cold.

Today
wrapped
in winter
jackets
Zoe and I
walked
in the woods
by the pond.

We found a
sunlit spot
by the stream
and laid down.

My head
resting on her
tummy
as we watched
clouds
amble by
and fell asleep
as the nascent
spring grew
beneath us.

Slugs as Great Lovers
Never thought of slugs
as great lovers until
today. I saw a nature
movie that captured
their amorous adventure.

Slithering in a mucous
rapture towards estrous
leaving a scented train
of the equivalent of a
bed of fresh roses,
Belgian chocolates,
and the promise of
hot sex spoken in
a fragrant bouquet
of pheromones.

I was getting a little
excited as the two
danced and
coiled around
one another in
a spiral of love
for hours in the
slow juicy
exchange of
fluids.

In their
hermaphroditic
ecstasy their
luminescent
blue penises
glowed in the
dark.
After
the climax
one dropped from
the tree in
a sated orgiastic
thrilling fall.

It laid
on the ground
exhausted
thoroughly
spent and
musing,
"Man, she/ he
was hot!"

Missing the Intimacy of a poem

2010-05-18T17:34:00.000-07:00

… I’ve been dreaming
with colored pens, my guitar,
and plotting revolutions. I peer
through the window, a man
is writing with a black pen on a
white lined sheet of paper, he
is writing slowly and carefully.
He pauses, plays the
Spanish guitar and I can
faintly hear an arpeggio in
a minor E.

Bastard's Paradox

2010-05-04T09:42:00.000-07:00

Oceans of oil
pour from the Gulf of Mexico.

The womb ripped
open.

We bleed
black death.

Dolphins, turtles,
fish and kin
drown in the
venomous ooze.

Bells toll for the
evening watch.
Blood red sun
on the bow
surrenders to night.

Evening star obscured.

The bastard’s paradox --

oil fuels
progress
and
the closer
we come to the
enigmatic omega point,

where progress can
save our world,

the closer we come
to the apocalypse.

World Peace at the Help Desk

2010-04-16T07:45:00.000-07:00

Computer desk support from
India was most helpful and
at the end of the call she asked,
“Will there be anything else?”

She asked with such
sincerity, I had to ask for
what I really wanted,
“Yes, I would like world peace.”

“Yes, sir, let me check that in my
computer.”

For several moments I was very
excited as I heard her tapping
keys and industriously searching
her computer for the answer.

Finally, almost weary, but not
defeated she said, “I am sorry sir,
I don’t seem to have it in this department,
but if you wait I can transfer you
to my supervisor.”

The supervisor was most agreeable
as I again asked for,
“World peace, please.”

She responded promptly,
“Let me check to see if I have
it here.”

While waiting on hold, I imagined
all the computers in heaven were
chugging away to find world peace,
and realized that maybe, just maybe
the problem is not enough people
ask for World Peace.

Alas, she came back on to the phone,
“I’m sorry, I can’t seem to locate it
at this time, but if you give me your
email, I can contact you as soon as
we have it in stock.”

When people now ask me,
“Will there be anything else?”

I always say,
“Yes, world peace, please.”

Asshole Magnet?

2010-03-24T05:58:00.000-07:00

Do you ever feel like
you’re a magnet for
assholes?

Please, don’t think
me rude or insensitive,
but the usual crowd
of:

parasites,
sycophants,
money grubbers
love vampires,
squeeze me –
need me
vampires,
jealous
friends,
ex-friends
who remember
you in times
of their need
and the ordinary
mind and life
fucking little
parasites who
crowd your
life.

any of those who
sound familiar?
asshole a dark
malodorous
tunnel that
suffocates and
squeezes the joy
out of life.

Are you a magnet
for these kinds of
miscreants of pain?

Do you feel that cosmic
chilly blood sucking
draft whenever of
the AH Magnets
are near?

Families and even
children who suck
you into their world
of pain, blame you
for their suffering,
and then devour
your soul?

Is there a way to
demagnetize
and rid your spirits of
the assholes who
wander into your
life?

Autumn, Creative Directions, and Peace Work

2009-09-06T15:55:00.000-07:00

Autumn creeps forward with bits of auburn color, splashes of yellowing leaves, and clear blue skies that we’ve missed this past summer. The air is crisp and refreshing. I’m in a time of renewal, with new projects, artwork, and learning to centering myself in the creative process. The creative flow has felt like a tidal wave in the past six months and now, like a veteran surfer, I’m finding the perfect wave, my relationship to the ride, and learning to balance on the powerful tide. The creative balance is between my work as an artist and my commitment as a peace activist.

I’m productive and relaxed, letting go of many outside commitments that were diverting my attention away from writing and creative work. I’m writing each morning about 2-4 hours daily without strict deadlines, able to write what I want and pursue my creative projects. I’m able to follow the wild muse and enjoying the ride. Though this creative free form schedule has been difficult in terms of getting work out, published, and/or produced, I’m enjoying the privacy of creativity. This creative process includes the writing, designing and drawing new installation peace projects, writing and playing music, photography, and the time to savor the freedom of creativity.

Richard Lovelace in his poem “To Althea from Prison” captures this freedom of spirit so well:

Stone walls do not a prison make

nor iron bars a cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take

that for an hermitage;

If I have freedom in my love

and in my soul I am free,

Angles alone, that soar above,

enjoy such liberty.

September through October getting ready to perform my newer work - iR Reveren'jAz and jAZ mU eXperience. 17 October 2009 I will be at 5C Café on Avenue C in NYC with some excellent jazz cats. Then I am on to Cambridge and Boston for shows. Stay tuned for details. I am slowly planning for additional shows at colleges in the region. I’m approaching shows differently, each show as a unique creation with the improvisation of jazz, word, and multimedia.

One of the new projects I’ve been very keen on (but and dragging my feet) is the performance multimedia project “Four Prophets” Jesus, Mohammed, Moses and Buddha meet in a Public restroom.

This November I’ll (hopefully) visit a new community development project in Haiti. Then over to Dominican Republic to follow up on on-going community projects we have there. GRACE CARES supports small-scale community development projects around the world. We have one project in India that teaches health care and English and those project holders are creating a larger community health project.

In January through February, I’ll be in Palestine and Israel observing, writing, performance, and hopefully teaching and engaged in homeopathy for children with PTSD.

In the late spring, if things go well, back in Europe performing for a two week tour.

I am a peace activist and artist, and have continually tried to fuse this work and find the balance. Some of this work is on my website at www.vermontpoet.com/gallery and in the music and book section, as well as the section on Landmines. I am designing a Peace/ Meditation Garden using old military weapons and building fountains and art projects. It combines alternative energy, community development, and design. I have a potential sponsor for this in Florida.

I also have the poem One Hundred Flowers that we are aiming to translate into 100 languages.

One Hundred Flowers

Let there be one hundred flowers

of peace that bloom in the garden.

let there be one hundred hours of peace

for every moment of war

let there be one hundred acts of kindness

for each instance of hate.

let there be one hundred years of love

for each minute of violence.

let there be one hundred voices of peace

for each one of war.

let there be one hundred flowers

of peace that bloom in the garden.

namaya 2001

Another integral part of my peace work is looking at ways that my contentious and feisty self appears in the world. In working towards a world of peace I need to center myself, less caught up in my petty arguments, the small egocentric vanities of anger, and focus my attention on the real work in life. I am clearing out the emotional junk that has lead to a lot of unproductive anger. Truly, I am a work in progress. I will always be a feisty person, but the necessity is to do it with a bit more graciousness and humor, learning to find the cruising speed and the easy idling, and avoid the temptation for constant over-drive.

My renewed attention is to the on-going military debacle in Afghanistan and Pakistan. The US needs to turn over its share of the war to the EU nations. If the EU, Russia, China, and other countries see that Afghanistan is such an imperative, then it needs to put its soldiers and commitment there. Why is Obama continuing the same failed policies of the Cheney/Bush misadministration?

I campaigned for Obama and think he has the potential to make a difference, but his administration is still fundamentally committed to the failed policies and militarism of the previous administrations. The U.S. is in a pivotal moment, while we need to engage and create peace partners internationally, we must resolve the catastrophic problems in the US: 2 million homeless; 25 % elderly poverty; the lack of affordable health care; the vanishing manufacturing base; our deteriorating education system; and the lack of regulation of the Wall Street Capitalist gangsters.

Eisenhower said it best, “Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies, in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and not clothed. This world in arms is not spending money alone. It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children. This is not a way of life at all in any true sense. Under the cloud of threatening war, it is humanity hanging from a cross of iron.”

In the time of personal renewal I am looking at my art and writing as a voice to speak for peace.

Never

2009-08-18T12:12:00.001-07:00

Never

Never raise a hand

to a child.

Never strike

or beat.

Never an excuse

to hit or humiliate.

Never a reason

to shame.

Never a need

to hurt a child.

In an instant

of anger – pause.

In a moment

of rage – leave.

In a sudden

anger… stop.

Stop.

See yourself

as that child.

Dr.Gates, please, did you forget

2009-07-24T08:10:00.000-07:00

Dr. Gates Harvard professor
international renowned scholar,

breaking into his own house,
a bit more than suspicious.

Wouldn’t you say?

Though intelligent and well
spoken, in the blue eyed vision
of a cop, where black is black
and white is always white,

a Black man

is still a Nigger.

Did you forget, Professor Gates?

Well Trod Path

2009-07-23T07:10:00.000-07:00

I’ve spent my life taking
the path least familiar and
less traveled on five
continents, but a path
that is best cherished is
the well trod one through
the woods to my neighbors’
house.

About a hundreds yards or
more, whether in the summer
or any season, the path winds
through the woods to their
backdoor. I generally don’t
knock, but give a call of
“hello” and most times it is
a call back of, “Come on in.”

A glass of water or wine offered,
and if it’s around dinner, an extra
plate appears on the table.

If a tool is needed it’s there
in their shed or ours, readily
available.

This well trod path through the
woods so familiar and known
that even in the pitch black of
night we can find our way to each
other’s door.

* for Michael & Phyllis Gigante

Email, texting, being important

2009-05-25T14:39:00.001-07:00

Email, texting,
etc.:
The Importance
of being Important

Email, texting,
on the cell
phone, constant
yammering,

urgent addiction
to emails, checking
it every ten minutes,

as if something
important was
there, life threatening,

an urgent call
from a girl-friend
while you’re on
a date.

your date takes
out his cell phone
and suddenly
you’re at the
dinner table

can we admit
most of it is
very silly
nonsense?

And for me
this very
famous
person, in
my own
mind,

no, I’m
not as
important
as I think
I am.

Are you
as important
as you
think you
are?

Portrait of you

2009-05-20T17:59:00.000-07:00

My lover died

yesterday. I had

time with him

alone, before the

nurses, doctors,

and other well

meaning people

came.

I caressed his

hair and combed

it one last time.

A few strands

fell off in the

comb and I

kept those.

I wore a faint

touch of lipstick

and kissed his

lips one last

time. I placed

a kiss on this

canvas. As

many as the

memory of

our loving

could hold.

I ran my finger

under his armpits,

I smelled it and

it was too clean

but it had his

scent on it and

I placed it on

this canvas.

I kissed and

held his cock

in my mouth

one last time.

I know he has

AIDS and I

do not, but for

the memory

of all of our

loving, the

laughter, joy

and for the

years we

would never

have.

I then kissed

this canvas

again, the saliva,

perhaps filled

with AIDS …

was the disease

at last

redeemed with love?

Was the disease

blessed with our

final loving?

From those arms

once so strong

who held me

I drew tubes of

blood, as much

as his still veins

would offer.

On this canvas

I have written

this poem with

his blood and

as I write it,

the tears run

down my cheeks

without fear

or shame.

His blood dried

quickly and

I couldn’t finish

and drew blood

from my veins.

This canvas

torn from our

soul, a fragment

of our journey

interrupted, but

a memory of

love

complete

RAFA: King of Pain

2009-05-19T14:53:00.000-07:00

The King of Pain

Sweet boyish face smiles

in victory after victory.

In the middle of the match

he skips back to play

like a little boy in a school yard,

but this is where the boyishness

ends and the king of pain

takes over. He is like some

cartoon figure that turns himself

into the monstrous hulk…

the scowl returns, the eyes

narrow like an animal on

the hunt, and the bulging

biceps and muscles grow

with each point.

But what kind of

animal is this

…moves like a gazelle,

ferocity of a wolverine,

the grace of a hummingbird,

the persistence of a bull

and the cunning of a crow?

This animal can be no

other than Rafa raised

on the red clay of Majorca

and now stalking the

tennis courts of the world

with ferocity and grace,

inflicting pain and dashing

hopes of those who fall

before him.

Though at the end when

the battle is over

the boyish smile returns,

and with the grace

of a champion he acknowledges

his foes…

but there is no mercy

when Rafa takes the court

as he is the King of Pain.

I will Miss Heaven: An Atheist's Soliloquy

2009-05-12T10:53:00.000-07:00

we laid in the garden,

my lover and I, she

amongst the clouds

and blues of the sky,

I in our garden of

red and white poppies.

One day there will be

no poems and all

my intimacies

with god will be tender

recollections of love,

poignant memories of

desire and ashes.

Though an atheist by

necessity, I have loved

you with an ardor and

reverence that not

even the Pope could

imagine or aspire to.

A blade of grass is

as inspired as a steeple.

God and I have been

tempestuous lovers,

rousing arguments,

but mostly they were

arguments with

myself.

I kicked open the

door to your boudoir,

with muddy boots,

ripped aside the

curtains, but you

were filing your

fingernails gazing

at the astral blue

clarity of the sky.

Two eunuchs stood

guard at the door,

Desire and Gnosis.

Perhaps a

a ménage a quatre?

The shimmy shake

with Gnosis, Desire,

et toi – mi amor?

I longed to lie in

the nesting chambered

nautilus of lovers,

but knowing and loving

only begins in the

surrender to love.

In this I failed, again

and again, and

chained myself to the

wheel of expectation.

There is no freedom

in love or desire, but

in my quest for

intimacy with you,

dios de mi amor,

I’ve found the

redemption of our

private secret loving.

…in the garden,

my lover and I.

Assses: Global Warming Sex Poems of Slugs

2009-04-13T10:06:00.000-07:00

Asses: Global Warming: Save The Rain Forest: Toilet Paper

No other poet taking on such issues
as the maligned toilet paper tissues.

A shitty subject for poetic affairs
and urgent personal hygienic care.

The world is filled with many asses:
Fat, small, skinny… a lot of asses.

that demand soft white fluffy paper
and too, mountains of baby diapers.

Rivers polluted and forests cleared
to keep our asses squeaky cleaned.

Bedouins used water and sand.
Ouch, is what I say to that plan.

Toshiba has a high tech scrubber,
tushy clean rubba- a- dub dubber.

Or soap, water and rag is a way
to keep it tidy each & every day

Save the planet! Raise your voice!
Bend on over & make a choice!

Save the rain forest! Save your ass!
If truly organic, wipe it with grass.

Recycled toilet paper if you will
To give your bung- hole a thrill

Or follow the four fold tush rule
to be truly environmentally cool

Wipe, fold, wipe, fold & again.
Wipe fold, wipe, fold & again.

At last put your ass on the line
An indelicate issue not so refined

Save our water, planet, and trees.
Save your ass too if you please.
+++++

Slugs as Great Lovers
Never thought of slugs
as great lovers until
today, I saw a porno
movie that captured
their amorous romance.

Slithering in a mucous
rapture towards estrous
leaving a scented trail
of the equivalent of a
bed of fresh roses,
Belgian chocolates,
and the promise of
hot sex spoken in
a fragrant bouquet
of pheromones.

Man, the film was
kinky!
I was getting a little
excited as the two
slugs congealed
in their thick
mucous rapture,
coiling round
one another in
a spiral of love
for hours in the
slow juicy
exchange of
fluids,
--in their
hermaphroditic
rapture their
luminescent
blue penises
glowed in the
dark

and at
the climax
one dropped from
the tree in
a sated orgiastic
thrilling fall

It laid there
on the ground
still

exhausted
thoroughly
spent and
musing,
“Man,
she/he
was hot!”

++++++++++++

Excerpt from: Easter 09
My obligation as an artist, maybe
that is a stretch, my obligation
as a sentient being is to be awed by
the Universe.

The whole universe.

The sunrise on Estrellas, the planet
so secret from scientists
that only a poet can visit, where
stars don’t shine but laugh
from the memory of redemption.
Have you been there and seen the
intimacies? Have you seen
flowers bloom with the heads of Saints
and saviors from the planet Earth?
There is a garden where Jesus and Buddha
Mohammed grow.

Jew – Christians- theists and even atheist
grow in the garden then plucked, stems,
stalks, but the seeds remained.
On the piano, by the window that overlooked
the five moons of Estrella, light streamed
through the window
everywhere in the universe colors are
universal
except here by the Edge of Memory.

The precipice where the Universe will
tumble and fall off,
is the Edge of Memory

May
I translate some of these colors?
Love is the first color:
Something akin to an e flat minor,
a blue lilac disintegrating
into razor thin slices of reality:
six lives, ten incarnations of
an e flat minor suspended over a pool
of fire
sacrificed for her own beauty.

Placed in the vase found the memory
of desire.

Anguish:
A chromatic minor key that unlocked the
`room of memory.
Fidelity:
Fidelity to the integrity of desire. A round G bass note
on a cello inside the subterranean vault of the Metro
by the catacombs – La Defense – when I played the
adagio in G – bones of the catacomb seemed to moan
with pleasure at the memory of sound.

+++++++++

Alchemy of Love

I’m a writer who
needs a quiet
place to work.

My wife is in
the kitchen
joyfully
banging
pots
and pans

in her
flurry of
cooking.

A knock
on the door.

Pancakes
strawberries
and whipped
cream served

as my writing
is interrupted
by the alchemy
of love.

Unraveling the Knot
Spring unravels
the thick knot
of memory
that binds
us to winter.

The alchemy
of love to
surrender.

Da’fence Department

A fence in my world
is someone who takes
stolen goods, gives
you a fraction of its
worth, and resells it.

The Department of
Da’fence stealing the
future of America,
& repackaging it as,
“Democracy for export!”
“Freedom from terror!”
“Free trade for the USA!”
“Protect our Oil!”
All wrapped in red, white
and blue.

Obligation

2009-04-11T07:36:00.001-07:00

My paintings may never
hang in a museum or seen
by more than friends.

My poems may never
be heard or read by more
than a roomful of people.

My songs may never be
heard by more than
a few.

My creative work that
I devote my life to -- may
not find an audience in
this life…

but as an artist my
obligation is to wake
up each day and create.

Koagulation of Love in a Minor Key of Redemption

2009-03-30T10:55:00.000-07:00

Koagulation of Love in a Minor Key of Redemption:
Will the K Fok of Corn Flakes be Announced:
A turd of Ku once to the 3rd and diminished in a minor 7 relative
to the instigation of love itself:
Or merely
dig
dug
to the transcendent Ku.

1. A Pagan’s Te Deum

The scene of the crime always littered with clues.

Some may even considered the brain scatting high wire flagellation of love in guise of a poem to be the paragon of permutations – a mind twisting – instigation of jAz po ology.

The jAz poem by the jAz Mu ologist Neorotica Namaya was displayed at the Gallery, the oohs and ahhhs of his verbal and textual prestidigitation was unprecedented, no creases, no folds or wrinkles, it was a smooth canvas sail of images tightly stretched by the nor easter of his ever fulminating fulminations. Gaseous some might say! Flatulent! Though Namaya, ever a transcendentalist, engaged in the trance and the dance of Ku, kwa, ki kooo bop and the other 56 and a half colors of the phonic lexicon of the keys of Love.

Clanging, changling, chingling, and the gate keepers in the guise of a tranny with a predeliction for leather opened the room.

I thought she was an angel, said the poet. Then she ravished me, lubed me with every ounce of lasciviousness, but not an iota of concern for my virile beauty, instead she squeezed ever errant Mu, Ku, Kwa, Ki, and vagrant diode of phonic assonance from my soul. I was flopping fish milked for my eggs – Or in this case for my pearls of Mu, Ku, Kwa, and Ki.

She had a little stove in the corner, changed into a cliché of a French maid, pumps, aprons and all – whipped up a soufflé of vowels and purring permutations of luscious lilac fragranced reveries.

I was bound by straps. Naked, on a bed of broken dreams, if I turned too far to the right or left, one shard dug into my side, a thorn, as he was pierced with the Roman’s spear, eyes to heaven, realizing the terror – no god, no past, no redemption,
and though glass can be recycled – our humanness demands ash to bone, earth, mingled in the refuse, broken, but in that moment… Belzubah dressed as the whore tossed the soufflé with the caress of a mother to a new born child.

The moment we are born we are torn from the womb of the dreaming ocean.

We are killing the dreaming ocean – Gaia mother – dreaming – love—and lying naked.

She knelt down and fed me a spoonful of water. Vegetable brain soup, indeed.

The concordance of love in the concupiscent intersection of time. E M I T alluring T I ME turned backwards is a beam to E M I IT to EMOTE - E Tome. Strange that an E
Tome is a tone poem.

Drunk with ku in an insidious state of nu, entre nu, a perfectly intimate state. On the stage alone with my words, that seem to have separated into their own reverie

The terror of love is a far more compelling argument

2. More Arguments with God

god and I were making passionate hip stirring, soul vibrating eXtatic love as the pink blue light rose across the Eastern sky. we were shacked up and nestled between two palm trees on the north shore of Kauai. The hammock was rocking and swaying in the morning wind.
Though she looked from all appearance as an island girl, beneath the foaming waves of concupiscence and love divine, in our wordless Ontological rocking, seeking the union of
Shiva and Shakti,
“Shimmy shake and co co bop, my love.

But she was wordless in the conventional sense; nevertheless, all my arguments with god, the audacity to question, was subsumed as the morning rose across the ocean.
We laid back in the hammock nestled into each others arms and watched the storms and clouds and burgeoning sun argue with each other

I need to kick in the gates of heaven. Instead found consonance in our love making by the ocean

Consonance.

3. Art and the invincibility of Love:

Art that soothes and comforts.
Oral Sex in a hammock, a Maraguerita in one hand, the languid dreams of July are rolling by in a cloud, a yellowing sumac leaf seems to stay aloft forever.
The slow climaxing of two virgins in heat rock the hammock. We roll down the grassy slope to the pond. In the high grass we made love with savage hopefulness, 69 as the transcendent value, if that is not the quintessential prime number, then we are not a culture engaged in revelation.
Fuk sake! The poet maybe finally on to something. Is that clock broken again? Twice a day – right again – more than Bush in 8 years savage bungling.
A culture not engaged in revelation, eXtasy and the journey to the dog god Sirrus disguised as God.
A culture that is not engaged in eXtacy is one that is engaged in its own annihilation.
In a solitary orgasm, clitoris erect, moist with expectation, salvation
Two lovers, long legs splayed akimbo to the sun, rolling and tussling while the sun and shadow played amongst the maple trees.

We keep waiting for God, hoping that she will step off of the cross town bus.

4. Brothers and sisters:

Crazy! Fuk no!

YOU ARE THE OUTLIERS. YOU ARE DREAMERS. YOU ARE THE EXTATIC POETS. YOU ARE HYPERACTICVE> UNABLE TO FIT INTO THE NORMATIVE WORLD>

They will give me disability for hearing voices.
But they won’t give me a monthly stipend as poet.
They will pay me to keep the voices medicated.

I will gladly take your money, pretend that my divine attunement, my attention to the language of angels and demons is a disability. It is not, I simply need to pay attention when I cross the road. Look right and left. And that is ALL perfectly wonderful. To wind up as a grease spot on the grill of a dodge truck is as ordinary as Gaudi was divine in his vision. He should have been more attentive.

God spoke. He listened. The carriage was conversing with the road.

5. eXtacy: The Journey Again

I am an eXtatic person living in a non eX Tatic world. A world, rightly or wrongly, more concerned about static cling and the statistical necessity of war.

X marks the spot, right there in the space of your deepest longing.

The Stasi were the East German secret police. Heavily starched briefs gives the needed support to the state power structure, but the STATE of POETICS killed by its own narcissism, addiction to prosody, verse, nicities--- well starched BVDs and poems in America have a growing commonality: Well creased and ironed. Augusto Pinochet poured into his uniform every day

I don’t flog the conformist, though they should be, I’m too busy -- enchanted and eXtatic. My pain is my separation from the dreaming ocean of reverie

Academic verse, is eXtacy in reverse, screaming fearful, obese, flatulent and waddling towards oblivion.

Quack said the clack with obsequious genuflection. Car insurance and personal assurance, has a greater ascendant value than the language of eXtacy and revelation

Imagine living without fear?

Imagine attuned to the whispering of the divine?
A stalk of green dreaming the earth, piercing the earth, thirsty for the sun and the imperative for air?

Watching a line of cars caught in a traffic jam for several miles on Monday morning, each person tuned in to a radio, cd, cellphone, planning the day, SUV with two hundred horse power ready to roar in the opposite direction of eXtatic revelation. So many beautiful men and women, children too, collared into the uniformity of social control and making that Do Re Mi.
Rake in the dough. Buy more shit. Deeper in debt. Rake in more dough. Watch ` the yeasty condition rise in the dough pan. More fat, more dough.

Fat people do not make revolutions. Michael Moore aside. Fat people can’t waddle eXtatically and storm the gates of heaven

I will always storm the gates of heavens

Keep the pernicious vices to a mild roar. The vices that bring you true eXstacy
liberal doses

Okay, so what if you’re not attuned to a cosmic frequency?

Take one minute to watch a flower growing in the garden?
Rip off your shirt and stand under a downpour.
Allow a piece of dark Belgian chocolate to melt on your tongue?
Walk naked through the garden of your imagination.
Howl with glee at the new dawning moon.
Or turn off every noise, beeping buzzing intrusion, and listen to the quietude.

Astonish your soul!

Jiggle. Wiggle. Piggle and Po
Tuuuu. Pooooo. Zozzzzz. Zeeezzz and Xhen.
In the Kingdom of Xanadu where King of Ku
ku blai khan was the hippest koolest cat
who was kogitating on K ching!

The euphonious rifting of
KC and the Sunshine band.

More love and hope, more redemption than window pane, blotter acid,
or Sunshine itself.
Oswald the Magic Hatter willing to kick open the doors of Paradise – well, at least
to allow a ray of light through the bathroom window.

6. War Against eXtacy

A tribe called Love

In the West the creeping pernicious insanity is the war against the exTatic celebration. Not just the giddy, shaking your booty, and dancing naked in your mad love for the divine; but the
e XortatioN
eXALTATION

to live your life with a profound intentionality.

Unblocked by fear of the X tatic what would you create in your life?
What would be the extraordinary instigation of madness that would suffuse and inspire the soul

p.s.
my soul is opening a window

Asses: Global Warming: Save The Rain Forest: Toilet Paper

2009-03-30T10:09:00.000-07:00

No other poet taking on such issues
as the maligned toilet paper tissues.

A shitty subject for poetic affairs
and urgent personal hygienic care.

The world is filled with many asses:
Fat, small, skinny… a lot of asses.

that demand soft white fluffy paper
and too, mountains of baby diapers.

Rivers polluted and forests cleared
to keep our asses squeaky cleaned

Bedouins used water and sand.
Ouch, is what I say to that plan

Toshiba has a high tech scrubber,
tushy clean rubba- a- dub dubber.

Or soap, water and rag is a way
to keep it tidy each & every day

Save the planet! Raise your voice!
Bend on over & make a choice!

Save the rain forest! Save your ass!
If truly organic, wipe it with grass.

Recycled toilet paper if you will
To give your bung- hole a thrill

Or follow the four fold tush rule
to be truly environmentally cool

Wipe, fold, wipe, fold & again.
Wipe fold, wipe, fold & again.

At last put your ass on the line
An indelicate issue not so refined

Save our water, planet, and trees.
Save your ass too if you please.

Obama and the Fear of the Small Penis?

2009-03-28T09:32:00.000-07:00

Lyndon Johnson didn’t want to

be seen as man with a small penis,

Vietnam was his lasting genius.

GW Bush padded his crotch and

strutted on top of an aircraft carrier

as if he were a top bulldog terrier.

Obama seemed to be a man of reason.

Two wars still going balls-to- the- wall.

Will he pull out before his fatal fall?

Tommy's Gun Ablazing

2009-03-15T12:53:00.000-07:00

Tommy’s Video Game

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a stalking for the

enemy deep inside us all.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a hunting for the

enemy on TV inside us all.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a killing for the

demon screaming inside us all.

Chorus

Tommy’s guns ablazing’

Tommy’s guns afiring’

Tommy’s fun beginning

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead.

Verse

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a stalking for the

enemy deep inside us all.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a hunting for the

enemy buried inside us all.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a killing for the

demon screaming inside us all.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a raging for the

tattered fears inside us all.

VERSE

Tommy with his submachine

gun went into the school

where the children cowered

Tommy with his submachine

gun went into the church

where the people prayed.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went into the post office

where the clerks worked.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went into their rooms

where they all quickly died.

Chorus

Tommy guns ablazing’

Tommy guns afiring’

Tommy’s fun beginning

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead.

Verse

Tommy never saw blue

lights flashing in the rain

never saw the gun at his head

I saw it all on TV a hundred

times every day, everyone was

happy when the bad were dead

I killed a thousand each day

on a video before noon and

today, only a dozen now dead.

I killed for you to let you know

I understood, the more who are

dead the better chance to win.

Chorus

Tommy’s guns ablazing’

Tommy’s guns afiring’

Tommy’s fun beginning

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead.

One Hope: Our Humanity

2008-12-30T07:42:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-28T08:59:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-22T14:17:00.000-08:00

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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

2008-12-13T07:42:00.000-08:00

winter returns

a hushed lullaby
of sadness

draping the land
in memories

Sheila Jordan: Jazz Child: First Lady of Jazz

2008-11-22T10:30:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-11T18:00:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-08T08:26:00.000-08:00

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

2008-09-24T18:59:00.000-07:00

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:

2008-07-24T12:10:00.000-07:00

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.

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

One, six, and nine with a fleeting scat

and rip tap thrill to the third.

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

the round resonant

kuuu esscence of Kool

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. 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

2008-05-24T14:51:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-07T19:40:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-27T18:19:00.000-07:00

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

the edge of life

feel my soul

just

slipping away.

Dancing

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

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?

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

2008-02-01T09:30:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-03T21:43:00.000-08:00

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

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

Li Pon Noisy Monk Again

2008-01-03T08:48:00.000-08:00

Li Pon Noisy Monk Again

“When you write, you have to be careful about turning to the left.”

Li Pon leaped on my bed

made himself quite comfortable,

and played a pan pipe.

“Foolish poet!

Solstice day, time to play!”

I was in a surly mood and

wanted to spend the day writing.

“Get away from me monk! I’m

writing – I can’t be bothered

by your foolish chatter.”

“Indeed! You’re writing, careful

what’s on the left!” he laughed

so hard he fell off the bed.

“I have something far better

than your silly scribbling.”

“Leave me alone monk! No one trifles

with a poet in the midst

of making love with a muse! Not even Li Pon.”

I slammed the door behind him.

“Damn noisy monk!”

I heard more giggling

in the background.

Now back to the story I was writing:

I followed the journey which began

with a dream, I was in Marrakech

in Djemaa Al Fna and

knew this by the astringent smell

of leather dyes, cumin, coriander, spices

from the markets mixed with donkey shit…

I took the hidden entrance that faces south to the mosque, there are no names to the streets, they’re referred to as the House of Saiid Al Hadid or some other person who lived there in centuries past or even now – if you wanted to find someone’s house—Mohammed the baker whose brother is the tinsmith—otherwise you had no business

going down that street. It was not a street for tourists, they were consumed by the yawning mouth of the souvenir, carpet and tchchka shops. Flutes and the oued rose upwards from the inner sanctum of the Medina and I followed the thread of the music, the winding coil that lead to the center of a chambered nautilus. Down an alley so tiny, a man could easily touch each house and a fully loaded donkey could scratch the walls with its load. Centuries peeled back. I followed the music like a snake enchanted by a flute playing faquir. A woman in a face veil from Essouria appeared with a child in tow, a soccer ball rolled down the street and I kicked it back, smells of fresh cumin, coriander and fried onions filled my senses, and I came to a small square that opened to the ruddy snow covered Atlas mountains. I was lost. To the right was a café and a noisy crowd, and one loud squeaky voice singing a Mandarin Chinese love song in reggae rap, approximately translated as: “Me love ya/ Me Love ya/ because your/ backside so wide/ me love/ me love/ po po love/ po po love.”

There could be only one source of such absurdity. In the middle of the tavern, a bubbling fountain of giggles surrounded by a Moroccan ska band, as Li Pon looked up at me and winked.

“Did I imagine you again?” he said to me. “When you write you have to be careful about turning to the left.”

Holy Shores

2007-10-25T05:19:00.000-07:00

Holy Shores

Ocean waves

crack

thunderously holy

on the breakers

revelation from

Saint Ignatius

patron saint of bruises

and fine wine.

Port Said on the Red Sea

where the 4 prophets waded

ashore.

Jesus ascribed as Inka

Mohammed, in drag as the

anti-Christ looking raggedy

wild-eyed as Charlie Manson

said, “Dinka!” Rolled

a joint and passed it on.

“Allah Akhbar indeed.” said

the J man while blowing smoke

rings through a cliché.

Lord Krishna claimed Dinka

cavorted lustily with his

maidens in the 998 1/2 positions of

the Kama Sutra. The ½ pike

for the one legged boy, fish piked and

polled, Plato swam with the

naked boys and proclaimed Agape

above Logos.

Soap on a rope invented by Athenians.

Buddha worked as a short order

chef in a Reno brothel

was only to glad to accommodate

transcendence,

“One with everything?”

(Please, please, this is a serious tale

and no time for your verbal buggery.)

“Stand tall!” called the captain, “Seal the

bung holes! All these assholes will

be tight as a frog’s bung – water tight.”

Have you ever seen a water logged frog

floating inconsequently away,

leaf like swaying down stream?

“Row! Row! To the farther shore.”

said the Israelite Jacob. “Inconsequentially sailing to

redemption as the sea of reeds parts—Her legs spread wide

in the August sun!” said Ishmael to Isaac. Each sailor bent down to the shrine and kissed

the delta Venus as tenderly as they would the Madonna’s cheek.

What say the thunder to revelation?

“Higgly higgly higgly pog.” said the Po ‘bo to the ho. “Weed the garden!”

“Hoe to the ‘hoe. Land ho! Called the lst Mate. While the boatswain’s

mate swung high in his love nest by the moon, passionately engaged with

the cabin boy, rocking joyfully. ”

Voluptuous moon ripe as a virgin’s clitoris,

shadows cavort on the forecastle, while they sailed down from Aqaba to Hodeidah. Moon light’s dance on the phosphorescent waters burst diamond thrilling effervescent across the water, we made love in the languid tide, mercury silver alluring with each parting of the wave.

Captain jealous, impotent as spilled gin, could only hold the boy in his

imagination

“Ibbidy bibbidy bop.” said the prophet Fred

“Fiddly, fiddly fidly pop.” said the

poo bear to the pope.

Walking backwards, looking for the thread of the argument,

the integument that binds the story, weaves shadows and light,

a butterfly turns in the widening gyre, a pearl spun from the gossamer

threads of simple desire.

Seagulls

shriek, a feast

for the sightless. Alms given at St Paul’s and the orphan

pigeons from Trafalgar Square perch like vultures on Black Friar bridge waiting for

the next victim of scandal. What bonny blue eyes shall be tasted?

Desires are the room for the holiest of desires.

Inka

Dinka

Do.

2007-10-25T05:09:00.001-07:00

Farewell

Spring roars to life

in a bounding leap

to summer play.

Moonlight skinny

dipping in June as

stars anoint our loving.

August languid heat

and pools of sweat

dissolve in our cold pond.

When green seems to

hold permanent sway,

one fire red leaf appears.

Geese circle the pond,

blue jays disappear, and

Blue Heron debuts again.

Leaves in their dried

rustling bones reverie

whisper farewell.

All too soon, our

dreams to cherish