I was thinking because I stayed way late into the nite reading a new book
recently purchased titled " You Are still Being Lied To" a compilation of essays
by those on the fringe of political dissension, Zinn, Chomsky and a host others,
especially struck about an essay on the textbook industry and how it is
regulated and controlled by political and corporate interests, its not leftist
ranting, strangely because they warn about the interests of the left and right
and the stake they have in our disengagement of life. it creates a picture of
another world behind the curtains inaccessible to anyone outside that "elite"
level, the upper echelons of society. About how the world is broken because it
is run by those least fit to operate it. Zinn spoke of this in a documentary I'd
seen several months ago. He asked a simple question, "What wrong with the world
and why does it remain so?" I probably misquoted but it's close.
> The most unusual addition in the book was a piece by R. Crumb of interview
excerpts by one of my favorite writers, Philip K. Dick. There is still a lot of
controversy over his death in 1982(?) and the fact that he believed he had been
targeted by the agents of the government, only to realize that the Nixon era of
dirty tricks extended beyond political threats. anyway that was not what got my
attention.
> it was the psychic/spiritual experiences he recounted in interviews. here is
an established respected writer who's work has shape the cultural geography
speaking quite openly about the "religious" experiences he'd encountered.
> was it the ravings of a lunatic? Dick was never discredited and until this day
he died his reputation remained unblemished.
> The piece got me to reminiscing about strange occurrences in my life. In these
occurrences I often felt compelled to speak to someone about them and I assumed,
mistakenly, the obvious person to discuss things of this matter would be an
individual with a strong religious background or opinion.
> i am not a lunatic nor am I a simpleton. i am not looking for epiphanic
experiences or have any apocalyptic fascinations.
> the end comes soon enough for all.
> but that's still not what I was writing about. It was more curiosity. The
story of how we reconnected is a fascinating one. don't you think?And it
might not have been so extraordinary for most if one was willing to invest a
little cash to one of those "snoop sites" and intrude on one's privacy. but I
didn't and would never have dared the intrusion. But that oppressive longing would
have sat in my viscera until I had taken my last breathe, and that would have
been my terrible deathbed regret.
> so what am i writing?
> I have questions about so many things and it seems significant
> not a charming or quaint chance of happenstance. old friends encountering one
another at a high school reunion.
> it seems more. and truthfully I don't know what that means.
> but i have questions,like, why is my lawn dying?
> and why did you give me a book about angels long ago? i don't believe in them
in the classical sense, but i did possess a photograph of two that came with a
story and some physical proof. but no one believed me. what's so strange is that
i can still see both their faces, youthful, beautiful women smiling into the
camera as if saying to me, don't worry, help is on the way!
***
The bird is a word…or “how’s your job, small talk, language and such.”
language
is inadequate. It gets in the way. It confounds, misdirects and is worse than
getting directions from a Somali gas station attendant. words are short blunt
instruments, and as aesthetically pleasing as a dwarf in a cheap suit. No one
ever says what they mean, and their meaning is never what they say. Language,
written or spoken, sole purpose is miscommunication. Think of a contract. A
contract is a language-driven device, its primary purpose, in theory,
using word or speech, is meant to lend absolute clarity to an issue. However,
its structure, density, is such like dropping it into a pool of impenetrable
viscosity, it renders meaning meaningless.
Now
let’s just talk about two words…”constant and boundary”.
First
let’s look at “constant”. We can see it as something fixed, like a star, in
space. Absolute, unchanging. It denotes an air of allegiance, affirmation. When
one is constant there is a sense of dogged determination. To be loyal one must
be constant. The frightened, are easily shaken and can NEVER be constant! They
are too willing to sell out at the first signs of trouble. Constancy is the
foundational element of integrity. To admonish those that possess that quality
is to champion cowardice and mediocrity. To be constant one must continually
strive to maintain a certain level of quality. Quality is not achieved through
stasis. It must be allowed to grow, evolve and branch. This kind of integrity
beckons immortality, it assures that the name of the individual goes one in the
minds of all that are touched. To squash that process is murder.
A
boundary is an” imaginary” demarcation line. It is a restraint contrived by one
party to limit the movement or access of another. A boundary is the best friend
of a fascist. The misconception that a boundary is a measure to insure
stability and offer protection is laughable. Look at the daily newspaper, think
of 9/11, do you feel safe? Boundaries mean different things to different people. Speaking as a Mexican-American, a boundary is a source of contention.
It is an instrument that is meant to humiliate and control. My family ignored
such boundaries and created a new world for themselves. However they spent
their entire lives threatened by the imagination of others. The stories
my family tells of growing up in Arizona are ones of boundaries. Boundaries of
what schools to go to. Boundaries of what jobs to choose. Boundaries of what
side of the church to sit. Boundaries of what side of town to live. These
boundaries, though tempered by time, are very real to many. Accepting
boundaries, or being told to accept boundaries is the first step of
acquiescence toward assimilation and the forgetting oneself.
A
boundary is an affair determined by a party, a contract, and as we have already
determined one side is usually out of the loop. Now it is not necessary here to
state this, but a boundary is a type of relationship that asserts dominance
over others. It confines and makes marginal any hope of growth for the targeted party.
In typical western fashion, the old adage;
“ The grass is always greener on the other
side of the fence.”, would be rendered unintelligible if there were no fence.
That way it would be my grass and your grass and we’d both grow fat and give
good milk.
Don’t
get me wrong… I believe certain boundaries/restraints like seat belts,
guardrails and never try to bed another man’s wife are good and necessary. But
the boundaries of the spirit and heart assure only boredom, bad thinking and
sour tasting milk.
It
is crucial that what we say is measured with the ear of a philosopher and the
soul of an artist.
***
Majestic
Regrets
Reading
the rings
a
map of ages
1…2…3…4…
156
years old.
This
old boy lay toppled
and
dissected,
upset
and appendages
akimbo.
Eye
level to the daisy,
his
lofty aspirations
a
memory revealed.
Naked
before my finger’s dances
as
it traces
once
concealed
mysteries
of desires
travails
and
missteps…
My
dog sees an opportunity to deposit a message.
…It
is either the creak of the wind
whipped
up through deep ravines,
or a
primordial wail, low
and guttural.
A
mournful cambrium lament
from
deep within, through amber tears,
“Had I only been a man,
than
a tree.”
***
Seven
gross misconceptions
1) That others are here as minor
characters in my play.
2) Everyone occupies equal
space. Therefore everyone is equal.
3) That if I can control those
around me. I should be able to control the weather.
4) Vegetarians are better than
everyone else.
5) Vegetarians are smarter than
everyone else.
6) 1 part Buddhism and 1part Christianity is a
recipe for spiritual epiphany.
7) Steering with my knees is a
good idea.
***
Youthful
arrogance
I
had inquired politely
As
to the
Wisdom
Of
her decision
To
drive down freeways with her knees
Her
thunderous gaze produces
Cumulus
Response
Spits
electric hiss
Crackling
against my eardrums
A
ribbon of endless highways
A
prison
Of
forced
Euphoric
dramatics
This
coagulating road trip
I
wonder against backdrops
Of
endless
Expanse
I
think of her feet
And
how they might feel in my shoes
***
hands
frozen
the
air crisp
burns
the forehead
late
march snows
lay
concealed beneath
new
spring growth
vital
and fecund
seeds
pierce
Frosty
soil
nestled
and nurtured
between
thick red canyon walls
all
nature braces for the indifference of cold
and
the black that is illuminated only
by
the sparkling luminary of
heaven’s
tarp
my
meager covering
a
tattered rag
once
an old friend’s
deathbed
is my only shield from the looming
chill
beyond
my bundle
sniffles
and whimpers
as
sweet as sage
issue
in the muted crystalline air
it
is the artic reality
that
strips bare notions of
romantic
warmth
my
own fire burns within
my
blankets privately tended
I
might somehow blow life into this dying ember
With
some measure of connivance
My
lips issue warm breath
Hope
comfort and a shared blanket
In
hopes of stirring turbulence
I
open my pillow to shared occupancy and the
Mingling
of chilly exhalations
***
fixation’s
frozen
gaze
in
rattlesnake shade
coiled
and rigid
venom’s
contrition
arouse
frigid
sanquine essence
***
Discussions in opposition
On
the dark side of the moon
Against
the sunlight
Pressed
against a thigh
The
mind diverts
Loss
buried
the
tongue tastes decay
***Ensconced
the
lies
hopes
misplaced
Stench
Ubiquitous
eye
…….silence……..
the
spine shutters
anemic
retch
woolen
warmth
***It is the light of the moon
The
air grows cool
Around
my feet
As
Wet dew splashes
from
startled leaves Deep
This
is where I place your head and shoulders
cupped
In
the security of my gaze
Flexed
need
under
pressure
You
will struggle against my grasp
From
a time not yet inhaled
Pale
thighs reflect midnight’s Blush
tender
As
Sun baked hand’s imprint
Silhouette progress
up
wet dew
Splashes
deep
upon
startled rosey leaves
Under
the scrutiny of the moon
***
JULY MOON
through
the open
car
window
the
cooled summer night
tunnels
and tumbles
rustling
while agitating
otherwise
peaceful
bills
procrastinating
with
afternoon advertisements
who
from the moonlight scurry
to
dark resting places
they
all seem to hurry
the
fluttering hairs on my protruding arm
are
coral fingers grasping
the
nutrition passing
of
dust and exhaust…
…
and above
suspended
against
a backdrop of indigo
a
moon’s boyish face
looks
out upon the landscape
with
such an expression
of
adolescent astonishment
slack
jawed impotence
hangs
precariously beneath
pug-nose
nostrils as
moon
pie eyes drip
frosted
tears
and
whines a reassurance
from
an expanse
of
uncertainty
his
pudgy proclamation
exclaims,
“Help
is on the way!”
my
sensitive dog with windswept eyes
looks upon this silver disk
suspended
from its syrupy beyond
and
responds with a wag
“That’s
right girl.” I say, “ Help is on the way.”
***
These words are dedicated
to those
whom a buck never made
from anything they create,
who pursue the dream.
To all the beautiful failures
who stand at the precipice of
incomprehensibility,
the fringe of common sense,
who are a second's hand
out of time.
I assure you
every dog
has his day.
***
when the lights go out,
and they say,
"see you in the morning"
know,
that the night
holds no guarantees.
***
The shame of the Postman
forced to carry
the masculinity of
another
to his lover
The shame.
His honor erect
gorged with postage
and politely
inserts it
into her box.
***
I am against pomposity
and the King of it.
***
A Pit Viper
may be
deadly on
7 continents
but a drunk
with a golf club
can also be a
formidable
opponent
***
Through the haze of pot and whiskey,
I heard the plea,
like Peter in the Garden
of Gethsemane.
3 times before the cock calls,
"I'll pose for you...I'll pose for you...I'll pose for you."
Over the din of MTV and the tortured
rails of a man
as vast as
the Black Continent,
I smiled to the melodies
that float to me,
with the sweetness of orchids.
***
To my wife
I write no poems
of moons and feathers
plump geese and
sleeping lambs
secrets on
a sun-lighted chair
we sit and stare at 2 sets
of twiddling toes
we make quiet promises
just beyond our soles
I savor sweet wonder
as the sparrow perched on a fencepost
issuing desperate greetings
to the early day
the caterpillar
inching along
on a dewy stock
slowly devouring
his luck
***
he sits on the sofa
in the soft of the
afternoon
touching easily his forehead
his eyes concentrate
on a point far off
quietly
for pure innocence
there is none
better
silence
he sits with the stillness
of shadows
his silence is a quality
none better
to nicholis
***
theologians struggle with the
questions of salvation
as does the drunk
street-struggling
Everyone is looking
for justice and the pearly gates
***
old trickster bullfrog
got me out of
warm midnight burrow
with your
incessant croaking
ankle deep
shivering
at your doorstep pond
your moonlit noise
concealed among the damp lily-pads
beneath murky chocolate depths
we spend the night
your cryptic songs vibrated sweetly
we spend the night
married
your pickled back
turns and
swims away
***
The creations that fandangle atop
my cranium
are as unruly and
surly as gangsters
like pitbulls on the prowl
they defy the lawfulness of my comb
contorting and distorting
these features so gentle
kind and warm
into back expressions of twisted folds
and mad passions
they spit at the hapless blade
Medusa's crown of scaly lambs
pale to the visage of these demonic
mounts
crackling with electric hiss
a riot of silver lightening
that grab with greedy fingers
the roots ensnare the hidden wealth
of alloyed arteries
their ruin is not limited
to the constriction of my brain
they have spread their foul
philosophy
to regions once
sane
and bend with
such
insidiousness
as folded hands
wring and shield my modest
shame
***
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