Cyclone Scene 1

Inbetween the heavy winds during the cyclone on 1-22-11. Imagine this forlorn creature singing the Rolling Stones song "Gimme Shelter", then take a look at the video on the right.

 

POEM PARKING LOT

 

MOONLIGHT

 

Moonlight softens a multitude of sins.

Glows delicately, soft, not blazing, just

Reflecting. Shines a gentler light on things.

Reminds us that we’re not really as hard

As we pretend. Let the fragile side of

Yourself out of its shell, enjoy the night

Sky’s splendor. Make time for someone

Special to you. Moonlight reminds us

How precious calm can be, that we

Needn’t spend each moment in a flurry.

How we’re meant to do more than just

Fight our way through existence, either

Conquering or breaking free. Sometimes

It’s clear how all this conflict is just so

Much invention, mostly needless. Leave

All of that alone for now. Let moonlight

Remind you how in the midst of all we

Resist there’s still a natural wonder it’s

No sin to give in to.

 

HOT PLATE

 

That which can’t be spoken of in honorable

Terms. That which has been declared off-

Limits, old business, trashed, abused,

Treated like something of no value. No use.

Responsibility dropped like a hot plate that

Ought to shatter but doesn’t. Hear it clang

Like an unwanted gong ringing awareness

You haven’t forgotten and never will. Try

Harder? Smash it to pieces like you wish

You could smash the pain into dust for the

Next wind? Passionate as it might appear,

Destroying plates as some kind of display

Seems so undignified. Unnecessary to

Victimize the kitchenware. Angrily, sadly,

This kitchen reeks of indignity already, and

It’s not the dishes’ fault. Silly old fashioned

Me, I thought we were supposed to value

That which doesn’t break.

 

SEEDS

 

A burger would look barmy claiming to

Be a cow. Potatoes grow in the ground,

Not potato chips. Oranges grow in

Florida, but orange juice comes from

A factory. Metal comes from the earth,

But your car, mostly metal, didn’t just

Drive up from some garage under the

Surface. That laptop facilitating your

Interaction with the world is mostly

Plastic, which comes these days from

Corn, but nobody credits the corn for

Social networking. The whole point is

No matter who or what we come from,

Life changes us into something separate,

Distinct, different, new called ourselves.

When this happens with natural things,

We say it’s so great, but when it happens

With people, for some it’s a sign of the

End times. Maybe not all transformation

Is good, but can you think of anything

Worse than none at all? So we needn’t

See ourselves as betrayers if we stray

From our roots – that’s what seeds do.

It’s moving forward, not ending. Worry

Not, beloved sisters and brothers, time

Won’t end till you’ve paid off your debts,

Which we all know will never happen.

 

UGLY

 

You say my poems sound like they’re

Afraid to go somewhere ugly? As if

Ugliness, that decreasingly vague

Sense of threat, needs any more

Expression – just turn on the news.

Watch people struggling, starving,

Stealing, raping, destroying, killing

For no good reason, but our steady

Diet of violence has made us numb

To others suffering. Ugly enough?

Certain social entities want you

Convinced the world’s a dangerous

And ugly place, because conveniently

They have a solution to sell you,

Provided you sign up for their program.

Fear and ugliness do good business,

So they’d prefer you forget there’s

A way that’s free. You don’t need a

Program to appreciate beauty.That’s

All someone like me tries to remind

People of. Ugliness is the wolf at

My door, and my means or resistance

Is to reach all I can for harmony before

I’m consumed too by some ugly hunger.

In the midst of so much ugliness,

Embracing what’s beautiful is almost

An act of subversion. I want to subvert,

With a passion.

 

INVENT

 

When you invent me in your mind as

Someone you can’t trust, can’t open

Up to, can’t reach out to, can’t relate

To, can’t use period, it’s too bad you’re

Not writing for Hollywood. When you

Assume a whole ideology, value system,

Attitude, belief, sensibility and you

Attribute it to me without even asking,

That’s an astounding leap of faith and

Confidence in your own convictions

I wish you’d save for your religion.

Good thing you’re not as convinced

You can walk on water or part the

Red Sea as you are that you have me

All figured out.

 

REASONS

 

Some reasons are like weeds, you think

You’re rid of them but the just spring

Back up. The longer you leave them the

More they take over. Dealing with them

Is the price you pay for having a garden.

I guess you’d classify this type of reason

As doubts. Other reasons are like trees,

Standing tall no matter what nasty acts

Of nature take place. With age, they

Attain a certain height, and can shelter

Other living things. I guess you’d refer

To this type of reason as faith. Stranger

Reasons are like cactus, living where

Most life would die, protecting what’s

Precious under sharp thorns but unable

To reach out or be reached without

Hurting. If you want to reach them, it’s

Going to hurt. I can’t decide whether

To call these reasons cynicism, damages,

Or life insurance. Maybe all three.

 

SO PURE

 

I really should resolve to market

Myself more effectively. Problem is,

I’ve got this deep seated conviction

That it’s classier to just give things

Away. This sort of begs the question

As to whether anyone genuinely

Values that which they’re just given.

So tell me, would you take my poetry

More seriously if you had to pay for it?

Think carefully – my future creativity

Could be riding on your answer. And

Truthfully, the only reason I need

Money is to stop worrying about it.

So how is it I’m not prospering

When my intentions are so pure?

 

TRADE SECRET

 

Do you wonder where all these

Poems come from? Well, it’s

Simple. I have a Good Angel on

One shoulder and a Bad Angel

On the other, both vying for

My attention, to be the one

Taken seriously, establish

Credibility, each whispering

Profound, provocative, pure,

Soily, sacred, profane, mystical,

Physical, sexual, intellectual,

Spiritual, selfless, selfish, true,

False, angry, forgiving, gentle,

Devoted, demented, violent,

Me me me and you you you

Influences on my outlook from

Moment to moment. Poems

Are what’s left over when the

Crossfire momentarily ceases.

 

HOMES

 

I feel at home in more than one place.

There’s the home where I was born, the

Home where I live, and the homes I’ve

Discovered and return to when I can.

No ambivalence about my citizenship,

But I’ve left a little bit of myself and

Taken with me something from all the

Different places I’ve called home, even

If only for a few days. They’re all part of

Me now, regardless of where my feet

Kick back at any moment, just like you

Don’t have to be right beside someone

To love them deeply, even if you wish

You could be. That’s why, contrary to

Appearances, I don’t think of this at all

As an exile.

 

DRAMATIC BAGGAGE

 

Maybe I was left in front of the TV

At too early an age. I didn’t just

Watch the shows, I felt them too.

(What else is a good show supposed

To make you do?) That’s my earliest

Impression of human conflict and

Resolution. Now I wonder whether

Unconsciously I still expect everything

To be too black and white like our old

TV, too cut and dried. In theory I’m

Aware of complexity, but emotionally

It’s a different story – if my feelings

You’re engaged, you’re either a hero

Or a villain. Villains must be punished

Or defeated for heroes to come out

Shining before the last commercial. I

Know that’s distorted, but we don’t

Just think about people, we feel them

Too. So if you’re going to get dramatic,

Know that all it does is warm the tubes

Of my old TV feelings that never leave,

Just leave more dramatic baggage than

I know how to handle. As a child, to me

Everyone on TV seemed so much more

Alive, but involvement with them was

Just something you could always turn

Off anytime you liked.

 

TRAVELING

 

Traveling is my freedom and my prison,

My choice as well as my inescapable

Fate. Like a shark starts to fade if it

Doesn't circulate, I need to move. In

The shadows between one location

And the next, there's somewhere all

Is still, my only moments of peace.

It's not just arriving, not just leaving,

But the movement between that keeps

The weeds and vines from encircling,

Enclosing. Can you ever really be

Close to someone who won't stay

Put? Yes. Be a partner, not an

Anchor.

 

WHAT A DOG

 

Dog with a bone can’t let go. For all

He knows, it’s dog nirvana. Canine

Heaven made flesh (or in this case

Bone). Never seen him so fully

Committed, or willing to lay down

His life to protect what’s so precious

To him. Never seen him so happy,

Wagging his tail at its sight, gamboling

Like he thinks he’s a lamb, savoring its

Taste, aroused by its scent, licking

Tongue expressing the depths of his

Affection, barking baritone love songs

Of faith and devotion. Playing with it

Like each moment they have together

Is golden. Makes you wonder how they

Ever did without one another. They’re

Partners till he’s gnawed the last of

The marrow from its insides. When

It loses its special appeal, dog thinks

Nothing of moving on to the next one.

What a dog.

 

DREAMS

 

In their isolation, inhabitants of tiny

Islands, known to and knowing only

Themselves, weave mythologies that

Map their location as the center of

The universe, of creation, of time.

Dwarves who don’t know better

Think they’re giants. Same with

Dreams – won’t acknowledge limits

If they don’t have to, sometimes

Growing big enough to think they

Can depose reality. Poor dreamer,

Then, what mutiny must brew in

Your soul. For we know how reality

Has taken many a battering, but

Always is the one left standing

Because dreams seldom outlive

The dreamers. Through rebellion

Is more romantic, at least in teen

Novels, dreams might do better to

Treat reality more politely, to make

Their pleas free of expectation reality

Will listen, just with a humble hope

Reality might point the way to truth

Just as real as it was in your dream.

 

GUESS

 

No more guesses. Nothing brings on

A flood of bad emotions like feeling

With all your being that you’re right

Then realizing you’ve simply guessed

Wrong. Maybe the more something

Means to you personally the less

Clearly you can really see it. There’s

A time to be objective, and a time to

Follow your heart and dive right in.

Too bad sometimes we can only

Guess which is which. I feel like I

Dove into a pool that turned out to

Be empty. The water was imaginary,

Unlike the concrete. So please, don’t

Expect me to guess. If you want me

To believe you, first believe in what

You want to convey enough to say it

Face to face.

 

BEATNIK MOSQUITOES

 

Poems are like mosquitoes drunk on the

Blood of a nicotine addict such as moi,

Haphazardly careening in circular flight,

Their mission - inner space exploration,

Little bitty buzzings sounding like jazz

Saxophones soundtracking beatnik

Free verse, these insect Allen Ginsburgs,

Improvising wildly like a Dixieland band.

Jazz poetry from beatnik mosquitoes

Drunk on my blood - how beautiful!

 

SLAP

 

Poems are like mosquitoes, flying

Around sucking on people’s feelings,

Spreading disease, making you

Itch, disrupting your sleep,

Inspiring a good slap or two.

 

WHEN WE WERE NORMAL

 

Inter-generational conflict rendered

Me less than at my best for a long time.

I resigned myself to the reality that my

Elders were clueless and my peers were

Crazy. By necessity, I kept a foot in both

Camps, but my head and heart were

Somewhere else. It’s all cooled off by

Now, but the cynicism I got from the

Bad years has stayed with me like an

Unwanted tattoo. Worse is the feeling

That while now-meaningless battles

Consumed our thoughts, something

Slipped by us. We still see the world

Like we did when we were normal,

But that was a long, long time ago.

 

POOR OLD ROBOT

 

Poor old robot from a second hand

Robot store. Can’t find your parts

Anymore, can’t find your owner.

Poor old robot, feeling outmoded,

Knowing your warranty expired

Yesterday but refusing to just sit

Around and decay. Poor old robot,

All your friends in the junkyard,

Sadly mute, reminding you of a

More animated past. Poor old

Robot, wanting to be helpful but

Only speaking Chinese, confusing

The elderly and frightening the

Young. Poor old robot, short-circuiting

Your own speakers issuing distorted

Robot moans about how nobody

Appreciates you, sounding more

Annoying than rap (in Chinese)

Through a broken boom box. Poor

Old robot, voice of every invention

First coveted greedily then tossed

Aside casually as soon as there’s a

Newer version. Poor old robot,

Wishing you could take your metallic

Hands and throttle whoever saddled

You with this limited lifespan. Poor

Old robot, I want to shoot you just

To shut you up, but you look at me

With those tortured robot eyes and

It scares me how easily I can relate.

 

DUSK

 

Dusk, and the day’s content to let

Its light relax and fade. There’s

Still work to be done, but for now

That’s enough. Now day and night,

Opposites but still ideal partners,

Do their changing of the guard at

Dusk. Then the light disappears,

No one knows where to and no

One asks. After all it does for us,

It’s entitled to its privacy. There’s

A time to shine as bright as you can,

And a time to do nothing more than

Enjoy being alive. In the long run,

It’s the steadiness that counts,

Finding a comfortable rhythm that

Won’t grind you down. Day and

Night split their time equally. We

Should learn from that balance.

 

DEVIL’S TOOLS

 

During the bad years I was judged

Constantly, even for things I’d never

Actually done. No one can justify

Another’s pretensions, no matter

How well-intended, but there was

Still some expectation the prodigal

Son might turn out to be a golden

Boy after all. When that didn’t

Happen, they imagined the worst.

Someone’s anger stings no less

Just because you know it’s based

On a mistake – the real sting is

What they’d believe about you.

Wrong ideas, in the minds of

People firmly convinced they

Can’t be anything but right, are

The devil’s tools for dismantling

Families.

 

AUSTIN

 

Take me with you back to Austin – I’m not

Understood here, much less appreciated.

Here, I have to sing in a language I can’t

Speak. In Austin, I can sing in English, and

I’ll learn as much Spanish as I have to. In

That kind of milieu, they'd more likely take

Me to heart. Here, I get shot down just

For showing I care, and if anyone cares

For me, they’ll be damned before they’d

Admit it. Austin might find me more

Socially acceptable, value my cultural

Contribution more highly than my home

Town Lilliputians. Plus I’ll make you money –

Be my manager. Austin’s feminist enough

For a woman Colonel Parker. I can be like

Your Mexican, except I’m a citizen. So it

Makes perfect sense economically, socially,

Emotionally and culturally that you take

Me with you back to Austin, home of the

Armadillo. I really can do better, but not

Here, where every time I open my mouth

I remind everyone they didn’t invent music.

 

INOTE: You know who Colonel Parker is, right? In case you're clueless, Colonel Parker was Elvis' manager. See, reading my poems is very educational.)

 

CALI PHONE YA

 

I will miss you, sprawling industrial district.

You too, cold winds at night. You too,

Mall after mall, all the same stores. You

Too, people everywere on cells, lost in

One way conversations for all appearances.

You too, healthy, skinny, multi-ethnic

Residients reminding me to diet. You too,

Radio where they play what they like,

Acoustic western swing for cruising. You

Too, old people acting young. You too,

Redemption tickets at Indian gambling

Palaces, payback for white wrongs. You

Too, taquerias on wheels, food names I

can't pronounce. You too, tall eucalyptus

Straddling the highway. California, land of

Great distances. Spent half my time here

Driving. Almost always worth it. A week

Here is like a month at home. Gotta say

Bye before I flame out, die of fun.

 

IN FRONT OF STORES

 

In old Samoa they would sit around

The fire at night. Now boys sit in front

Of stores from twilight till closing time.

One of the side effects of society based

On industry and wages is boys with

Nowhere better to go than bus stops

Or store parking lots. They have homes

They can’t go to, parents they can’t be

Around. What kind of adults will they

Become, growing up feeling like home

And family have to be avoided? For the

Sake of our future, every adolescent

Should be asked to think about the

Questions: what should a family be,

And how does it turn into something

You want to run from?

 

STICKS AND LEAVES

 

Once upon a time the two had a

Mansion. One they didn’t have to

Earn, but came to them naturally.

Then, for reasons that vary

Depending on who’s explaining,

Their mansion lay in ruins. What

Are their options? They could say,

It doesn’t matter, we’ll make a

Shelter of sticks and leaves, and it

Will do as long as we’re together,

Or they could turn their attention

Separately to other mansions that

Just happen to have an empty room

And role they could easily fill. Sounds

Cold, I know, but you’d be surprised

How many would go for it given the

Circumstances. One day you may

Have to choose between insisting

On the mansion class at any cost,

Or accepting when you have

Nothing but sticks and leaves left

With someone, and saying it’s a

Start, not the end.

 

WALL

 

Quite a big wall to keep out

Just one person, don’t you

Think? Oh right, the wall’s

Not for me, not a message.

It’s for vampires, werewolves,

Traveling salesmen, Santa,

Elves, reindeer, postmen

With colds and girls scouts

Trying to push their cookies

On you. What’s sad about

Walls is what can’t get out,

Not just what can’t get in.

What if a rainbow ends on

The other side, with a pot

Of gold that’s yours for the

Taking, but you can’t get

Over your own wall?

 

ROADRUNNER

 

Too fast to be caught, never held

Back, I wanted to be Roadrunner.

A life of highways to explore at full

Speed. Grant me the freedom to

Travel and I’m happy. Take it all in,

And take off running before you’re

Tied to anything or anyone. Beep,

Beep, moving on. I wanted to be

Roadrunner – life in the fast lane.

Amazing it lasted as long as it did.

Sad I’d finally find someone I’d

Love to run with right when fate

Has forced me to hit the brakes.

It’s clear each time you beep beep

By like you don’t even know me –

I wanted to be Roadrunner, but

Ended up Coyote.

 

DEATH SENTENCE

 

I think I know what’s going to

Kill me – stupidity. Involuntary

Meditative state 24/7 where

The mantra is, “That was stupid.”

Stupidity is relative, therefore

Relatives are stupid.

 

OBJECTS

 

Objects have a history. Objects

Could tell stories, given where

They’ve been and what they’ve

Seen, but instead they must sit

Mute and just watch. Objects

Are a paradox – they’ve never

Had what we’d describe as life

And yet they’ll still be here long

After us, and in fact they’ll be

Here forever until someone

Destroys them. To remember us,

Those still here will preserve our

Objects. But that’s nothing like

The kind of interaction it would

Be with us in person, is it? So

Better interact now, and not be

Shy about it either. It’s sort of

The movements of our akimbo

Limbs, and sort of the yappings

Of our colorful tongues, and

Sort of many other things, but

Mostly it’s the sweet essence

Of life itself that makes us more

Than just objects.

 

DISCLOSURE

 

My own point of view is

Hopelessly biased – there,

I admit it. I put it out there

Anyway because… Well,

Why not? The worst that

Can happen is you think

I’m delusional. Yep, like

Zillions of others, like the

Wavering masses. like

You too in many ways.

The best that can happen

Is that you know we’re

Really thinking the same

Thing, or not far from it.

That means something.

What? I don’t know, it’s

Always still unwritten.

Anything you want, and

Hopefully nothing you

Don’t. Just for the record,

Thank you for your time

And kind attention. That’s

Today’s disclosure.

 

ART FILM

 

Strangest movie you’ve ever seen,

But hey, this is an art film not some

Hollywood product. Human voices

Narrate, but people have no presence

Onscreen. Objects and images stand

As visual metaphors for the story, as if

These better convey something literal

Action or even narration can’t. The

Silhouette of a village sticking up

Through a forest evokes home existing

Only in memory. Railroad tracks and

Nearby debris symbolize childhood

Displacement. Changing light on photos

Indicates the passage of time. Lives are

Represented by bottles floating on

The sea. When its 15 minutes are up,

A buzz in the audience ensues. An

Esteemed panel of judges seems

Speechless, muttering terms like

“Startling”, “innovative”, and “rich in

“Emotion”. The filmmakers just say

That’s what happens when you don’t

Have a budget and you’ve never made

A film, you just really want to, when

You don’t know what you’re doing but

You’re not about to let a minor detail

Like that stop you.

 

TELL OF WONDERS

 

If I could tell of wonders, I’d write

The stories here, not to bring me

Glory by association, but to share

My best. Because this is all I can

Share with you until things change,

The only way I can talk to you. If I

Could tell of wonders, I would, but

Most of my stories are rather

Mundane, just people dealing

With day to day life, sometimes

Discovering themselves through

Each other, sometimes catching

Just a glimpse of something bigger

That ties the mysteries together.

 

THE WORD MUSIC

 

The word music is closely related to

The word muse, the reason why

Writers write. The act of writing is

Seen as petitioning fate to intervene

In the hopes your muse will view you

Favorably. Music does the same with

Sound. Notes carry messages words

Can’t. Music, as a word, is not far

From magic. Music works an alchemy

Of its own - let it in and it'll take you

Somewhere. Resist and you’ll get

Noise instead of enjoyment. In those

Moments when music sings to the

Soul, a meaning you needn’t think

About comes through, as if on an

Invisible wire. It’s an open secret

Known to anyone who listens and

Feels, and doesn’t just analyze in

A vacuum. If music doesn’t prove

There’s magic, it at least reminds

That you get out of something what

You put in.

 

STRAYS

 

Our dogs simply want something

To eat. They were never farmers

In the first place, but hunters

Who’ve forgotten they ever had

That skill, defenders with nothing

Left to defend but the few scraps

They can pilfer from our leftovers.

More often they go hungry in their

Learned dependence on generosity.

They once served a worthwhile

Purpose for someone or other,

Once had a part in our functioning,

But now they’re strays, deprived of

A livelihood. They’d be more than

Happy to work hard for a crumb of

Your kindness just to survive, living

By their wits but unaware of their

Place in the bigger picture, and not

Caring either.

 

DELICATE

 

Can you pull your weeds without

Ruining your garden? Careful, most

Beautiful things are delicate, you

Can’t just slash and burn, as much

As you hate the weeds. Delicate

Things require patience and care,

But look what happiness they bring

Nature is delicate. Life is delicate.

Our deepest feelings are delicate.

How ironic, then, that even apes

Can have more patience and care

Than man, who finds delicacy

Inferior to efficiency, and wants

To slash and burn his way through

Everything, including people.

 

UNLESS YOU’RE THE POPE

 

So, are you convinced you can’t be

Forgiven, or just too proud to ask?

It’s pretty arrogant to forgive

Someone who even hasn’t asked

For it, unless you’re the Pope and

Really in a hurry. And if someone

Has the guts to ask, it’s pretty

Heartless to make them grovel,

Unless you want to convince them

They shouldn’t have bothered.

 

CLUELESS

 

Hey, pretend you’re a priest while

I make a confession – I’m clueless.

My memory’s ok, but as far as

Processing what those memories

Mean, forget it. I’ve been turned

Around more than once, and no

Sooner do I finish feeling dizzy than

I start feeling clueless. Meanings

Seem to have shifted, signs signify

Differently. It’s all unfamiliar again

To me. I’m blank – will you fill me in?

Maybe my sensibilities just reflect

An earlier time with a different

Notion of what doing right means,

A different approach. But in the

Here and know, I know how my

Cluelessness must appear to you

As if the dinosaurs never left.

 

EXPOSED

 

Eyeballs with wings, following us around

As if we’re breaking news, walking sitcoms,

Like our every moment captured can be

Used for selling ads. We’re never wanting

For an audience. Eyeballs with wings,

Posing as innocent bystanders, trying to

Blend in with the birds, swarming in our

Moments of embarrassment like locusts,

Thinking here’s a good one for prime time

Tonight. Eyeballs with wings, all-seeing, no

Heart for understanding. Disdaining eyes,

Ready to bear witness to anything they

Find suspicious. Wish I could shoot them

From the sky, find out if they’re capable

Of tears, but they’re in my head. Eyeballs

With wings, hanging upside down like bats

Outside my bedroom. Even when no one

Wants to know, I still walk around feeling

Exposed.

 

PORTRAIT

 

I suppose if you put all the poems

Together, a certain portrait might

Emerge. An attitude embedded in

The language, values suggested

By the style. But don’t be fooled –

Let an artist paint themselves and

It’ll be the most distorted portrait

You could ask for. Expression can

Be a defense, an elaborate disguise,

Pure fiction, the occasional naked

Truth. I must confess to reveling in

The freedom of never being sure if

I’m taken seriously. Gives me room

To evolve, explore, experiment.

If I ever touch your sensibilities

In some way, I’m truly flattered,

But it’s an accident. My thought

Collisions occasionally summon a

Connection rather than an ambulance.

Were a truly accurate portrait to

Crawl from the wreckage of my

Pages, you’d see a shell shocked

Crash test dummy, mangled, head

Backwards, heart sideways, limbs

Akimbo, lips fixed in a grimace,

Jumping right into the next car.

 

LION TAMER

 

Taming lions, do you need a circus

Mind? A grasp of animal psychology?

The talent to get them to trust you

Above their own instincts? Can they

Unlearn what another nasty trainer

Has whipped into them, once he’s

Manipulated their wants and needs

To make them behave his way?

Make them feel they’re safe not

Biting the head off anyone who

Doesn’t give them exactly what

They expect? Don’t be like a lion

Trained by the Romans to tear

Apart criminals, deviants and

Religious dissidents to entertain a

Bloodthirsty colosseum audience.

 

BURRITO

 

What gets folded-into our story?

What doesn’t? Our story is like a

Burrito – by themselves the

Ingredients would make one big

Mess, cross no-fly zones, riot on

The plate, stain your clothes, soil

The floor. However, these same

Ingredients, when something holds

Them in one place, create an

Unexpected combination of tastes,

Rendered in the burrito’s case all

The more palatable by a Nobel

Prize-worthy masterpiece of

Culinary engineering, a design

With equally valid practical,

Cultural and gastronomical

Qualities. What we think wasn’t

Meant to co-exist in one dish

Somehow does - with willingness

And creativity, and a good salsa

Always helps. Every burrito across

The USA at this very moment

Stands as a testament to what

Hunger and ingenuity can do.

 

COLUMBUS

 

History is great – I’m re-learning it all

The time. Like the little-known fact

That besides collecting information

For maps, Columbus also collected

Several hundred Indians to take

Home and sell as slaves. Well, how

Else was he supposed to pay for the

Trip? And besides, in exchange for a

Few hundred slaves, not all of whom

Even made it to Europe, look what

We got. No Columbus, no Las Vegas.

No Seattle. No Boise, Idaho. No Alamo,

No Annie Oakley, no Little Big Horn, no

George Washington, no Ben Franklin.

No Star Spangled Banner. No Civil War,

No Blues, no Jazz, no Rock & Roll. No

Lincoln, no Lincoln Center. No Pearl

Harbor, no 9-11, no Boston Tea Party,

No Boston Strangler, no McDonalds.

No Margaret Mitchell, no Margaret

Mead, no Miley Cyrus. No Fox News.

No American Idol, no FBI, no Civil Rights.

None of this and more would ever have

Come to pass if it hadn’t been for

Columbus. You wouldn’t even be here,

So hey, just let the slave thing slide.

 

TELEVISION

 

Television, you pampered only child

Of an arranged marriage between

Hollywood and Wall Street. Television,

Shaping our culture while taping its

Mouth shut and binding its hands.

Television, who do your represent,

Anyway? Am I no longer in tune with

Society since you don’t make sense?

Television, aimed at some imaginary

America where everyone takes your

Word on what’s worth buying and

Believing. Television, you’re teaching

Escape. Television, your signals go

Out into space. Alien races are curious

About you, Television, and now firmly

Believe earth’s highest-evolved life

Form motivates and manipulates its

Own masses by dangling desired

Material items and idealized states

Of being in front of them like you’d

Dangle a carrot in front of a donkey.

 

RIVERBOAT

 

Flowing on the slow river of time,

Before you know it you’ve come

Farther than you believed possible.

Whenever this river seems about

To end, it’s only changing, following

A way passed down from the ages.

Why stray from a proven route?

Someone once told me there’s an

Ocean where all rivers meet, where

Their long travels end, but curiously,

Rivers take their sweet time keeping

The appointment. Who’s in a hurry?

We’ll arrive when it’s time. Until

Then, the river is single-mined,

Stopping everywhere, staying

Nowhere, enticing us with a free

One-way ticket. The river wants us

To mix, discover what’s out there.

Learn from and love every moment

On the water. We’re lucky we can

Join this voyage even for a short

Time, and few among us have

Passage all the way to its end.

 

PANIC

 

Calm serenity is an illusion, but shout

That lie as loud as you can because the

Truth is panic. As soon as we’re out of

The womb, we’re screaming. As soon

As whatever situation we’re in starts

Spinning out of control, we’re right back

To the panic we reacted with as soon as

We opened our eyes. And not just babies.

No one wants the pressure of keeping it

All together, but who will prevent our

Serenity from descending into anarchy

If not ourselves? Calm serenity reminds

Us of Heaven, a place within us where it

Doesn’t seem like it could all blow apart

Any second. We need that thought to

Deal with the world, keep reminding

The deaf public and dumb governments

There’s always a better solution than

Bombs. Calm serenity is an illusion, so

Forgive me for cultivating dishonesty –

I’m just trying not to panic.

 

BETRAYAL

 

If I talk about betrayal, it doesn’t

Mean I’m talking about you, just

About the thousand ways you can

Feel betrayed. I know it doesn’t do

Any good to talk about feeling

Betrayed, but every time I’m right

On the brink of being kind for no

Other reason than just to be kind,

That feeling comes creeping back:

You’re gonna get betrayed. Betrayal

Is the risk you take when you give.

If you give in the right way, there’s

A tiny chance you won’t be betrayed,

But it’s really tiny. Much more

Straightforward to be a taker, a

Heartbreaker, a bastard, a user.

You can’t be betrayed if you just

Don’t care. Might as well betray

Someone else before they do it

To you. Betrayal is a parachute

For those who can’t stand feeling

Trapped, held back. Betrayal is a

Cancer in the marrow of our

Society and personal lives, eating

The blood cells faith needs. Betrayal

Goes back to the Bible – Judas might

Have been forgiven for his betrayal,

But I’m not so saintly.

 

FOR MARIE ANTOINETTE

 

If you doubt the power of propaganda,

Consider this. Marie Antoinette, one of

History’s coldest, most heartless bitches,

Once famously remarked that peasants

Starving for bread could eat cake instead.

This immortal utterance, which so well

Characterizes corruption, anywhere,

Anytime, guarantees that Marie won’t

Soon be forgotten. Imagine my surprise,

Then, when I read that there’s actually

No concrete evidence she really said it!

That historians consider the source of

The quote highly unreliable! A tabloid,

No less. Louis and Marie apparently

Believed in freedom of the press, but

As is still so often the case, attacking

The unpopular sold copies. Therefore,

Exaggerations and lies about the

Monarchy were commonplace. But so

What? With a quote so memorable,

Questions of legitimacy are secondary.

Still, imagine going down in history for

Something you never actually said!

History has force fed Marie that very

Same cake allegedly recommended

To the peasants.

 

R.I.P. LOU REED

 

The different don’t feel so different

Anymore, not like they used to, not

Like when they had to deny the very

Idea of their natures. The different had

Lou Reed to sing for them. Lou didn’t

Pander for shock value, he just figured

He’d get real, real for him, maybe real

Too for others out there in dark corners,

The margins, the gutters, the alleys, the

Toilets, the jails, the mental hospitals.

This was when being a freak wasn’t chic,

It was dangerous, could cost you your

Life. Sometimes Lou didn’t mind who

He offended, other times he cloaked

His real meanings in clever language,

But no one could probe as deeply into

The taboo shadows of our collective

Psyche with the same boldness or

With as much humanity. That’s what

I’ll remember Lou for, his humanity,

His occasional tenderness, his trying

To find the heart in life’s confusions,

His frequent rubbing of life’s seediest

Sides in your face. He had his own face

Rubbed in it too, but turned the smears

Into part of his costume for the role of

Bard of the forbidden, anarchist of

Sexuality giving all the rejects a voice.

 

TONGUE TIED

 

Tongue tied, falling right into a

Role I’m not sure how to play.

Tongue tied, no idea how to

Say what I’m thinking, it might

Be impolite, not to your liking.

Tongue tied, talking around

The subject, trying to say it

Indirectly.Tongue tied, wanting

So bad for the words to sound

Right that they won’t come out

At all. Tongue tied, silently

Screaming.

 

IT’S MY JOB

 

You can deny my love if it’s

Not what you want, refuse it

If it’s not good enough, just

Doesn’t move you. You have

Every right by your own free

Will. I just feel like, right or

Wrong, good or bad, happy

Or sad, wise or foolish, it’s

Just my job to let you know

Somebody loves you. No one

Said anything about you

Having to accept it.

 

REINCARNATION

 

With every person you’ve ever felt

A passion for, you create a child in

The spiritual world. You may meet

Them there, before or after their

Turn comes to be made real, born

As human. How else to explain why

A poet from a thousand years ago

Reminds me of someone I only met

Yesterday, or why grandparents

Sometimes make more sense than

Mom and dad, or why someone

You rarely even see can still fill you

With both joy and sadness longer

Than time itself whenever you

Think of them?

 

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