Friday, March 3, 2017


Hate, hate, hate
We hate, denigrate, as we choose
Blacks, Browns, Jews
and all of youse who
ain’t fools that waste our lives
on hate.
Journey inward
to see what
stories appear
Attend to voiceless whispers,
haunting calls to play, to
drift away, become
a conduit for musics,
magicks, passions
sonorously surging
Never a promise.
Lies, fantasy
no genealogy, identity
to cleave, to hide among,
to belong
Stories I must drag bleeding
sacrifice to experience
angst of mutating age,
archetypal choice.
Dependent on destiny of
pain’s transcendence, stories,
fantasies I create
desperate for a world
where I am allowed to matter.
Thank you, dear friend,
for being
as this new found year aspires
Goddess queens
exquisite scenes
let’s play!
It’s not the tribes, but elite rulers who
obstruct tribes from having equal voice
that thwarts democracy.
Democracy is not a homogeneous group
agreeing, but diverse tribes negotiating
for common rule that works well enough
for everyone.
The tribes are breaking down --
that, not “tribalism” is the social destructor.
People become insecure, frightened outsiders,
cling beyond all reason or sane self-interest
to the remnants, the faux tribes, the demagoguery
to conjure that strong story of belonging.
Just a hunk of stone
No control over where I stand,
where I go
Falling from place
until I land
to remain or be taken
by chance or agency
not my own
Pilgrim’s progress
White Anglo Ethos
Petulant brats demand obeisance
to our code of conquest, of dominance,
of hard-assed outcast of deviance
Rule over Earth and her issue
break them to work for our wishes.
Honor, respect,these are authorities’ own
the war lords we place on our thrones to command.
Progress is forward motion on opening roads.
Marching, no conscience nor care for what may explode.
Let our Great Destroyer sort it.
Why would a woman risk
death or other bodily terrors,
social exposure to all the slings and arrows
of frenzied hate,
to end her unborn’s fate?
She is protecting her child, like a good mother does,
despite her own suffering,
protecting her innocent from this horrid world,
from people like you.
Do not ignite your enemies
Ensnare them in better fantasies
Caught, barbed, mired
in private dramas, traumas.
Sunk, gasping, up just enough to see
nothing to cling to,
grasping at phantoms, wisps of mirage.
How proceed?  No landmark empirically real,
how find relief, belief that’s meaning applies?
How define “wise” as solution to needs;
everyone bleeds, but who decides why,
or how?
No time for such now --
too much to do
to try to break through,
to breathe.
Whatever they say, so far away
from my plight
I assume must be right --
I know nothing of these grand debates
that may be sway to my fate
writ large on the wind.
No my decision nor place.
Far from luxury life at Center Stage
my only power:  hoping to breathe again
with every wave.

Sunday, January 29, 2017

opening view

Monk Hill stands smiling in the morning sun.  Early Spring, well-tracked snow still covers frozen ground.
Coffee-stained observations through my kitchen window.
Tom moved me here to heal, to figure out who I need to be and how.  I don’t think he was so much scared as awed by my profound collapse
into frenzied inertia.  He had helped to organize this place, this art-based enclave, to enjoy as occasional recreational refuge as well as
to give free range to special friends that he might be blessed in their blooming.  He seems quiet and controlled, a useful cover for his
beauty obsessed soul.  So fortunate that he has all that inherited wealth to indulge with.  I mean that sincerely.  So many highborn brats
indulge in nasty, even cruel, habits because they can.  Or then there are those obsessed with out-earning daddy or expanding their
empire no matter the cost to collateral lives.  See, I can record a logical progression of thought, sitting calmly, drinking coffee for the
luxurious warmth, smiling at the hill, the valley, the stone and brick buildings, the tracks in crusty snow, maybe a human or critter
intent on their own projects.  This is comfort.  This is breathing deeply, stretching gently, opening slowly toward the warmth of
activity, to explore in search of empowering questions.

Sounds like Eat Yer Pudding is open below.  Guess I’ll take this party public, check out the scene over breakfast bread pudding.