Sunday, December 31, 2023

Purgatorio

Validation comes with responsibility. The pathos of a human being’s ability; is the bathos of logos; enraptured by ethos.

A chasm; betwixt the inferno, and Paradiso. Tis a specter of mystery that haunts free inquiry. Moshed asunder, 'tis Judas.

Man of perfidy; gnashed in the jaws of Lucifer, howls in misery.

Beatrice is: a faint memory, exposing the minds' vulnerability.

Ad nauseam, ad absurdum, of empty space and silence.

Stands, I, as Saint Teresa, enraptured in ecstasy.

Saturday, December 31, 2022

Challenger/Champion


Work through challenges like any man would.

By crying out to father; Father, forgive me, for I know not what I have done.

— 

Seeking mother's touch. To Mother; caress my body in Myrrh, once laid to rest.


In a world of devotion, imitation, idolization, instant gratification. Seek a hand of grace, not one of cruelty, seek the place where a babes cry, meets mother's coo.

Present is a place, void of spirit, a babes cry, rings out; to no echo. To no warm embrace. Dirty, soiled, bad-tempered; mother's ears are deaf, to this babies falsetto. No hand of grace, no mother’s touch, only torment; only whimpers.


Tears tread down narrow, undulating, swollen eyes; cradled in hollowed bones. Down, down, tapping, dripping, dropping. Drooling onto dirty soiled frame, hollowed by hatred, hallowed by shame.

Tread, tread, tread. Blop, drip, drop, tear, tear, tears. Travel the tunnel of birth. A crap shoot of probabilities. Popped from the space between urine and feces. Plopped upon the crap-table, arrival, unhappy, a-being, unexpected. 

Confront the Law, not natural law; the law of averages. To a serpents hiss, affronted by a woman’s whis-per, “you are departing unhappy.” Heel bruised, fork tongue, slithers off, affronted.

Making out, then making off. Flicking classic movie poster post cards, from index finger. Flicking an ear, to disturb a friend.  “Dare I disturb the universe?”

Keeping time, not natural time, whistling “Giant steps” like a type of syncopated jazz aves, barreling Geary ave. Gunning for the coast, rebelling, Jim and Buzz, screaming, “let’s see who chicken!”

The buzz fades, sipping whiskey, from a worn leather, stuffed in the side pocket, tucked next to a Faulkner, novel. Not understanding my worries, limping, strolling Geary ave. 

Trimming the top off parking meters, I tread, the sulfur surface, and use the change to tear out pages from newspaper dispensers. Disturbed by the mendacity. Perturbed to trepidation. Tear drops, soak, wear through the pulp, diffusing the ink, exposing the truth.

I tread through life on hot summer pavement, worn down, like a used tire.  Rotating round the circumference, axle grease spews out the hubcap like a boxer spitting a tooth.  

Racing down Columbus Ave., wailing “a love supreme”, speeding past a statue of St. Francis of Assisi. Touched by stigmata, and a revelation; a truth, I sped through life, heaven seeking, hell bound. 

Tires bald, worn down, the psst of a nail wound, puncturing through a thin layer. No more rotations, to a force greater than my own, strewn upon the cold pavement, as my breath hisses into the aether.

 
Father forgives me, for he knows what I have done.


Crack of polyurethane window pane, under foot, Fanny, a flower, sprung on the sidewalk adjoint the CafĂ© Trieste.  An on looker, in Illumination (as dew turns to mist) says, “The pane broke so well.”

Mother caress my body in Frankincense, once laid to rest.

Amen

Friday, December 31, 2021

A Poem:

 

A year without a poem. 

A bird without a song. 

A nest lay fallow.

——

Profound without the profound.

Subtle entwined in a shadow.

A Shadow without light.

——

Selah.

——

A tabernacle void of spirit.

 A spirit without a vessel.

Wondering aimless in the aether.

——

Selah.

——

A shadow without light.

A spirit without a vessel.

A song without a bird.

A poem.

——

Selah.

Tuesday, December 29, 2020

"The Beats and Other Jass": A Poem on The Underbelly of American Society

 








On a date in the distant past over the horizon of a distant future, a day arose, numbered September 3rd , 1953. A man on a train, in bespeckled frames, to the clink on track, and a click of his tongue, rapping the back of his round top coffee-stained teeth – his utterance, “Rimbaud”. In eager gesture, like a child skipping home to summer pie, and a tulip opening its summer eyes, "you are a poet."


To a cold room, we gallop, a lover's den, heated by fiery minds, tapping toes, and the beating snare of blind hope, “not all is lost”. In a time of sewing machines, torpedo tube Buicks, and cricuts, where the word "faggot" threads the needle of the Chrysler building, whilst down south, my Negro brother hangs like a "strange fruit" not ripe for picking. Toes tap, to the dizzy bepob of the snare drum of blind hope, “that all is not lost”.


Whisking down 5 th avenue, up by Times Square, stubbing my toe on the corner, walking up the curb to the lunch counter. Passer bys in tailored suits, chewing on stubbed cigars, chuckle at my kicking of the pavement. Rather than lament, I clasp my hands, overhead, flip out my tongue, and snarl like a baboon, so they see, I am animal, they are the savage. As eyes of applause, tampered down and subside, the monkeys return to balance sheet talk. I, the circus baboon, trot the line, to whet my teeth and clack my tongue, in Cafeteria talk. Cruising through the double glass pane doors, like a breeze on a warms summer day, seeing Huncke and Jack, stir up hot air, circulating like two dust devils on a barren midwestern field, as hair-net waitress, asks "what it'll be?" "Coffee, Black."


Chatting in smooth phrases, letting em’ know “I dig it”, we rap about a stabbing on 43 rd avenue, junkies, hookers, and the surrealists at the Museum of Modern Art. Somehow in this Cafeteria talk, where a hot meal will cost you a pair of socks, where we discuss a music called Jazz, and the trash on the street nobody else will lay an eye upon, more or less give a dollar to, ( because to them; looking at these people is like looking at a solar eclipse). Too much to bear. Somehow in this Cafeteria talk, we found, “it”. Somehow “it” is germane to the point of life. The "it" of it all… In this universe of Atom Bombs dropped on Japan, and ticker tape stuck in the wet rolled stockings of a hooker - offering good times. We found “it”. Not in the rattling sound of a muffler pipe, scurrying away from the city. But in the rat filled allies, where a sailor lets one off before heading back to his stool, at the bar, to salute his mouth with a pint of ale. Not in the torpedo tubed hunk of assembly line metal, racing towards the suburbs, where a tract of homes, leave tracks on arms, in endless rows, filled with numerous Dorothy’s "speaking there's no place like home." But in the Jazz clubs on 52nd. Where Monk strums white bloused ivory, Dizzy, and Parker blow out into dampened bourbon filled air, in the wee-hours, seducing Odysseus, singing Sirens. Not in the Oz of crystal glasses filled to the brim, as clicking heels with dainty fingers stir gin, martini's. But in the place where a piece of stale bread is the best meal you will have all day. Not where they stuff turkeys, while slipping mickeys, anesthetizing their hysteria. It cannot be found in a tract of hypocrisy, rocking around the clock, finishing dinner just before the stubbed nose, cigar face, flying monkey arrives. This, my reader, is the Beat Generation and we are born. Not of "Star-Spangled Banner," and “honey I am home”, but of "Man, I am Beat."


Beat by police baton and "blacks not allowed." Beat by “up all night in search of the truth.” Beat by a mugger in the park in search for a fix. Beat by words like "faggot" and "jew." Beat by a long day's work assembling refrigerators machines. Beat by a “howling stomach” in the long lonely night. Beat by pigsty living where the squeak of a rodent is my welcoming voice. Beat by running from a roach called poverty. See, we all beat. WE. All. BEAT! We, weh, wea… Arr. Aaare. Aaa, Aah. Aal. All. Beat! We all beat. Beat like a drum tapping out the rhythm of the morning. Beat like a trumpet calling up the soldiers to the firing lines. My reader, we all BEAT!


Beat to the punch, “the more I run from it the more I run into it” as Wynton would say. It’sa time to play on the bandstand and make utterance on the travesties towards humanity. To speak of a Roman culture long yet gone from the annuals of time, still bent on conquest. Stripping, kicking, and setting ablaze my culture. My heritage. Feeding me their unspeakable language, feeding me their indigestible gruels. Taking me cross waters in carriages, shaped as tombs.


In the land not known by my fathers, I am shackled in chains. My herculean strength is tamped down by European tempers, no man can break free. So I sing. Humming my tune, chanting in my rhythms. Speaking my language, my “negro speech.”


Kicking dust in Congo Square, shuffling round n round in a syncopated rhythm. Conjuring Macaya, white man in observation. We headed to a sacrifice. So you too can cough the words cigarette mouthed rebels be killed for. Cause it is not kind to speak on injustice. Cause we in the midst of a cruel kind of people. The kind of people who rip suckling babies from their mothers tit. If dey don’t die in transit, sell them off, silence dey lips, kill dey gods, den force dey ears to hear tones, dey ears not meant to be heard. “Ouende, ouende, [white man!]” Cause this is more than the Beats, this is about Jass.


To be Jass, is to improvise. To improvise, is to live. To live is to suffer, and to suffer is the blues. And under that merciless white man’s sun, that beats down on the black man’s back, beat by the white man’s whip, on the black man’s skin. Tearing open my precious soil as the plow tears open the precious Earth. Jass oozes out! Prickly bulbs, poked by cotton, out these fingers, Jass oozes out. This the music that came up from the earth, cross dem waters, buried in carriages, shaped as tombs.


Jass is the music of life. Of little Louie Armstrong marching out “the Battlefield” born of low stock seeing skies of blue. Jass is the hypocrisy of life. Of Al Jolson crying out “Mammy” into blue ol’ skies. “Mammy”! “Mammy”! “Mammy”! A word not yet uttered by nubby mouthed babes, torn from times past.


Jass, Jasz, Jaaaaz, Jazz. And like that, Jazz is born. A pseudonym for pain. Born of the blues. Jazz is the blues. Jazz is living. Jazz is loving. And to suffer is the blues, and to live is to be Jass. Dig?


Flying over head-a-rumblin’ unheard, shaking and moving, wobbling, in vibrations. Table top, salt shaker, tip-tapping, top-tipping, a topples over, and spills on the, table. Like blood split swerving racism. In a far land, chased by maxim machine gun. We marched. In a regiment of our own, of our own. At home, a Ku Klux Klan page-boy - singing his hookers-tune, hear-ye, hear-ye! Ragtime is over. O sweet mother land of dixie, of the phonograph, and handkerchief suspicion, covering up a wiggly fingers trumpet tune. In the land of exploitation, the white man, takes Jazz to be his own. A music birthed of derision, suspicion, and lynching. Trout sandwich in hand on a northbound train, so long Dixie, to Chicago Jazz flies. A city a buzzing, of speakeasys, singing Tommy-gun tunes. Trumpet screaming louder than the shout of the policeman. Behold the bulging eyes of Jazz arrives.


Over the air, carried like a bail of cotton (fresh from the gin), Jazz sings, over the air, carried by waves. This thing called radio got all the folks kicking in a craze. Swinging and moving in circles. Toes a tapping, hands a clapping, turnstile motions, exuberating motions, fingers pointing to the moon, the sax, upfront, and piano at that, with singer in tow, this the Jazz we call swing. A jungle drum humming, pounding chest, damsel in distress, a King Kong, the music is atop the buildings, in the sky, roaring out into the open air. Chick Webb, a flailing set of arms, spine not correct, making sweat jump off the head of a pin. No body, can stop the roar of this King Kong called swing.


“No body loves me, no body seem to care.” Man got the blues. The Kansas City blues. Speaking a Jazz not contained. Can’t hold it, tame it, codify it, chain it, nor can it, as a Campbells soup. “M’m m’m, Jazz”, Kansas city sweet. Of the Dukes and Counts we must count. The Duke and the Count are the ones to count. And of battles to remember, remember the “Battle of the Bands”. At the Savoy, bullets did not fly, nor did bombs drop, tearing the youth apart. Tempers a flared, and a roaring-sounds from a flailing set of arms, had the youth swinging, limb from limb, all night at the Savoy


“If the moon turns green and shadows come walking round, I wouldn’t be surprised”, sings Lady Day, duchess of the streetwise, and aching purrs, of the opium den. A honeysuckle bloom in a dark shadow of heavenly clouds, Jazz has a voice, singing like an angel tortured by Satin. “Cause you don’t know what love is until you have the blues” and the blues is Jazz. Dig?


In the afterhours, the weary hours, on 52 nd street, under the din of screaming neon’s, a roaming stumbling hiccupping lush, walking offbeat, stumbles past the bemoan of an ally cat (fending off a bleeding arm in search of a fix), to fall face flat on the jungle pavement outside the 3 Duces. A place, a hotbed, a poets rest in the long night searching for the philosopher’s stone. Cause mother innovation is a tune to invocations and incantations. The incantations and invocations heard on Congo Square.


Jass is the music of the slave and Jazz is the music of the liberated. Jass sang in chains, on the gang, to the whip of an oppressors howl. Jass sang the song of the black man’s blues, of the toil in the field, and scorn of oppressor routing his mind. Jazz broke those breakable chains and gave a name to the American soul. As the white man’s God spoke of “let there be light”, “let there be Jazz.”


Let Jazz music ring out into the air waves as a tonic to quell the human disease called oppression. A disease affecting scornful lighter toned skins, that make it their prerogative to kill all the skin tones darker than their own. Jazz is a boundless fire that cannot be shackled (to the end of the world) as a Prometheus for disobedience. For Jazz is meant to roam free. And free Jazz will roam.


Fin.



Sunday, December 29, 2019

Winter is Time

Winter is Time
I.
Where is the head of the table? The man of the hour? The women he devoured? Everyone’s upset. No one pleased. The Man’s mind, diseased. The Man killed all the wise, no one man will stand up, for fear, is of the deceased. No noose, round neck, no slits to wrist. Firing lines of the old fashioned. Garica Lorca whiffed Andalusian air then took a drag off a cigarette. As weak fingers pulled dandelion triggers. What gives a man more claim to live than another? A freehold, deed? Lighter color skin, stripes on a uniform, clanking medals pinned to a chest? No, it is the ability to rationalize murder. In time, each man is a burden. A burden to his mother, the burden of his father, a burden to his teachers, his government, himself. A murder has no burdens, yet Thanatos is a burden to all.
II.
 Sap falls from trees, like a widow’s tears. Crying out like a siren, only the mad can hear. Sweet is her sap, and low is her bellow. In low tones, she speaks, behind closed doors, reciting incantations. Those who keep silent boil in her cauldron, of tears… “Tis time,” “tis time”! “Tick, Tik, Tick.” Grimaces of pain in inaudible tones (from those no longer silent) comfort the widow; for round about this life, we go. “Tis time,” “tis time!” “Tick, Tik, Tick.” Drinking the potion of a mother’s sorrow (for her children taken too soon.) Mother's milk in summers rain, for darkness brew, commends her pain. We are mother’s children of shadows; in darkness, we, her children, play.
III.
Bitter roots we reserve for those who corrupt our children. For it is okay to die. A replacement is on the way. Who can replace Socrates? No worries, a replacement is on the way. One dumber than the next, meant to follow and be lead. Round and round cylinder go; dandelion finger pulls the hairpin trigger. Roundabout this life we go, singings Beetles tunes. Roundabout the world turns, Atlas tilts, and the moon shows us the way. “Tis Time, the clock hand bends toward the midnight hour.” “Tis time!” “Tick, Tik, Tick.” As wolves howl, and cauldron burns. We are mother’s children of shadows; in darkness, we, her children, play.
Fin.

Thursday, January 12, 2017

Espirito Santo


I grew up Catholic. I attended church. I followed the orders of the church. I viewed the priest as a steward of the Gospels and leader of God’s flock. I confessed my sins, said my prayers, and asked God to use me as a vessel for his will. Did I feel more spiritual? No. Why?

In the context of the purpose of my religion, I was upholding the traditions of my community. My grandparents attended church as did my parents. Religion though is more than tradition. At my grandmother’s funeral mass, she was lauded for her long suffering to God (in spite of ailments). I had an awakening at this mass. This woman adhered to doctrine, loved in spite of race, class, education, and creed. She had her faults, but at 85 assisted by walker with oxygen tank in tow, she sat front row every Sunday showing up for God.

This taught me that spiritual is not a place, color, doctrine, or socioeconomic condition. She taught me that it is what is inside that makes a person. It was then, at that mass I understood the purpose of religion. In my previous experience I had followed the formula. Kneel, pray, stand. Kneel, pray, stand. Never feeling, spiritual.

In the final farewell, the priest summoned us pallbearers to escort my grandmother down the main church aisle. This time there was no walker or oxygen tank in tow. I walked teary eyed as small weeps crept out as we passed each aisle. Something great had left the earth that day and everyone knew it. I cannot explain the heavy feelings floating around pulling down on each of us like the Earth pulling down on the moon.  Yet, when outside the church a great flood of joy overcame me. I heard my grandmothers voice telling me "hito, you have to believe".

At that point I felt a great resounding peace, like I was standing in the woods alone. All ideas of race, class, and money, melted from me like a piece of ice in the sun. I felt free, I felt spiritual.

Saturday, November 12, 2016

Lead Us Not, Into Temptation


Lilacs in winter, turn white, autumn is the bearer of change.
Whispering waters shout, vices, are made up! 
--- 
Prayers on Sunday, Tibetan gong, Mao Zedong. 
Our shadows are our religion our religion is our song.
---
Pushed to an edge, sharp, like Occam’s razor.
---
Flesh is too precious to cut.
---
 Human existence is common, like a penny on the ground.
Walk any street U.S.A, pennies on floor, rain gutter, and beggar’s cup.
On those pennies, Abe Lincoln, honest Abe; shot in the back for all his slaves.
---
Emancipation, frail like an egg, laid in open air.
Too much is assumed, too much is consumed. 
The climax and the end. 
I bear my cross.
|
--|--
 I ask the dead souls; give me guidance. 
---
Aristotle created the modern world.
---
Fascinating, how nature does nothing in vain.
---
 I eat my emotions and crave their sunrise.
---
Cui bono?
---
 Van Gouge, 
an artist, 
slept on straw.
He gave his privilege 
and 
learning to the souls that warmed the earth.
---
When is the last time, you, were in a coal mine? 
---
How black are your lungs?
---
How white is your soul?
---
The dust of the Earth is made of the bodies of old.
---
Why has man become blind with eyes of grey?
---
Marble stones, calcified flesh.
---
 I Oedipus, noble king blinded by dagger.
Dangle fingers from withered hands!
 ---
Watching, for mercy in all my darkness.
For justice is blind. 
---
Her scales balance eternity. 
 Man is blind and knows nothing of life before his birth. 
---
 I Oedipus, premature homunculus, a gods dream and humor. 
Anger is a recognizable song, for, what disaster am I prepared?
 ---
Urim and Thummim glow bright.
---
At morn they are in front, the climax and the end, in the eve they are behind.
---
All of life is a shadow and I man stumble with no sight.  
---
Fin

Sunday, September 25, 2016

What Do I Owe?

Most of what I write is not all that good. Am I good? Who am I to judge? Walking around, nose to ground, sniffing urine filled air, looking to score, need I say more? 

“Life is a zero sum game”, coming from lips of those who don’t look into the eyes of those they harm. 
Liars, cheaters, and thieves of old had dignity, ask Gauguin, ask Caravaggio. 
Fist fights used to mean something, now nothing means nothing. 
It is a sad world. 
A sham. 
--
Hell!
--
I am not sad!
-- 
I roll with the punches, duck and counter every time a bad spell comes waltzing my way. 
Life used to be basic, now it’s filled to the brim. 
Drowning in shit, man outside corner store, eyes wide watching as I pull my last dime… 
Please spare, sir? Spare what? 
Not even my time is free. 
What happens when life is no longer valuable? Men, no longer apart of the earth? 
Let’s get trashed and forget all this nonsense, I have a life to waste. 
Nonsense! 
My tears are just as valuable as the next mans, my breath just as clean. 
What happens when you die? I speculate the answer. 
-- 
I wonder if death is like life. 
--
I see many men dead as they walk, stale eyes, counting their dollars in head. 
End to end, when do ends meet?
---  
I see dead men walking, singing defeat, I see dead men walking, screaming "retreat". 
Reprise! 
----
The clock strikes twelve, even lady Macbeth could not clean her hands!
-----
Wash me clean of my sorrows, of every dollar I borrow, tomorrow is tomorrow! Tomorrow is tomorrow… 

Monday, July 21, 2014

Love In the Mind, Alone.

A tempest force roaring beneath the skin. 
I dare bemoan, do not tempt this force, 
for destroy you it will 
and leave you hollow 
beneath
your 
skin.


Saturday, February 8, 2014

BITCOIN

Game-Theory:
"Rocks have weight,
 or
eyes
 would
see
them
floating
to the Sun."

Saturday, November 2, 2013

"Things as they are."

Methods of Ruler-ship:
"One cannot give up the 
WORLD
 to those 
   one despises."

Sunday, July 21, 2013

Zombies Ate My Neighbors!

Game-Theory:
“If the market is flooded with low-priced, high-grade heroin, a significant population is addicted,” “That’s the free market.” 

Sunday, June 23, 2013

I AM THAT I AM

I AM THAT I AM,
Half-Man, Half-Beast.
I AM THAT I AM,
Half-Devil, Half Priest.
---
INTO THE EARTH,
We Enter.
On the Surface lay the 
LIVING.
---
INTO THE DEPTHS
We Enter.
Below the Surface lie the
DECEASED.

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Inaugural Death Bed

Chimes of summer's breeze - ring out - calling long-distance. 
Flaws equidistant  to the mirror reflect shadows hidden beneath small egos. 
---
"Who is calling please"?
---
Operator responds to bionic voice - digital monotone repeats a recorded recorded, "It is I".
---
Half-witting, stumbling half-sober, the mind succumbs to what it believes to be reason. 
Open shaft - tunnel of birth - light breaking through obstructions. 
---
"No" repeats the voice "life has no instructions". 
---
Stumble upon the great mystery, the mystery of all mysteries, there are no mysteries.
---
Haphazard as it seems. 
Resolve all madness in dream. 
---
"Who is calling please"? 
---
"It is I"

Monday, December 10, 2012

Indie-vidual...

Trouble with individuality is, is it is too individual. One cannot multiply, one times one equals one.
---
Hard times test the simple, financial crisis test the smart. Temptation, a woman spread bare. Seldom a full-moon, rare good man, rare. At fault for fault, halt, wings of wax melt, when close to the Sun.
---
 Roulette with a six-piece, madness at Salmon's lot, chance on the roulette table, Sisyphus kissing his rock.