Archive for January, 2013

the cats are all in their cradles


War Machine

War Machine (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

the cats are all in their cradles
dreaming of clear blue sky
filled with birds
filled with birds

gonna revisit the cross
yer gonna revisit the cross
my hands bleed red ink

there may have been such a thing
as an innocent bystander
perhaps not
sit around and pat each others backs
that could have been us
yeah i feel sorry for some of them fellars

what do you believe will happen
when there’s nothing left to blow up over there?
do you think the War Machine will come to a halt

but what about all those jobs?
it’s a matter of time
in the course of history
for the Victors to turn in upon themselves

Cry Havoc


A U.S. Army Air Force Douglas A-20G-20-DO &quo...

A U.S. Army Air Force Douglas A-20G-20-DO “No. 57” (S/N 42-86657) in flight. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

“Cry Havoc”
he said offhandedly
his sword still in its sheath

“Let loose the dogs of war!”

of course he didn’t mean himself or his
he had others that would do his bidding
and suitably indoctrinated
they would gladly spill their blood
on a battlefield of his choosing

fodder
maybe more like kindling
to fire his far flung ambitions
after all he had a mountain of Mammon
to build as his memorial

and Oh Yes!
don’t forget the legacy
keep it in the bloodlines
the blood that runs blue
truer than any rivers of red ink

 

silent the cry


Contrato social

Contrato social (Photo credit: Daquella manera)

in silence
conceived as seed
a spawn crying out at birth

but that was not to be done
crying out

so conditions of course had to be met
conventions, social contracts
for of course there were others
others, conditioned, living in convention
by whose hand?
the voices heard were echoes of their own

but damn the voices crying
in the wilderness of silent sheep
as ravening wolves
damn all who rise of above the hum
of the obedient crowd

it has been thus
let it be
we have grown accustomed to our dull hum
why must you question?
what have you gained with your complaints?
but the ire of the reaper?

we have gained
ourselves
and something that the reaper
cannot take away from us

Speaking in Silent Tongues


I woke up to the Truth
and found myself spontaneously
speaking in tongues

This of course
made me feel somehow superior and
it was good

I would gather
with throngs of speakers
in crowded little halls and
listen to the babble of the crowd

I believed it and
it was good
for a long, long time

One day I saw a man
sitting in an arbor
clad in rags.
I approached him
hoping to speak to him
of the Truth I had found

As I came near
I noticed that his eyes were closed
I studied him
the rise and fall of his breathing
for nigh on 10 minutes
I knew he sensed my presence
but he never said a word

He opened his eyes and
looked in mine,
slowly rose to his feet
then silently walked away
I listened to his silence

I haven’t spoken since

where true wealth lies


a wise dude once said
beware not those than can kill the body
beware those that can kill the idea
but then they don’t understand

the idea does not compute in their geometry
it doesn’t fit
it has no place
they have no knowledge
of how to kill it

oh, seeing its potential
they will harness it for a while,
make their filthy stacks of lucre
but they will wither
they will die
and their wealth will be worthless
to those that have no desire of it

but the idea
The Idea
will endure
and so will we
for we know
where the true Wealth lies…

An Idea May Mean Wealth In Your Wallet^ - NARA...

An Idea May Mean Wealth In Your Wallet^ – NARA – 534155 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

requiem for a seed (Aaron Swartz)


English: Aaron Swartz at a Creative Commons event.

English: Aaron Swartz at a Creative Commons event. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

requiem for a seed

SoundCloud Reading

repressed desire
a seed under the asphalt of society
waiting for light, for nourishment,
for freedom to live and breathe

a seed, a hope
not alone
among other seeds
under the asphalt

a seed breaks through
a seed is weeded in the asphalt
but has broken through

more seeds see the break, the light
they mourn a seed
and in their anger
find the strength
to break through the asphalt

Retread Angels on Mount Ararat


Safeway Medallion logo, 1980

Safeway Medallion logo, 1980 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I was walking with my magic staff in the Safeway parking lot when
I spotted another man walking with a staff.  He was rather disheveled
and had a backpack.  I cried, “Ho there!” and walked toward him.

He looked me up and down and said, “Hi!  Are you a magician?”

I replied, “No, I’m a wizard.”

He muttered, “Well I’m a working man.” and walked away.

Later, I would see him walking around town with and without his staff.
It was obvious that he was another homeless soul in the wealthy hamlet
where I had sequestered myself.

One day, I saw him outside the Safeway again.  I thought I would try
and approach him again.  I didn’t have my magic staff but I took a chance
and walked up to him again with a $5 bill and said, “Here’s the $5 that I lent you.”

He said, “What is this?  A pigeon drop?”

I said, “No, just take the money, it’s yours.”

He thanked me and went into the Safeway and I took a seat on the bench
outside to roll up a cigarette.  As I was lighting the cigarette, he came outside
and sat on the bench next to me.  I introduced myself and he said his name was Curtis.

We talked for a good bit and even bought a losing scratch off ticket together.
( He insisted on giving me 50c for half the ticket.)  Apparently he had grown
up in that area of California.

As we were sitting and talking, Michael, one of the guys that worked at this
Safeway as a bagger and cart rounderupper came over to us.  Michael and I
had often spoken, he seemed just a little slow, or maybe it was just an act.

Michael and Curtis seemed to know each other pretty well.  Michael asked if
that was a bottle of wine Curtis had in his backpack.  Curtis told him it was.
Michael told him to be careful and not get caught drinking outside the Safeway
again.  He then asked Curtis if he had gone through the groceries he had given
him.  Curtis said he was still good.

I am still touched by the pathos of Michael, a low wage bagger in one of the
wealthiest areas in the Bay Area, helping out a homeless man in a city where
Safeway would block people from taking day old bread out of their dumpsters.
(I got nailed trying to retrieve some dumpster donuts on a couple of occasions.)
I never saw Curtis again but I am sure Michael is still working at that Safeway.

I’m convinced that both of them were angels.

Pops’ Scar: A Short Huckabuck Tale


Pops’ uncle used to own the building outside of Huckabuck that
he’s lived in since he got out of prison the first time. He’s
got no running water in the place but has a toilet that he
flushes with a bucket of water and Pine Sol once a day.

Pops gets his water from his mother’s house next door. (She’s
been in the nursing home for about 6 years and his brother,
Mike owns the house now. Mike doesn’t live in it though, he
likes to stay in his little, red, Mexican-Schwag-slinging shed
in the backyard.)

I’ve hung with Pops and partied with him for a long time and I
can tell you, when Pops drinks (which is whenever he can scrape
together 10 bucks for a bottle of Kessler’s), he likes to tell
stories. And he doesn’t mind repeating them either, which, if
you had known Pops as long as I have, would add up to a rather
impressive amount.

A story I’ve heard often is one of his childhood stories. As I
had mentioned, Pops’ uncle ran a gunshop next door to the 2
bedroom clapboard house Pops grew up in with his four brothers
and sisters. He grew up around guns and as a 10 year old, he
took some bullets from his uncle’s locked gunshop and gathered
his brothers, Mike and Rog, along with a couple of the
Neighborhood Nuts in his back yard.

I can’t remember if his parents were away or simply weren’t
paying attention but the little hooligans were in that back
yard standing the bullets up on the hard ground and hitting
them with hammers. Pops did most of the hammering (he would
often remind me he was a little hellion) and had the misfortune
of catching the first successful bullet through his right cheek.

Now that I mention it, his parents must’ve been home or nearby
since they had heard the gunshot and ran to the backyard then
rushed him to the emergency room. Pops still thinks about the
scar on his cheek, I guess that’s why he likes telling the
story.

 

Conversation with a baby wolf spider


English: Female Wolf spider carrying her young...

English: Female Wolf spider carrying her young. Pictured in the sand in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. Français : Une araignée de la famille des Lycosidae transportant ses petits. Photo prise à Dar es Salaam, en Tanzanie. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

This is an old blog post from some crazy days on Myspace

 

13 October 2007

Things talk to me. Plants, trees, traffic lights, all sorts
of things. Not all of them mind you, most of them just choose
to ignore me. But I find that most of the ones I strike up a
conversation with have the courtesy to at least reply. Even if
it’s just to tell me, “F*ck off! I’m busy!”

I was just now sitting on my front porch smoking a cigarette
when I noticed a baby wolf spider perched on the white square
column across from where I was sitting. Now I love spiders of
all kinds and have had conversations with a few in my day so I
thought I would engage the little fellow in a little banter.

I walked to the pillar to get a closer look at the baby wolf
spider and issued him a greeting. I said, “Hey there! You’re
just a little baby! How are you doing?” I received no reply.
So I said, “Oh, you’re still very young. Do you know how to
speak?”

The baby wolf spider replied, “I know some words.” I was
delighted. I had made a friend.

I said, “Tell me a word.”

The spider said, “Foolishness!”

I replied, “That’s a mighty big word for such a small spider.
Do you know any others?”

The spider hesitated for a moment and then shouted,
“Jocularity!”

I replied, “Oh, how wonderful! You saw that episode of M*A*S*H
too? I better leave you alone. Thank you for your time.”

I knew the spider was busy hunting and he had already given me
enough material for this blog post so I walked back to where I
was smoking, put out my cigarette, and walked inside my house to
share my experience with you.

The world we live in is a magical place full of wonderful beings
and some of them are even human. Take the time to listen to
those tiny voices that are clamoring for your attention, you
might be surprised and delighted at what you hear.

If you can’t hear the voices of the silence then I pity you.
But there is something you can do about it! Strike up a
conversation with anything that catches your attention. You may
receive a reply and find yourself engaged in a wonderful
conversation. There’s no need to be lonely while there are so
many beautiful souls surrounding you.

Peace

 

the Buddha beneath the bridge


English: Head of the Buddha from Hadda, Centra...

English: Head of the Buddha from Hadda, Central Asia, Gandhara art, Victoria and albert Museum (London) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

the Buddha beneath the bridge

i forget his names now
though we have often talked
in different places

he lived beneath the bridges
where he kept his stuff
he couldn’t carry on his back
which wasn’t much

he never asked for anything
nor carried a sign
only desiring for his body
the change that other spirits
would not easily miss

some spare change
some food

funny that some spirits
could not even spare that