Thankgiving Day

After 14 years of going out to dinner and a movie, I spent the day in the kitchen. I knew going out would have caused more tears. I hope to watch the parade some day. I hope to watch a football game and not feel you next to me. I hope to be able to feel thankful.


The new addition to our favorites is mashed potatoes with onions and blue cheese.

Halloween and World Series

Lewis,
Had a very unhappy Halloween as I send cards out for the first time by myself. I did not get to sign Lewis and Martha. You did not send to your friends in the Poetry world " Zaj".
The small goblins are not going to have a basket full of goodies to choose from this year.


Your favorite sport has an interesting finale this year. Hope you are happy the Yankees didn't make it but neither did my Sox. I am not sure if I need to keep you posted or not. Or if you care about the daily stats in the cosmos.

Update Lewis

CBS Sunday Morning did such a puff piece on the Stinker of the House just 2 weeks before the election. You are probably having a great laugh. You know I do not normally watch this show but it was on and so I tried not to barf....

There is snow on the mountains pretty but why am I here?

I kicked you the other day. Felt good and guilty at the same time.
Still not one day goes by without love and hate for you popping up in many ways.

Writing is continuing to be slow and meager.

6 Months and Raining

Dear Lewis,

Today is the 6 month mark of your death. It is raining as is fitting. I feel like I have been on vacation from you for this time. I wonder when reality sets in?
I won after 30 tries on the 30th day.
I know you keep calling.

All my love always.
M

Happy Birthday Lewis.

Today you would have been 62.

I remember you telling me of your birth at Flower Fifth Ave. Hospital. How your mother and the doctor played cards waiting for you to arrive. As your father was overly nervous. But he celebrated the event by giving your mother a blue Caddy. The status sign of the 1940's.

You never were a big fan of memorializing the birth of someone long dead. As Public Radio does to honor the composers / poets of the day. But I want to have blog readers remember you and your wonderful words. Many are already on this blog so just read earlier posts.

Lewis Hammond Stone

I am having a blue day today.

You used to recite

roses are red
violets are blue
then you would fill in the blank
now I will add..
you have moved on
I truly miss you.

Poem found in box #1

lightning to strike us both
naked and a little saggier
our bodies flash
in brief grins of desperate light/
like snapshots of streakers
caught in defiance of sanity and custom/
while we suck and stroke
liver-spotted flesh/
that beholds welcome
drops of moisture
from a purple sky
that crackles with burnt showers
of ozone that fill our nostrils/
as your tongue washes
my cock under
the dark swaying trees/
where we hear magical sounds
which call us to
strange excitements/
while others hide/fearful
they would be seduced
by the spasm and roar/
just as Hemingway was/
as his jaws opened wide
and the cold metal barrel
must have felt so bloody
feverish like our sweaty skin
the last time/we danced
on a green slick carpet
no matter about skinned knees or elbows/
you reached behind
and I thrust in-
time to catch breathless phrases/
our lungs gasping
with voices that beg and repeat/
come/
come/
do not let me die//


Poem written in Mass after learning of a mass connected to the kidneys.

DREAMS

Last night, was the first night ever, that I saw you in my dreams. You have always been in my dreams but faceless, just a presence, a force. Last night I saw you in your green cable sweater your face your body shape, and I was grabbing for you trying to hang on the the cloth. I was screaming and crying don't leave me.

Tears on the Raspberries

As I was picking raspberries from the bushes in the backyard.I was thinking of you and our trip to Paris. We bought raspberries and cherries to share...

You wrote a couple of poems about the fruit and what it represented. As I was reminiscing I heard and then felt a few drops from the heavens. I was startled by the rain as the sky was cloudless.

So out of the blue you came to cry with me.

July 4th 2010

If you were here
you would be weeping
for your broken hearted dreams of country.
The pops songs, the drum beats, the cannonade
the glittering whistlers in the evening air. Would
cause tears to choke
your very breaths.
You left the country
you fought for
in your mind.
The proof of your
service, a whiff of
cordite in the breeze.

3 months a fiscal quater has passed

So you have been gone for 3 months today.
And I am angry.

The time and the visions are still clear sharp and very painful. Your words play over and over.

You made a wise choice.

Senator Byrd has passed

Lewis, am writing to let you know one of your relatives has passed away. Senator Byrd finally got his wish of dying in office. He will lie in state. We know he did many good and bad things in his life but he was a true historian and defender of the consitiution.

Ashes in the ocean breezes

I have not been able to write.
I did not know how difficult it would be to send your ashes out into the wind. The time was 6ish the day was sunny warm and beautiful just as it was on our wedding day 23 years ago. I sat on the cliff, near were we had our first apartment. I read a few poems from the book you wrote for me. I took part of the braid you had grown over the past few years and intertwined it with a lock I cut of my own. Our hair was the same length. I sent the circle out over the ocean.
I waited to see if I would hear chimes as you came to our nuptials with bells tied with a red ribbon in a place I was to find later.
I cried.
I scooped your bones into one of your caps, I had a baseball with me. The breeze blew you toward shore.
I miss you.

Lewis,

I just want to update you on what is happening on Earth.

The tomatoes I planted only a month ago have blossoms.

I played plumber today. I fixed the broken flush arm in the toilet tank. I know you laughed at me about being a fix it person but if I remember I still did better than you at repairs.

How about when we locked ourselves out of the apartment in Newport and I solved the problem by taking the hinges off the door. That was a great laugh for years.

Or how afraid I was when you were splitting wood.

Sorry you had to use the plunger in Florida, but I had enough to tend to and you had the knack.

Helen Thomas finally resigned from the White House press corp. Her anti-Jewish stance finally seeing the light in her advance days. I think like most people (you included) as death grows closer true feelings surface. Many are ugly.

The market was up. Though the drag down is heavy.

I fell on my knee yesterday as I was pruning the lilacs. The last time I fell was when I was visiting a few years ago and again I was pruning. You wanted me to go to a clinic. Ha the bills. You should see the bills after your death. Obama care is where?

The Red Sox are not in first place.....

Dear Lewis aka Zyskandar,

Today is the two month anniversary of your death.

Today the beans are up, the peas are inches and the pumpkins for the children are showing.

Today the Red Sox who you thought were strong are showing poorly.

Today the oil spill (which if you were here)( you would be paying for) has not stopped.

Today the North Koreans are gnashing their teeth.

Today we are clearly inching closer to an economic meltdown. Classic deflation should be the words in the idiot media language, but they need to protect jobs and the bottom line.

Today I am trying to find a moment when you are not trying to drive me crazy.

I planted this Bleeding Heart for you. It was a gift in your memory from neighbors.

I missed you today terribly. My heart hurt. My tears burned. I have no one to share the deep hurt of your passing.

You cut off all the people who knew you. Your family, anyone who might have called you friend. Posters on the web. Aside from me and God you died alone. No one to mourn your passing.

We are born alone and naked we die that way.

Keep calling.

Twin Masts

Did you presume to be the sole poet of the house?
You were the commander
of the verbose.
I trimmed your jibberish
Your prow parted the roiling seas
your white sheets full of sweat,
often becalmed.
Awaiting a cooler breeze
to alter your course
by degrees

Crab Cakes

Today is the second leg of the triple crown. I spent the last several years creating crab cakes with a basil mayonnaise sauce for you. They took all day to make. The first couple of times you helped by sitting and forming the cakes. In between watching the odds and making bets. Last year you could not help. Last year you did not bet. You felt out of touch with the universe.

Tasty?

When I was a little girl my grandfather loved to eat cottage cheese with sour cream and peaches for lunch. I thought that was nasty. I was reminded of him when my husband requested that I make the same dish for him for lunch.

book report

A Week in December
by Sebastian Faulks

3 stars is all this gets from me. I wanted to turn the pages fast to see if something better was in the offing but I was disappointed. Nice that the author wants us to see the error of our ways and reform. But which G-d does he want us to use? And which prism did he use to write this warning about our state of the world.

My Passion

I keep hearing..... find your passion.

Lewis you were my passion. You were the reason I got up and did a shit job. You were the reason I came home every evening and delighted you with your favorites. I loved being your wife. I adored you.

What now?

March Posts

So many posts in the month of March as his death was immanent. Trying to say all he could before his kidneys failed. Trying to post as many poems as possible, older ones he pulled out of his trunk. Hard to read as his spelling went awry, as his brain was oxygen starved and hungry.

I am struggling with his decision not to tell me of his choice to die in this painful way. But I realise the option may have been another stroke. I could not have continued to care for him if his physical condition had been worse than it was. I do thank him for letting us both be free.

Flowers

Today I realized I would never receive flowers from you again..
The last time you sent me a vase full of pink tulips was March 9. Twenty three years to the day that I asked you to marry me. You said yes...

You drew so many tulips for me. Some red but most were pink.
I will plant pink tulips for you.

Cosmic Fart

I assume Lewis that you had a cosmic fart with the markets yesterday.

Farts were your funny bone. The noise the idea. While you were in the emergency room with the mask on that was giving you a bit of oxygen for your starved brain, the seal would break and the sound was a funny fart. I said, Honey, your favorite noise. The nurses chuckled.

Tri Jet

I watched with tears the Derby today. The Whitney's built Churchill Downs. He was angry when his uncle sold the track. Lewis was a passionate horse lover. He trained, he bet he read all the stats knew all the blood lines. He wished to play the sport of kings. He once told me he had forgotten more about horses than most people knew. His heart was broken by one that had broken both forelegs. She had to be put down. Hence the explanation of a couple of his poems.

If any one is reading this and wants the poems... comment....

French Cuffs

Today I returned the white french cuff shirt you asked me to buy in March. As you tried it on over your tee shirt and sweater, you pulled yourself erect and set your jaw. Observing the image of the young man who once worked on Wall Street. Remembering when you wore suits with designer names and you were a force to be dealt with.
I had wondered at the time why you wanted the shirt. You hadn't put on a dress shirt in years.Even before the second stroke 5 years ago. Your stance was shorts or full dress.
Your desire for the life you once led became stronger and clearer as your kidneys became more distressed.
You were once so hot to the touch I loved to snuggle up for warmth in the winter. You came to feel the cold, even in the heat of Florida. You wore long gym pants tees and a blue cashmere sweater that matched your eyes. I won't return the sweater so I can wear it on days I need to.

5 weeks

so 5 weeks ago you physically left. so today it snowed. as the bruja said you would meet a woman from the land of ice and snow from an island but not your island and she would be the one. i brought you home to the land of ice and snow. so will share you with the islands soon.

Notes to myself

The bruises have almost faded. I want to remember them. The ones on my legs from holding you as I tried in vain to spoon water into you. The one on my foot from moving. The one in my heart will never heal.


I made yellow jello for you. You had two spoonfuls.

I bought your favorite candy for you. I was saving it for Easter. You left on Palm Sunday. I hope you found those sugary citric pieces. I threw them to the wind.

Every time I tried to kiss you aside from a brush of lips, you laughed. You had no control over your emotions after the stroke. No poker face, no stopping your tears. Depression and paranoia were your friends.

I hate you

I just wanted you to know I hate you and hope you are rotting in the sewer. LEWASS

The Greatest Show on Earth

As I go through the bits of Jaimot's life I found

the circus would rest
winters in florida sun
banyan trees gave shade
animals and performers
drowsing in winds of applause

published fall 2000


I remember going to the Ringling Museum in Fla. We strolled through the grounds. We were surprised by the floor to celling oils in the mansion. Thought the posters quaint. Talked of when we were young and enjoyed the circus in NYC. He with his family. I at a later date with mine.

I have realized that I can read his words and enjoy the memories we shared and created.

I need to correct the known

In Open Salon Stellaa wrote that she knew he was Jewish. Not Jewish very Anglican and proper. Had children no we wished to ...but could not... broke our hearts, but made us even closer.
Was married only once, to me.
He was a great challenge to live with. Anger was the third person in the room. Never knew when it would boil to the surface. Sometimes I would be angry back and would be threatened with death. Always he would apologize and always I would forgive.

zaj is laughing

As he wrote over and over goldman sucks is the worst example of greed. He had been warning for years of their graft. So i am sure he is having the big Ha HA Ha Ha Ha HA.....

Sunday week three of a soul passing into the mist

This evening at sixish will mark the third week of the passing of Lewis aka Zyskandar. I felt him leave. I knew he had gone and stated the fact as I stared out into the mist. Into a twisted tree out the window. He came to check in on me, somehow he let me know of his passing.
We were married at sixish, he passed into the realm of , and his hand in mine cooled at sixish.

I was loved, am still loved by my warrior ~ poet

Rain

I think today the rain is washing his ashes into the earth.
The remains are few if any. I am the only person who is mourning his passing. What should have been a wonderful life dissolved into paranoia. All your secrets are now being washed out. Your God knows the truth.

Poetry Muse ?

I am posting this to the open salon poet wakingupslowly. Are you as out of your mind as he was? Do you think he told you truths? A man who in the last months of his life went back in his mind to when he was happiest. Back to where he met me, and decided to marry for once and forever. What gives you the right to invade my grief? When all you have is half truths and fantasy? Did you hold his hand when he died? Did you see the imprint of his wedding band on his finger?

Today is the widow's birthday

Today is my birthday and I am very lonely for my best friend. But as I wrote in the last post he is out of touch. I hope Lewis has sent me a birthday thought and a big hug. He held my hand until the last and squeezed.

JAIMOT is part of the cosmos

Today is Easter Sunday. Jaimot's body left this world on Tuesday. He is now watching all of us with his red pen.
I was in title his wife, I was the basis for his ability to think. I took care of the body he took care of the world. He was interested in everything. His memory was lightning fast. As was his temper. He did not suffer fools. He asked students to THINK , examine, question, and to follow ther true inner path.
I know he is happier. He was hampered by poor health a frustration for a man who loved sports. I am unsure what to write as an obit.

So what I know...
He attened the Groton School in Mass. Where they have graduated students who went on to be president. (The headmaster had high hopes for him) He then enlisted in the Army and became a ranger and spent time in Vietnam. He was awarded various medals which at a later time I believe he threw out. He returned to earn degrees at a couple of schools. Then he attended Harvard Law as he was the only member of his family that has not attended since the founding of the school and because his Mother wanted him to. His field of study was the constitution.
He had a trainers license and raced horses. He had great stories about the sport of kings. He was a stock broker part of his blood. He was very interested in Antiques we went to auctions and shops to find uniques. He wrote for a couple of newspapers. He did reviews for Kurkus. He sold cars (so if he was going to hell he had a good rason) He drove a taxi in NYC where he was born. He owned a company or two. He could cook if the spirit moved him ( though he never made an apple pie)
He waited for me ... he had decided not to marry until we met in Newport. Then he would wait for me to come home to him.. as I went about my daily job of keeping us intact. He would read to me his blogs, his poems or late at night when I could not sleep he would read children's poetry to sent me off to Nod. He sleep pattern was fits and starts. An idea would happen the blue eyes would open and in a blink action. Like the movies the family movie was Gone with the Wind. His favorite actor was Brando. Everybody does Brando.
He was passionate about politics.
He was passionate about America.


He wrote as ZAJ because he wanted his words to stand on merit.
His real name was Lewis Hammond Alexander Edward Whitney Stone

ACORN and its ongoing criminality will haunt 'the OBAMA'!!!

The ongoing criminal conspiracy known under the umbrella of ACORN will now take center stage as the HEALTH CARE push for so-called reform abates. It will be proven that 'the OBAMA' had more than a passing relationship with these racketeers/fraudsters and enlisted that paragon of bought-and-ezily-paid-for probity ERIC HOLDER his appointed AG to further obfuscate and hide ACORN's culpability as well as misfeasance+malfeasance and outright fraud with government monies+contracts. For those keeping 'track' on my veracity please notice i was correct on exposing the nuclear sites in IRAN more than ayear before this 'fact' was exposed by the NATIONAL ASSHOLE MEDIA and i will be proved correckt about CARGO SHIPS employed to ferry BUNKER BUSTER bombs from Diego Garcia. 'the OBAMA' will be indicted, impeached and for the second time in our generation a DEMBHOLE PRESIDENTE and his ATTORNEY-GENERAL will be tried by the United States Congress - and this time he and HOLDER will be both be convicted for contributing to the ongoing criminal enterprise known as ACORN!!! WHERE WILL YOU TURN TO FLEE 'the OBAMA??? YOUR 'FRIENDS IN CHICAGO OR YOUR BOYHOOD FRIENDS IN INDONESIA??? In any event good riddens to a MARXIST DICTATOR who was really not NOT that smart. The count to your impeachment and prosecution begins now - the 21st day of March, 2010. How is all that 'HOAX & CHANGE' working-out??? ha!

this white boy, as regards AG ERIC'bought/paid-for-by-Marc-Rich-monies'HOLDER --

completely agrees with Mr. HOLDER's view that once in United States control or on UNITED STATES sovereign soil - all terrorists should be afforded 'rights' of Amerikan citizens. That farce holding them in Guantanamo wuithout trial - is just that a farce, and diminishes this country as much as Mr. HOLDER diminished his office by allowing himself to be bought by MARC RICH or DYCKEHEAD CLINTON monies!!!

Wearin' o' the Green - Molly Malone for St. Paddy's Day!!!

O Paddy dear, and did ye hear the news that's goin' round?The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground!No more Saint Patrick's Day we'll keep, his color can't be seenFor there's a cruel law ag'in the Wearin' o' the Green."I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the handAnd he said, "How's poor old Ireland, and how does she stand?""She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seenFor they're hanging men and women there for the Wearin' o' the Green."


In Dublin's fair city,Where girls are so pretty,I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone,As she pushed her wheelbarrowThrough streets broad and narrow,Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh"!
Chorus:Alive, alive oh! alive, alive oh!Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh"!
2. Now she was a fishmonger,And sure twas no wonder,For so were her mother and father before,And they each wheeled their barrow,Through streets broad and narrow,Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh"!Chorus:
3. She died of a fever,And no one could save her,And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone.Now her ghost wheels her barrow,Through streets broad and narrow,Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh"!Chorus:

'the OBAMA' says we'll reduce payments by 3000% for...

your HEALTH CARE!!! REALLY??? This must be why MACY's one of the largest retailers in the world has decided to eliminate nearly all their full time employees - and hire part timers who they do not have to pay benefits including HEALTH CARE!!! 'the OBAMA' LIES and LIES and the ASSHOLE NATIONAL MEDIA does not make him prove these absolutely ludicrous claims!!! THERE WILL BE NO PRIVATE HEALTH CARE UNDER 'theBAMA' JUST GOVERNMENT PROVIDING SUB-STANDARD CARE AS IN THE REST OF THE WORLD WITH NO FULL TIME JOBS FOR ANYONE EXCEPT GOVERNMENT WORKERS AND EDUCATION PROVIDERS MANAGED/RUN BY THE SAME GOVERNMENT WHO MISMANAGED THE POST OFFICE AND NOW IS RUNNING THE 'AUTO INDUSTRY' TO BENEFIT THEIR FRIENDLY THUGS IN THE UNIONS!!!

the 'scam' of building in Jerusalem...

was orchestrated so the citizens of Estados Unidos would not notice/realize that the United States Military has chartered 10 cargo ships to transport BLU bombs more commonly known as 'bunker-busters' to a secret location off the Arabian Gulf!!! Is this action the work of 'the OBAMA' to fook IRAN - or merely to aid the IsrealiDefenseForce in making these special bombs more easily available when the bombing of the nuclear facilities begins in IRAN? THIS HISSY FIT BY 'hairplug-idiot'JOE and "...asbestos-pants-suit'HILLARY IS MERELY POSTURING AND A DIVERSION TO MAKE-NICE WITH THE PALESTINIANS!!! Some 'transparent foreign policy'eh? Almost as good as HOAX&CHANGE...Pass the red beet soup borscht and matzoh ball soup please. The PALESTINIANS and IRANIS so-o-o-o-os FOOKED yet again by Amerikan duplicity.

PETER GRAVES - best known for 'Mission Impossible' series - is dead...

PETER GRAVES, actor, best associated for his role on 'Mission Impossible', on the television hit series - is dead. Mr. GRAVES also played in the move 'Stalag 17' as the German infiltrator of the American Air Force prisoners. WHAT IS NOT WELL KNOWN OR REPORTED IS THAT 'MR. GRAVES' IS/WAS THE BROTHER OF JAMES ARNESS OF TV'S 'GUNSMOKE FAME' AND MR. ARNESS STARRING ROLE OF THE SY-FY MOVIE 'THE THING'. Goodbye PETER GRAVES we will miss your soft deprecating humor.

in shadowy days - for the birthday of miss margaret smith on St. Patty's day!!!

in shadowy days

in shadowy days

in shadowy days
irish poets sang stories
songs of witness and rememberance

about a past that never happened

but they wished for it so mightily
that they forgot themselves
afterwards
lying
on safe glorious green sod

spent after they had stolen
golden moments of syllables
from faraway stars...

what is going on in PUERTO RICO???

The GrossDomesticProduct figures of PUERTO RICO - yes Asociado libre de PUERTO RICO or the entire Commonwealth of PUERTO RICO - is now less LESS than the GrossDomesticProduct of the DOMINICAN REPUBLIC - or REPUBLICA DOMINICANA!!! THE GROSS DOMESTIC PRODUCT IS A MEASURE OF A COUNTRY'S ECONOMIC OUTPUT. IT IS THE MARKET VALUE OF ALL GOODS AND SERVICES MADE WITHIN THE BORDERS OF A COUNTRY. IT THE GDP IS LINKED WITH THE STANDARD OF LIVING. PUERTO RICO in the early 1970's led all Carribean nations/countries/islands in GDP and productivity - what has happened??? The economy on the isla de PUERTO RICO is in 'disaster mode'!!! There are more people on welfare/assistance than working/employed. There are approximately 4million people in PUERTO RICO - 50% of the girls/women are pregnant or have had babies without husbands and we the citizens of Estados Unidos are paying for their welfare/child care - and their lack of education for being productive members of society besides contributing to the 'death spiral' of PUERTO RICO's economic future!!! WHAT IS GOING ON IN PUERTO RICO???

why 'the OBAMA' is a failure...

President BARACH HUSSEIN OBAMA was elected because a) he was Black, b) he could read from a telepooper, c) he promised hope&change to all Amerikans, d) he was supposed to remove 'Whitey's guilt' from 100's of years of oppression by White's to all minorities, e) he was the savior of the DumbDembhole Party of Douchesbags, f) he was an Ivy league guy who was oh-so-smart!!! What was overlooked in this election was the LIES, DAMN LIES - 'the OBAMA' stated in his book and the obvious fackt that he was a fookn Marxist!!! 'the OBAMA' could/would have gone down in the history books as a 'great President' if he had taken the 2700 page ridiculous so-called bill on HEALTH CARE and added 'TORT REFORM' + INSURANCE POTABILITY INTRASTATE to this labyrinthine mess - AND THE AMERIKAN PEOPLE(both Republicuntz and Dembholes and others) would have rejoiced that HEALTH CARE REFORM was finally done!!! But true to his bottom-feeder Msarxist/Socialismo tenets and lack of his ability to 'listen/heed' the desires/wishes of the people -'the OBAMA' while dining on $100 dollar a pound Kobi beef at the WhiteHoue and using AirForce-1 for dinner dates with Michelle in NYC while the nation is gripped in an economic crisis partly of his making - 'the OBAMA' convinced of his own immenseness/of his own brilliance/of his own despotic destiny - would rather attempt to inflict his views on all of us by fiat thuggwery the 'Chicago way'!!! 'the OBAMA' whether he is able to Rahm-through this warped vision of HEALTH - has now doomed the DEMBHOLES to an immense defeat in 2010 that may MAY vault the REPUBLICUNTZ back into power in both the House-of-Fools and place-of-Senaturds! DEMBHOLES will quiescently slip into their place at the squishy/slimy bottom of the political pond - true bottom feeders praying on the misfortunes/ills of society while offering/doing nothing to ease situations which in part they have created with REPUBLICUNTZ only for their own profit with the taxpayers monies!!! 'the OBAMA' aka the BLACK PUNK FLY SWATTER-n-CHIEF knows nothing of 'the will of the people' and does not care as it was never printed on his telepooper - only LIES and DAMN LIES about his not NOT taking over the AUTO INDUSTRY(which he did), about him not taking over the BANKS + WALL STREET(which he did while promising to 'regulate' bonuses which he did by authorizing his CEO @GM with a $9million dollar bonus package the same as his buddy Lloyd Blankfein@GOLDMAN SUCKS!), about him not regulating everyone's pay-scale at banks, insurance companies, businesses(which he did with a 'Pay-Czar' not appointed by congress but by 'the OBAMA' hisself!), about him not taking over the government(which he has subtly done by moving 'the CENSUS BURAU' under the auspices of the WhiteHouse and disabling it from the COMMERCE SECRETARY + BUREAU!), --- in short this a greater imperial presidency adoration society than any imagined by that bad-legged monster REPUBLICUNTZ would-be-king RICHARD NIXON!!! How is all that promised HOAX & CHANGE working out for you almost 20 million unemployed [yes that is the real figure not just 14 or so million!] while 'the OBAMA' enjoys the wealth of this workers paradise in the new premiership of OBAMALAND??? ALL HAIL 'the OBAMA' our new COMMIESIR who has brought '...this brave new world before us"!!! ha brother can you spare a dime make that a buck or two for a Starbuck's??? 'the OBAMA' a failure of his own warped MARXIST CREATION MYTH.

for this Easter --- FRANK PEPE'S PIZZERIA NAPPOLETANA

FRANK PEPE'S PIZZERIA NAPPOLETANA
Serving New Haven Since 1925
Phone 865-5762157 Wooster St. New Haven, Connecticut-----------------------------------------

In this sacred Lenten season,
silent men work, precisely arranging dough
to accommodate appetites aroused by aromas
of sweet green basil, pungent garlic, creamy mozzarella.

Because pizza is a slice of Neopolitan imagination,
the secrets of its creation, to be passed
through toil from master to apprentice and on again.

Whispered recipes, spoken as if to eager disciples.
Placed into charcoal fired ovens which never rest
in the Italian section of this city.

The pleasure of anticipation fills the air, when
taste and smell remind all that special seasons of love exist.

But we have become immune to an execution of life,
waiting outside as an April afternoon warms
with hints of chaotic spring. We enjoy the sun,
hoping to satisfy our hungers while out beyond our view,
death waits.

Never acknowledged by a present generation
of pastel shirted Yalies; who have come to initiate tongues
with speechless truths cooked within delicious ethnic excess.
Privileged seekers of knowledge, oblivious as to how
the world works - or what it means to suffer, stand in line.

We turn our backs to everyday humdrum existence.
Gathering for admittance trying to maintain
our place without exhibiting how we desire advanced status,
assuming the sophisticates pose of aloofness.

Like a scene, magnificent cultured ladies and gentleman,
of unquestioned quality, painted by Pierro della Francesca,
centuries before. All these fine people, so self-concerned,
so self-consumed, as if they could be discussing
the inconsequential perfect blue of the sky.
On an April day not so different from today.
While a man is scourged in a fine colonnaded piazza,
flooded with overhead embarrassed sunlight.
His cries of pain mute, drowned out by the hum
from banalities by this group's trivial conversation.
A seemingly remarkable event, this flagellation,
transpiring unnoticed.

Much like the dark, square, sweaty men
who earn their lives from these charcoal ovens.
Never thought of but silently stoking furnaces,
then allowing subpanation to cook and gently grow.
As if awaiting for angels of golden brownness
to rise and miraculously appear.
Creating combinations of substance and spirit
which delight the senses. Carrying on tradition.
Always ordered by the whim and patronage of the crowd.
Workers sometimes unable to avoid singeing meaty fingers
as they tend wheels and slices of life, arranged
over flames from this world's ongoing labor.
© By Zyskandar A. Jaimot On 3/6/2007 8:45:56 PM

the future for ISREAL and IRAN...

unleashed in a nanosecond – DAEMONS to despoil the world…


Whisps of a dream
a vision
pornographic in nature
i am alone
watching our own destruction
by beings created - created in our fervid ejaculatory madness
the egg lays there waiting to hatch – alembic in amoral innocence.
and i feel cold
i shiver
from fear
and from the air temperature
kept frigid
by giant refrigeration systems
chilling those hot coils/wires
freezing destructive desire

those mechanical prods

Raw

undressed
about the size and width
2.5 meters of an adult porpoise
innocent
frolick freely
while losing
heat to
the universe’s quantum waves

Encased
in a latex bodice
like
a
dominant mistress.
Shiny
Silvery
Stainless steel struts
hold
parts
conjoined in breathless expectation
as the corset presses
every damned gasp of air

Wrapped
by layers of valuable,
oh-so valuable gold leaf
to increase desire’s fervor
Fashioned
with priapic polyethylene protrusions,
little fake dildos. Only to penetrate once.
To extract life’s essence
only for an instant of transmogrified time.
Like the allure of film stars
able to entice from via mere visions and sounds
a shuddering momentary

breathless encounter.

Seduced

by the power of fission
to shatter
the air’s invulnerability
with copper threads
that strangle and cut
the dark dull grey core of plutonium.
Lusting
to escape with a whoosh of heat
more vicious.
than ten thousand thousand Suns’.

Able to melt the colours
from butterflies’ wings.

Thin bands of deuterium
as translucent as white frothy sea foam
relentlessly breaking the sandy shore
of our indurate creation.
Pornography has a new permissive nature
to destroy us all in waves of sudden desire.

Amorality awaits - to immolate all life.

flying on swings of love...

Flying
On
A
Swing
Giant
Arcs
Where
I would
Push
And
You would
Pull
Over fields
Planted
With
Seeds
Of
Poptarts
Carrots
Politics
Passion
Desire
Created
From our
Dripping
Nurturing
leavings
Of
Love’s
Embrace
Which
Brought
Us both
Unexpected
Joy
two
Adults
Once
Again
Able
To
Enjoy
That
Soaring
Swing
Of
Life.

Senaturd ENSIGN Republicuntz Asshole!!!

Senaturd JOHN ENSIGN REPUBLICUNTZ of Nevada - solicited jobs+employment for the husband of his mistress emails and FBIwiretaps disclosed. Douglas Hampton was the beneficiary of Senaturd ENSIGN's doing a variety of the 'nasties'/nawties with CYNTHIA HAMPTON - Mr. Hampton's wife. It is not clear whether Mr. Hampton knew of and encouyraged the relationship with CYNTHIA and SENATURD ENSIGN - who is also married. So-o-o-o-os what we has here is a REPUBLICUNTZ SENATURD involved with a woman not his wife where her husband 'benefits' from job offers because he is either her cuckold or pimp! QUITE THE ARRANGEMENT IN NEVADA, no? Or whatever happens in Nevada even to a REPUBLICUNTZ SENATURD gets spashed across the press by the NATIONAL ASSHOLE MEDIA - buttz at least there is some solace - at least SENATURD ENSIGN wasn't 'caught' with say a horse or coyote having really un-natural relations!!! Just doing favors for the husband of his mistress/whore - a consensual sex act between two consenting and eager adults - where her husband gets job help. Say is this part of the 'Stimulus Plan' under the FOOK-MY-WIFE-GET-ME-A-JOB-PLAN??? Way to go SENATURD ENSIGN - you get FOOKED and you are helping the 'economy' in Nevada - you schmuck!!!

posted a year ago - nothing's changed in the ECONOMY!!!

The 'Great WALL STREET SCAM of March 23, 2009'...
Today, March 23, 2009, WALL STREET rocketed ahead on the TIM'goffer-for Goldman-Sucks' GEITHNER/BARACH'incurably-dishonest'OBAMA SCAM of allowing the US TAXPAYER to assume the 'risk' in the toxic loan scandal!!! GOLDMAN-SUCKS+other corrupt big banks called their clients and bought the 'market' so they could make money and bugger the rest of the stoopid AMERIKAN PUBLIC. This SCHEME places the onus on the AMERIKAN TAXPAYER to assume the bad/toxic-debt/of-these-crapped out banks with virtually no risk to them - who wouldn't be happy in having all risk and bad debt transferred off your ledger sheets - and on the backs/account of someone else??? AND WALL STREET CELEBRATED THIS SCAM/SCHEME BY ROCKETING AHEAD!!! HOORAY WE'VE BUGGERED THE AMERIKAN PEOPLE/THE WORLD YET AGAIN!!! The deficit in this country will now soar geometrically each year of our new enslaved indebtedness. All hail 'the OBAMA' our new COMRADE DICTATOR and manipulator/master of millions of dumb-butt-head DEMBHOLE MARXIST MORONS.
Posted by Jaimot's Jargon at 5:40 PM

AL GORE - still at it...

In a long op-ed piece for The New York Slimes the other day, AL'fat-fuck'GORE cranked up the doomsday rhetoric. Human beings, he warned, “face an unimaginable calamity requiring large-scale, preventive measures to protect human civilization as we know it.’’ His 1,900-word essay made no mention of his financial gain or the fackt that the NYSlimes readership is down to 40% of its halcion, everybody must read, the NYSlimes will set the national if no World's agenda as tio what is importabnt and what not. AL'fat-fuck'GORE use a condom for the calamity that has become your mouthy sales-pitches for you and your GLOBAL WARMING PROFITEERS! Oh by the way - PAUXATAWNEY PHIL predickts 6 more weeks of wuinter in your GLOBAL WARMING HEAT-WAVE!!! You are as aburd ridiculous as Carmen Miranda dancing around with bowls of fruit on her head!

The Women’s Hoop Game - in honor of UCONN's record...

The Women’s Hoop Game

They run the hardwood floor
like careful commuters
weaving through crazy rush-hour traffic.
Stopping to occasionally put-up ‘bricks’.
Snapshots of sometimes off-balance shots,
from women with big-sneakered feet.

But none scowl, mouths open,
like their Black male counterparts yelling
as if they were ‘wild men’ painted by Munch.
Hanging from hoops – anger contorted and flexed
in biceps/forearms which showcase
tattoos of high-priced felons out for play.

Like Blanche, women who need hugs
and exist among different teaming
cities of strangers – try not to throw-up or shoot
any airball – airball – airball.
Pretending that the fans, the game, the referees,
and above all rim bounces; will always be kind.

Sean Penn says..

any Amerikan calling/labeling HUGO'phatty'CHAVEZ a 'dictator' should be arrested and imprisoned in this country!!! Hmmm - that act of imprisonment is far less severe than that which happens to 'phatty'CHAVEZ's opponents in VENEZUELA - they are summarily executed or become one of the thousands of 'desiderias'(the disappeared) and merely vanish. PENN a self professed COMMIE is from a long line of COMMIE SYMPS - his father being 'blacklisted' in the 1950's for Hollywood's aversion to 'their fellow travelers' and RED-LOVERS! Way to go Mr. PENN you sure do believe in freedom don't you - as long as you and your 'fellow travelers' determine just who ought to be free for saying what!!! COMMIES always the first to put limits on expression despite all their bullshitters bravado!

ON MAKING LOVE IN A LESBIAN HOUSEHOLD

ON MAKING LOVE IN A LESBIAN HOUSEHOLD

(“The pressures TO CONFORM in a society increasingly conservative in mood
have become more intense.” p.24 Blood Bread & Poetry, Compulsive Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence, essays by Adrienne Rich)

You led me to that nest
set squarely among the Somerville working classes

You led me by the hand
to stretch us both precariously
on sheets accustomed
only to women’s scented ceremony
The puzzle of our coupling
waiting to be unraveled
as if liking the same trendy vermicelli
or the latest theories on chromosomes
could hold some secret for attraction
in their twisty sweaty coils

Which could never explain
Annie’s disdainful mouth
muttering something about“a strange alien aura”
invading their space
Or Lisa seated downstairs in her velvet chair
silent as if attending a wake
pulling her headband ever-tighter
that made her eyes bulge from hateful sockets
consecrating sisterhood in a rosary of pain

Both of them jealous suitors

Both of them unwilling to let you love
outside their sorority

And when you broke faith with moonlit shadows
as you blushed crimson before a stranger
Still afraid that I like those
you had been taught to fear
Would spear you with infected want
and then demand to shave your silky stubble
into bloody furrows of Rosarch blots
only to drip cultivating seeds of maleness
Between your knees that smelled of lilacs
on a naked carpet of exhausted innocence
Where we combined easily

in ripples of laughter

Effortless while we joined at the hip
as Paul Horn’s lute played inside
the Taj Mahal of our minds that built
a refuge for pilgrims

about to embark
on a new journey of immersion

And our breaths echoed in responsive dharmas
all during the nights and daysof that hide—and—seek pastel Autumn
While mystical music
of our arrangement

Blanketed us both

in the consequence of gentle sleep.

“I have laid aside business, and gone a-fishing”*

“I have laid aside business, and gone a-fishing”*
(*from the COMPLEAT ANGLER by Izaak Walton, 1653)

When the world is asleep,
still blurred by night’s dreams,

fishermen come quietly to this stream
seeking solitude.
Plying ancient
skill, enjoying moments of possession
when glistening beauty is theirs alone.

Mists cloak mysteries of life from
these still somnambulant voyeurs at this quiet refuge.

Standing in the flowing spring water,
a solitary fisher waves a fishing pole like
some gigantic Prospero’s wand,

summoning spirits — willing
‘MorningDunn’ Mayflies to hatch;
which magically conjures fish.

Suddenly - this fisherman
throws his rod away,
and begins beating on
a wicker tackle box like a ceremonial drum.
An inexplicable manic outburst – or is it?

A booming call to others,
who would be enraptured by sonic ripples.
Is he mentally unstable - or merely overcome
by the drowsy truth of nature?
As if he was some errant meteor –
streaming through peaceful air, off-kilter off-course
leaving only his wake of dissonance in rippling
shock-waves.

Then he bounces and leaps like a choice frog,
plump with laughter.
First on one foot then another.
Causing the sleek dark
forms of pooling trout to scuttle away into
swifter sparge-sloshing water.

Broken glimmers
of still morning’s in tangerine-coloured dawn
are betrayed by his quixotic hardihood.

His noisome antics disrupt the introspective reflection
of other anglers, who have laid aside
cares of the world’s business,
to pick up artificial lures and bright feathers;
so they might snare and reel truth from fresh depths –
bringing realization of their spiritual quests.
Averting eyes from
this cosmic river brimming with precious fish.
Some would tackle him now and put
an end to madness.
But all these fishers wish to feel
sudden pleasures of the line.
The process
of learning to fish - drifts along with
hope, delicate; because success coupled
with disappointment is a test of character,
taken over and over.

His outrageous behavior,
ructiously annoying at first, fails to
penetrate consciousness or bugslippery
protection of cutters oil
and zippered vests -
full of pocketed secrets that are required
trappings for this society.
Eventually, infectious energy snags others
with smiles and chuckles
amid interrupted visions of limitless
rainbow blessings.
Irresistible, much as
bobbing silky bait which catches men
in fathomless revelation.
There is no
escaping the obvious: men usually fake dancing!
Except maybe Mikhail Baryshnikov or the
'late' James Brown or confident John Travolta
who are frequent
practitioners of an impulse to let one’s
self-go,
which becomes an art in the joy
of waking bodies.
When men can encounter
instant reality at wonder of the self.
Just as these men do now, before their season is
over.
Throwing off confinements of slick-
rubber waders
to spin wildly naked in
chilled streams.
Overcome by unseen
mischiefish urgings.
Finding their best
catch, among moments of bizarre release.
Splashings of unlikeliness which
produce joyful connections only witnessed
by fellow fishermen.

Immersed with the spirit,
casting fly hooks

of landless inhibition, out into immeasurable
currents and beyond.

Dreams of Marilyn Monroe

Dreams of Marilyn Monroe

Her curves
cause us to desire the dead,
like men accursed.

Wishing to feed
that pouty mouth
the same way
ancient Aegyptians
left food and lavish offerings
for spirits

exhumed
by forbidden curses
from the mummy’s tomb.

Her image of pink sensuous flesh,
partially unwrapped;
teasing us
daring us
finally
summoning us
to our preordained fates…

When our imaginations run so extremely hot,
like engine radiators boiling over;
ghosts
sap
our strength.

This is the way
You effect me my luv
I boil over every tyme
I think about you
As you tease me
Dare me
Summoning me to
My glorious fate with you
Forever
my mate.

wounded BULL sketched on a bar-nap

wounded BULL sketched on a bar-nap

Of all Picasso's works
i have seen the drawings the paintings
some with both eyes placed on one-sided faces

regarding us in absolute staring mania

the abstract collages of outrageous cubist colours
some with explanatory titles some not
i remember most the sketch on that bar-nap
the size of an overlarge canteloupe
shining like some large lucent egg of intellect

A bull’s head it seemed three times normal size
almost as large as Senor Pablo's ego

No connection to body or form

Somehow tuned to the universal

At the start - the sand in the bullring
was free and clean
Much like the images of that Spanish Miura fighting BULL
This BULL'S large black bulk
ready to snort and chargeLike the 'MINOTAUR' of myth - a primal force
Then after more absinthe
the image changed in ‘blurred haze’

Lines on a cocktail napkin
A head lying there and i imagined it could be
a Dagon tribal mask of fearsome spirit
or maybe it was a Neanderthal species of sacrifice
or some succubus waiting to steal my soul
or Yorrick's skull held by an invisible character
or a death's head enigma symbolizing Nazi SS nightmare

And i stared at that representation
wondering if souls intersect like lines
coming together from different dimensions
of some vast unknown hypotenuse

And as i stared the BULL seemed to pulse
but i could not touch those black furrows
cut deep into that smooth yet white linen wildness of napkin
stroked with black lines
a jagged creature or intentional desecration

which tried to release that which was buried or resurrected in blood
on that sandy bullring floor

The head – massive and then suddenly melting
deteriorating just a dark umber hole
its tongue severed which is where and how
all artists must begin in soundlessness

But we still hear the wild bellows of this beast
if only in our minds eye

For what is an artist?
if he is not to catch lightning

if he is not to create thunder

if he is not to freeze time in unravelled light

if he is not too create and then magically transform

For what is an artist of realities gained from absinthe?
lying there – a bull suspended on a bar-nap
lying there – a bull with its open wounds bled raw
lying there – a bull changed by a thousand different visions

It is a black outline at the start
marked forever by potential power and bulk
leading to lines that could be anything
stretched and protruded
beyond form as if these features
were a bird's weightless bones
a simple miracle
soaring upwards to clouds
of incomprehensible miracles

Black lines on a white linen bar-nap
Our minds trying to comprehend
your ongoing creations
that so move us all.

the state of the 'ECONOMY'...

As another 36,000 workers(actually considerably more as between 15-25,000 temporary census workers buoyed the unemployment totals despite 'snow-storms' right Mr. Larry'laffabulz'Summers) found themselves adding to the 14million or so-o-os already out-of-luck out-of-jobs in this HOAX&CHANGE ECHOCHAMBER run by the Black-Fly-Swatter-n-Chief COMMIESIR 'the OBAMA' and his Marxist badwagon of Senaturds led by Harry'bought-and-paid-for-by-the-Vegas-mob'Reid who thinks/says its great "...we only lost 36,000 jobs last month" - just think we are sooner to celebrating/enjotying/marking the end of your 'JOB' on us in Washington SENATURD and so many of your ilk! You are a fool acxtually basking in the fackt that only 36,000 jobs were lost! You are the kind of politician out-of-touch wuth reality SENATURD!!! The 'ECONOMY' is in the dumper SENATURD - and the ASSHOLE NATIONAL MEDIA refuses REFUSES to report that up to 17% of the wealthiest citizens of Amerika - have fled this country because of your ridiculous actions in the USCONGRESS along with REPREHENSIBLE NANCY'sphinctur-of-the-House-of-Fools'PELOSI and the COMMIESIR acktions of 'the OBAMA' as premier - incomes wealth taxes that your country will not see benefit from! NOW GO DO ALL YOUR OUTLANDISH 'PORK PROGRAMS' FOR ALL YOUR DEMBHOLE DOUCHESBAGS WITH THAT MUCH LESS INCOME - TAKE IT OUT OF THE MONIES YOU HAVE STOLEN IN YOUR TERM AS A SENATURD - WORKING FOR THE PEOPLE - HA - WORKING TO ENRICH YOURSELF AND YOUR FAMILY & FRIENDS YOU SHITHEAD!!! Some economy - an echochamber of dumb dumb DEMBHOLE-DOUCHESBAGS telling themselves they will just TAX the rich - ha! Well there won't be ant 'rich' to TAX! MORONS!

I empty

I empty

myself
into
you
And wonder
afterwards
lying spent
at times
still twitching
if recovery
will include
those same
small dreams
whispered
once again.

YOUNG GIRLS CHRISTENED WITH NAMES OF SAINTS…..

YOUNG GIRLS CHRISTENED WITH NAMES OF SAINTS…..

in the hurriedness of the bloom of teenaged heat
recite dutiful daytime promises. Rosaries

soon forgotten in reverberations of electric guitars
accompanied by neon streaked hair scented

by a studded leather subculture.
Young girls dressed in names of saints ache.

Encumbered by pleated skirts
of plaid supervision just as their mothers before them -

who never realized their parents could feel
the blush of teenaged heat. Or speak a language

only understood in the restlessness of youth.
Young girls swear the names of saints

as they smart from the public sting
of wooden parochial rule.

Only to sneak secret puffs of supposed cigarette sophistication.
On lips that crave caresses sweetened

by cherry—coke syrup which stains pink-tongues
the deep blood colour of awakened nipples

corseted in starched spotless white shirts
that smell of laundered uniform purity.

Young girls invoke the name of saints
watched over by that statue of the Madonna.

Unlike any video star; steadfast and approachable.
Dressed in robes of porcelain patinaed piety.

Eroded in certain scumbled spots where
anxious hands hurriedly rub gold crosses.

While prayers are said before first dates for luck
in flames from votive candles

that send out sparks of giddy expectation.
Which makes hair burnished and brushed Renoir-red

brighter than a Magdalene’s burning.
Young girls intoxicated with the swirl of secrets,

travel throughout old neighborhoods where
the night summons them - from cloistered rooms

to stairs of roof top walk—ups.
Which leads always to the most basic

and worrisome desires.In the natural air
of unrepentant stormy youth charged

with an electricity of sex.Young girls watch
as their mothers kneel in the sacred shadow

of a faience figure.Which glistens with comfort and inner peace.
Mothers now painfully aware of how

teenagers grow and couple lost in devotion.
As they reverently pray just as their mothers

before them - yet hoping to summon
and invoke the help of protecting saints.

Within the flames are spirits*

Within the flames are spirits*
(*canto xxvl, line 50, The Inferno of Dante)

I remember what the 60's were before things began
To change reverberations of a jukebox

Between my legs poems pulsing in my head like
Smoky suffering false patterns of Carnaby street

Fashions worn everywhere as the easy-influenced men
Sported Nehru jackets into bars where I would hang-out

At first innocent the girl-next-door
Looking like a virgin until I learned to smoke

Then waiting like some predator trying to look sexy
Sullen dangerous done up in shiny smooth leather

Common and easy but cunning as any Cleopatra
Lighting up cig after cig making it with

Intoxicatingly eager boys or men as whiskers tickled
My ear while tobacco speckled lips made prints

Of fire down my neck to aroused nipples
Allowing them to continue their moaning about

"How hot I was - how turned on they were" and I could
Feel their burning so that we couldn't wait

Rearing like wild horses from stale sheets never
Laundered filled with sweat screaming

Nicotine addicted nights watching us both as if
I was a magician's girl observing our act knowing the secret

And when they were spent discarded like
Crushed butts still glowing thick painted with my

Lipstick where every flame enfolds me with
A forlorn trust that burns I remove a cigarette from

The pack holding it by the tip savoring the sex
That brings out the taste of illicitness planting

It wantonly in my mouth even now defying prohibition
Hoping for the groovy tunes to fire me up again.

CARMINA FULMEN

CARMINA FULMEN(songs of thunder)

In the dark/lying in bed with nothing to do//
When you are old and married to a girl/
who once brought you student pleasures of instant polaroid slickness//
Her long red nails pinching smooth dark nipples
placed along with lipstick kisses as a reminder or a promise/
between pages of school texts soon ignored//

When we couldn’t wait to clean impromptu carnal dishes
from a table which groaned shouts of spice//

When our combined fahrenheit was enough
to melt the ice of winter examinations//

In that 3—story walk—up the sounds of nightly sex
echoed through those tightly packed
row—house confessionals of rented space//
And a cast iron—stove barely supplied any warmth/
next to a claw—foot bathtub used to drench desires//
Its enamel rubbed smooth by our friction
that provided lathered moments//
In that same kitchen where we yelled omnivorous oaths/
as we explored naked geography
on our wild raftride down the uncharted waters
of some great current//
Our bodies overcome with courses of delight/
only later to learn that water is no lubricant for exhausted excess//
As we licked ourselves raw like a pair of lovely cats
legs splayed taut with anticipation//
Who taste and purr until
their eyes close/in the dark where we wait now
in this suburban vocabulary where rock&roll is nostalgic/
among thickets of manicured lawns which
ensnare Freudian brambles accepted
by the demanders of ownership//
Where uniform sounds of night are commonplace
and inescapable before those first low baritone rumbles of heated thunder//

When we race outside cur house
daring lightning to strike us both naked and a little saggier//
Our bodies flash
in brief grins of desperate light/
like snapshots of streakers caught
in defiance of sanity//
While we suck and stroke liver—spotted flesh/
That beholds the welcome drops of moisture
from a purple sky that crackles
with burnt showers of ozone which fill our nostrils//
As your tongue eases over
what is left of my muscularity under
the dark sweating trees//
While we hear magical sounds
Which call us to strange excitements//
While others hide//Fearful
they would be seduced by the spasm and roar//
Just as Hemingway was/
as his jaws opened wide
and the cold metal barrel
must have felt so bloody feverish
like our sweaty skin
the last time//
We danced
on a green slick carpet
no matter about skinned knees
or elbows//
You reached behind
and I thrust in-time to catch
breathless phrases//
Our lungs gasping
with voices that beg and repeat//
Come//Come//Come//Do not let me die//

Getting My Poems Together And Burying Them In A Trunk

Getting My Poems Together And Burying Them In A Trunk

When I am at last fed up, with my
miserable shit-bit poet's life,
in the madness of this horribly twisted
thalidomide world;
I seek a place of refuge.

Searching for amulets to protect me.
A spell which will restore.
To take me far from sloganed commercials
which guarantee whiter teeth and where,
“Jesus saves” is only a fading verve
on a bumper sticker unread by distorted
gardens of “Mokes” and “Millies”, beaten old
and weary by bips and bops from everyday
existence. While each one of us stumbles,
seeking redemption, in voids of smoky
suffering at neighborhood bars.

I see them,
all without colour,
misshapen,
their moxie missing.
Staring at ballgame
after ballgame after ballgame
when the series
of the world is replayed along with
endless refills from whiskey shots
and cheap beer chasers.
At every season, every
change of channel
we smile aimlessly,
as if this was our own proscribed dose
of thorazine. Seeing only talking picture boxes
where Sadam Hussein makes his pilgrimage
to Graceland and John Hinckley vows
his eternal love as Brother Swaggert
repents his own
while Ted Kaczinski plots bombs and smiles.

24-7 cable channels constantly bring zeroness
and melancholy to my soul. I watch dim watt
lamps of seeming Asiatic sulphur burn my eyes.
But then again everything is turning Japanese,
except tabs of ecstacy taken to ferment our minds.
Smelling spent matches and charred tobacco
overwhelmed by disinfectant from uncleaned urinals.

And even that release of nicotine has been taken away
by do-gooders trying to clean our lungs and souls.
Regardless of how their help frustrates
causing more manic despondence.
Always returning to another glass,
another bottle, another toke, another hit,
another pill, another supposed escape.

Each episode fills me with anguished dreams.

And I am too desolate to write or even speak.

As flowering vowels strangle in my sighs of despair.

Just like the poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti felt
when his young wife committed suicide.
Overcome with grief so that he buried
his most precious words of promise with her.
Taking to drink and drugs.
As if it would put an end
to suffering. Pain gnaws at me,
like rats
feeding on me while I listen to them scurry,
back and forth, tearing pieces of warm flesh from me.

And somehow, I think of getting my poems together
and burying them in a trunk.
Locking them away,
never to rise again in bright consonant air.

But eventually; I am always struck
by that image - Vincent’s bedraggled print,
hanging crinkled upon this barroom wall.
I can not tell you why it is there.
Unframed, unadorned, tacked to that place.
Among neon signs placed haphazardly
between faded old posters.
But, it is a clear space
in the midst of chaos.
And I remember about
the artist and his paintings of inspirational genius,
or was it glorious insanity?
Those frenzied
brushstrokes flaming bright yellow
and orange petals. And those shunned stalks,
suddenly foaming green and chartreuse.
Beneath his sun’s boiling cauldron
which poured down raw pigment,
on those
artful swatches of Arles,
as if a Being
was entering judgement on his mania.

And I recall the myth,
when I am about to bury myself in the grave
depression of wordlessness -
that consuming the seed of sunflowers,
somehow mutes the misery of man.

Biketoberfest in Daytona --- bike week in Daytona, Florida...

Biketoberfest in Daytona

Bikers all wearing dark glasses
to make sure their eyes never betray
inner secrets invade this sandy
seaside resort every March

Bikers outfitted in de rigeur
black leather,big boots, gloves, wrist bands,
sprout metal studs

Bikers with tatoo and piercings incorpareted
as supposedly noncomformist art

Strip to shiny thongs
flexing biceps, buttocks, breasts
all decorated like wild colorful nomads
while they suck down cold beer

Causing momentary stares from older residents
outfitted in terrycloth furry bathrobes
and white beach hats

Cars and traffic crawl along Route One
as onlookers; tourists and 'biker wannabes'
lounge on sidewalks
taking in the supposedly raw annual playtime

Bikers depart towing chromed, polished,
bikes on shiny new trailers – virginal bikes
which have never been ridden
reality all pretend just for lusty show.

P-TOWN DANCES [Provincetown, MA. to non-locals]*

P-TOWN DANCES [Provincetown, MA. to non-locals]*

Walking on Newberry Street in Boston - two stylish women encounter each other
Oh hello – Did i not dance with you at Provincetown once?
Oh perhaps – Your scent still reminds me of sweetness
Oh – Was i your first – or just one of many?
P-Town where everyone takes a holiday from reality
P-Town where i can be whipped by love
P-Town where bruised novices can let love’s lust lie like rubies on naked skin
Did i not dance with you at the teadances at Provincetown once?
Did i not lay in your folded arms at Provincetown once?
Did i not take darkness as a bride at Provincetown once?
P-Town so remove your mask and welcome many lovers
P-Town where ladies see only women in their eyes
P-Town where all men crave to watch these women
These two women of allure disengage
These two women walk-away careful to notice breasts, hair, legs, haunches of each other
These two women replete in stylized sexual dreams

*based upon MEASURE TO MEASURE/LOVE’S LABOURS LOST by Master Shakespeare

The taste of tequila never leaves my lover's lips

The taste of tequila never leaves

We licked our lips, coarse salt clinging
to our teeth while a mariachi band,
blared, and tequila flushed wetness
from between your supple thighs
glistening with love’s dictionary
which never spoke of meaning
just moist words. Whole your earrings
cut from seashells danced and swayed
to our heated rhythms, as you slowly lifted
your thin cotton skirt, on display
like show-and-tell as it was
in the sixth-grade when darkhaired Sophie
smiling as she was taught by her mother,
facing our classroom audience.
Singing in spots the Doris Day number
about how whatever will be will be.
Then bending over bowing in thanks
just far enough to catch a glimpse
of white camisole loosely guarding
pink budding breasts. As you flash your breasts at me now
alluringly, coyly asking if i like your latest photo.
And like all boys/men i tumble into the alcohol answer abyss
casually saying i like another snapshot of you more.
So you shut down like little Sophie forgetting the words,
to “que sera sera”. Her face not frightened – but hardened.
Blaming me for your sudden silence –
and all the more beautiful/talented girls/women
i must surely have been with. Far more attractive than you,
so you say, because my attractiveness to women
is now your weapon. While you refuse to sing arias
of stubborn revenge even though
i adore you as so much more. So much more.
And outside the mariachis frenzied instruments spout
notes that hover over passion stained sheets,
already filled with both our excitements.
And does a musical note stop resonating?
Or does it go on and on into the night
like the mariachis playing until the tequila is finished?
Like you playing me, my coarse tongue
hungering to lick the salt off teasing anxious flesh.

french ennui --- our mouths made sweet by green apple

french ennui

the rain
comes down
making
streets gleam
like patent leather
as i flick the cigarette stub
out the long window
into the courtyard
i glance at my naked lover
entwined between damp white sheets
lying beside me
the tart green apple on the bedstand
the knife to slice our breaths aroma
to freshen our delight
each dawn of love’s embrace
few partitions or slices left
between us
no noise of mosquitoes
in this quiet city
no blaring boomboxes
just my partner's rhythmic breathing
in this quiet city
telephone rings are less insistent
barking dogs are less obtrusive
rain seems too fall lightly as
hours fall from the joined hips of lovers
spent in rainy afternoons
and i gaze at a window
on the other side of the courtyard
where a woman is watching me
not bothering to cover herself
from a bed similar to the one i share
as she holds a cigarette in her left hand
inhaling and then languidly passing it
to her drowsy lover who lies beside her
all of us inhaling the moments of paris

Tantric teachings

Tantric teachings

erotic couples

engage in tantric teachings

fervently joining in theorems

others don’t see

mouthings of souls

taught sharing

and she turned her face toward him Ayl-a-lu-ya

and she turned her face toward him Ayl-a-lu-ya


Ayl-a-lu-ya, ayl-a-lu-ya

I’m gonna tell you a lover’s tale

It’s a holy tale

Ayl-a-lu-ya, ayl-a-lu-ya

There was a boy once and he was taken far away
And he fought and fought with everything because he was afraid

Ayl-a-lu-ya, ayl-a-luya

And there was a girl good and unafraid
From a land of ice and snow

And Joshua fit da battle of Jericho
Jericho and dat sun it stood still in da sky

And the boy now a man could not stop fighting
Fighting even hisself turning against everybody

He failed to look over Jordan and what did he see
To see what his nanny had taught him had taught him to sing

And the boy now a man failed to see the girl as the sorceress
Had told him from a land of ice and snow turn her face toward him

But that river was wide and deep
Wide and deep and dark as his soul so used to fighting

The girl in her land of cold tried to guide his path
Believing in this boy now man who had turned all away before

Ayl-a-lu-ya, ayl-a-lu-ya

And the girl wanted this lover’s tale
Even though both were pledged to others

Ayl-a-lu-ya, ayl-a-lu-ya

And the boy now man loved the girl now woman
With a love that was more than love

Take me down to the river Jordan, rinse me in holy waters

And the boy still fought cause that’s all he knew
And the girl reached out her hand once again and said sh-h-h- I am here

To cross the waters of the cold flowing Jordan, to cross those waters

And the girl’s father smiled as did the boy’s mother from a land of tears
At the will of the girl to save her lover in which she saw so much

Ayl-a-lu-ya, ayl-a-lu-ya

And the boy bloomed like a Christmas cactus blossoming yet again
By heat of the girl’s love which was holy unafraid of the boy so long distant

Ayl-a-lu-ya, ayl-a-lu-ya

And their holy tale is now complete yes it is yes it is
Because the girl has brought peace back to this boy’s heart
And they both see themselves in whispers of kisses embracing what is true and holy

Whispering into you... for my lover

whispering into you...



Whispering into you i love you i love you i love you

my hot breaths touch your warm waiting flesh

And i am overcome with desire, my lips

touch you ever so delicately like hot whispers opening a flower

petals unfolding to my breath’s eager touch

you, the flower, you, my ultimate desire

open wider warm measured moans before me

And i whisper i love you i love you i love you into you yet again
And you do not disappoint my lips plumb your wetness
And summon my tongue ever deeper to taste you my girl of secret sighs



Am adding note 5\9\2010 After we were first married Lewis had me say ahhhhh. Many times so he would remember. As I sat on his lap, as he squeezed me tight, as I lay with him while he was dreaming.

The Butcher-Shop on Henchman Street, Boston

The Butcher-Shop on Henchman Street, Boston

Always in his window hung
the mornings slaughter.
On this street named for executions
where the guts of ten dollars
would buy milk white chops;
as the thud of his cleaver cleanly carved bone from gristle.
He worked as if blindfolded;
a knife-thrower never missing that quivering mark.
A sculptor of luscious breasts and rumps and loins,
trimming excess avoided by squeamish passersby
full of fleshy breakfast sausage.
I sauntered upon that sawdust sea of visceral crimson
where half-skinned sheep blushed.
An outsider, blind to that everyday slaughter
suspended on hooks,
deaf to those rhythmic sounds of ritual,
unaware that those were spurts of life
amid sacrifice splashed on the white gown.
And on a bright clear morning
hung forever by shameful slaughter
I carelessly asked, had he ever cut himself?
I remember those Mediterranean eyes
in that darkened forest where beasts slumber
beneath the branches of whetted blades,
and that sharp smile as he slowly raised the left hand –
where index and thumb had lost their snap.

KAY RYAN lauded by the NYSlimes - but one must ask why?

The NYSlimes has a review of Kay Ryan's latest book of poetry issued by one of their book editors Dwight Garner who has taken time off from masturbating to his visions of liberal loonacies to spout his enlightened residues on us about the mediocre Ms. Ryan - and is enthralled or rather gushes about Ryan's faux poetry "...gawkiness" or "...Her rhymes are “recombinant” — that is, as she has put it, they tend to be stashed “at the wrong ends of lines and at the middles.” These rhymes are often stealthy..." - just what you want in a poet - stealth poetry right? [Garner should be back at Salon - telling other middling writers how orgasmic they are also - but this is how far the NYSlimes has fallen!!! following is an original 'blurb' published when Ryan was named Poet Laureate.]


KAY RYAN - poetlauded - but one must ask why???
KAY RYAN has ridden the wave of 'politically/correct+attenuated poetry' venues [prizes in the GUGGENHEIMS, serial publications in the 'not-so-important-NYer and APR, a RUTH LILLY prize/award] despite her protestations and advanced degree status that she is an 'outsider'. Ms. RYAN's poetry is largely devoid of metaphor/symbolism and despite her lacklustre desultory nternal rhyme utilizes what some critics would deem a 'spare' style. Her poetry could be defined with the rank of other maudlin talents pimped onto the national stage by other middling talents such as JOHN ASSBURIED or JOSEPH KUMENYACKA or LOUISE GLUCK[who claims that her name does not rhyme with f^ck in the original German pronounciation]. Such is the state of the ARTS[poetry in particular] when obvious 'insiders' can claim they are 'outsiders' to somehow justify selections by supposedly objective observers. PSHAW - as RYAN might write in her 'spare style.

Reprehensible DEMBHOLE Eric Massa accused of sexual 'assault' of male page!!!

MASSA'S in da cold cold ground - or is that in REPREHENSIBLE DEMBHOLE NANCY'sphinctur-of-the-House-of-Fools'PELOSI's 'culture-of-corruption'? ha! Another DEMBHOLE-DOUCHESBAG bitesz the dust Goodbye REPREHENSIBLE DEMBHOLE ERIC MASSA - we hardly knew you or is it that we didn't give you enough time to 'rape/assault' house pages like GERRY STUDDS? ANOTHER FINE DEMBHOLE! ha

nature knows no sorrow

nature knows no sorrow


the earth shakes and tilts

buildings soon crumple away

grief is people’s ground

the SUPREME COURT 'speaks' on gun rights for the nation...

The ridiculous whine/squawk over where a comma was placed in the ammendment granting Amerikan citizens the right to own and carry guns will be be ended as the Supreme Court issues a declarative ruling that all citizens will legally be permitted to own and carry guns in all of the UNITED STATES -including the cities of CHICAGO and NEW YORK CITY!!! THIS SUPREME COURT RULING IS EXPECTED SHORTLY AND WILL EFFECTIVELY END DEBATE EXCEPT WITH WHACKOS AT the Huffnpuff post and other recalcitrant fools at OSSALOON who like to pretend they are faux-Buddhists too busy chanting their loonytune liberal liturgy!!! Ha. I'm packing - are you? Contrary to popular myth/belief - 'the Wild West' was a lot less volent as movies - books - or dime novels would have us believe could it be because that so many people were armed and tolerated 'punks' common robberies + criminals together with bullying a lot less???

the real reason HAROLD FORD Jr. will not 'run' in ny state...

DEMBHOLES are racists and do not want another Black like David Paterson or Charles Rangel to embarrass them in NYState...isn't that true CHUCK'the-schmuck'SCHUMER just as you did not NOT support 'the Black' McCall for NY governor last time around??? DEMBHOLES the real racists would rather have a guy like Whitey E - L - I - O - T SPITZER and his black socks for all his assignations with pros-tee-toot-eease on NYState's monies then eleckt a qualified Black DEMBHOLE right CHUCK'the-shmuck' ???

Warren Buffett - thief - scolds other thieves!!!

Warren Buffett - the thief/fraudster who presided over Salomon Bros. fixing of the 'bond market', who presided over various insurance scams/frauds in the 'Katrina disaster' in the South, that Warren Buffett who single-handedly 'gummed-up' insurance payments in the World Trade destruction by terrorists and forced there to be two vacant holes where new buildings should have graced the NYC skyline by now - that WARREN BUFFETT is now scolding other executives to hide his own calumnies/perfidies!!! BUFFETT has always been a felon/fraudster flying under everyone's radar politically conneckted to the right people. All hail WARREN BUFFETT as scummy as GEORGE SOROS or JEFF SKILLING at Enron!!!

what part of the term 'Killer-Whale' do you not understand?

TILLIKUM the 'Killer-Whale' at SeaWorld in Orlando Florida has ended the life of one of his trainer's. TILLIKUM is a wild animal 'trained' to perform for spectators. For whatever reason whether through the trainer's own negligence or because of the animal's nature - a death occurred. WHAT DO WE NOT UNDERSTAND WHEN WE DESIGNATE THIS 'ORCA'(Orcinus orca - a very efficient predator in the ocean's of the world) AS A 'KILLER-WHALE'??? We have become immune to the 'lion-tamer-putting-his-head-into-the-lion/tiger's-mouths' to thrill us - we as the audience seek more spectales more risks - this is unfortunately sometimes the result for our prurient lustings of mankind versus beast.

we are now regulating 'FUN' at the Olympics...

The Canadian women's hockey team, after winning the GOLD MEDAL after shutting out des Etats Unis 2-0 on the ice in Vancouver; engaged in 'horse-play' by chugging beer (Molson's mais oui certainement) and popping champagne bottles and guzzling the giddy bubbles and yes smoked cygars -- all in celebration of winning!!! BUT AFTER PHOTOS OF THIS IMPROMPTU CELEBRATION SURFACED ON THE NET these Candaienne hockey gals were forced FORCED to admit they never enjoyed smoking and certainly did no enjoy the drinking and oh they were just so sorry SO VERY SORRY!!! 'FUN' is the latest victim of the PC POLICE who will now regulate what you can do to 'celebrate' and DON'T YOU DARE SMOKE or DRINK it is now 'VERBOTTEN'!!! THE OLYMPICS - NO PLACE FOR 'FUN' IF YOU WIN - unless 'we' tell you it is OK!!!

trouble with your taxes - blame it on your aids/office staff...

at least that is what DEMBHOLE REPREHENSIBLE CHARLES RANGEL of NY has done!!! CHARLIE blamed his slew of ethical 'tax problems' on his staff/workers - don't you wish you could do that??? ha! REPREHENSIBLE RANGEL who single-handedly bankrupted the 'Apollo Theatre' in his Harlem district with deals/contracts to his friends/cronies and 'forgot' FORGOT to claim properties and income he benefited from in the Caribbean and Florida, never mind the propeties he got special 'deals' on in rent-controled residences in NYC; RANGEL forgot all these ethical faux-pas for over twenty years!!! RANGEL head of the HOUSE-of-FOOLS-WAYS&MEANS COMMITTEE is what is meant by REPREHENSIBLE NANCY'sphinctur-of-the-House-of-Fools'PELOSI when she refers to 'draining-the-swamp' and 'culture-of-corruption'!!! This DEMBHOLE who is responsible for your tax laws breaks the law and is not held accountable!!! HOW LONG WILL THIS CONTINUE - OR IS THIS OK NOW BECAUSE HE IS BLACK???

Orlando Zapata Tamayo, dissident, dies in Cuba...

Orlando Zapata Tamayo, age 42, died in Cuba's Hermanos Ameijeras hospital from the affects of his 'hunger-strike' begun last December 3, 2009.

Senor Tamayo was a plumber and a bricklayer and was opposed to the Castro brother's totalitarian regime. He was declared 'a prisoner of conscience' by Amnesty International.

Cuban security forces have rounded-up political activists to prevent protests at Tamayo's funeral. SUCH IS THE STATE OF 'RIGHTS' IN THE PEOPLE'S REPUBIC OF CUBA UNDER THE COMMIE CASTRO'S!!!

Because You will always be "The Babe"

Because You will always be "The Babe"

Because you will always be "The Babe"
as we watch in grainy news-clips those faded moments.
Even those who know nothing of sport -
we knew who you were. Your laughing face
before us in newspapers, billboards,
and magazines while smiling children begged
for autographs while you went about your work
bashing baseballs that seemed to never fall down.
Your massive upperbody stuck atop
seemingly tiny legs. Hips twisting
from the force of the swing. Your hands
choking that piece of wood made sacred
by a special tribe that would darken
the sun with driven baseballs launched
when shoulder and bicep-bone and wrist combine
with legs pirouetting as graceful as a dancer's.
And for a moment you stood there
at the end of it all. While we were on our feet.
For every swing, every hit, every miss.
Wanting to be part of baseball.
Wanting to be part of you as you began
a journey around basepath markers
of accomplishment. And then somehow
the bat is gently discarded while you begin
your pigeon-toed trot. Which adds
to majestic myth. Because you were baseball
to so many. No matter your multitude of faults.
It was always obvious you loved the game.
You were the big guy with an appetite
for everything. Who would take everything
to excess. Just as we did in those 1920's.
Because you were the epitome of our arrogance
and spontaneity. Embracing an orphan
one moment while bingeing with leggy chorus girls
the next. Pointing to where you would hit
it out and then doing it. We loved you
for your glories and for your faults.
It was as if we were all riding
the swell of the sea, and we could
see you as some colossus on the far shore,
giving us a view of a world which was safe
and true. And we still cry at your rasping voice
bidding us goodbye. And we cheer
in our hearts and smile at numbers
we have memorized. The home-runs,
the virtuoso performances, even the amount
of beer and hot-dogs you consumed
in that Bronx stadium which will forever
be your home and a measure of what #3 created
and what you awakened in us. Like the great
bandleader Souza, his compositions filling
our hearts with moments of pure joy
and triumph. When millions of dreams
and images are fueled by soaring notes
that are sharp as the crack of a batted ball.
And we never see or realize that we are watching
a metaphor of someone larger than expectation.
Never described but one that is always present
in your distant gaze. Like the way we swell
with emotion when we hear and feel the opening
of “The Stars and Stripes Forever”. Like fireworks
that always thrill. Because baseball is
what we wish you to be in our childhood innocence.
Because you are that metaphor. Because you were
born for moments when the sweet arc
from the clout of one that will never come down
soars into the sky blue immensity. Far into cheers and applause. That signify to generations
there is a hopeful universe which waits until
the next season. Or the next at bat. Or for
the rains to stop. Or after your next round-tripper
as you doff your cap as a way to honor those
fans and a game invented for children.
Because with a swing of the bat you will always
be “The Babe”. As long as we gleefully shout, your name
will resurrect all the gone faces on those fields
and among those bleachers and there will be
no such thing as death even for starting pitchers
who never last but an inning.

In Cuba - they play the same game

In Cuba - they play the same game

At sun drenched Junco beisbol stadium
amid a backdrop of palm trees
in this repeatedly self-proclaimed people's government
free of imperialismos,
the Cienfuegos Henequeneros battle
on the field against
the home town Havana Sugar Kings.
Cigar smoking fans, factory workers
and field hands mostly, sit under
straw hats while eyeing pretty muchachas
whose skin sweats from excitement.
These young women simmer
almost to the boiling point
waiting for an appearance
by the league's pitching star.
The Kings el premiero lanzadore de besbol,
Rudolpho Vascancellos. Rudi. ..Rudi ...Rudi
they stand and shout at Rudi...Rudi...Rudi
hoping he will acknowledge their passion
and pent-up desires. Rudi is a Cuban version
of Randy Johnson, or Roger Clemens, or Pedro Martinez.
When Rudi takes the mound, listening to shouts
of Poncholo-Poncholo-Poncholo echo from fans
demanding strike-outs, strike-outs, and more strike-outs.
Showing his superiority and machismo.
Handsome, light-skinned, his arms and legs whipping
with lean fluid motion as he fires pelotas past
stunned batters who with lesser throwers
rap out honrons or glide into second
with easy doubles. But with Rudi -
these les hombres hits merely swing
and miss. Swing and miss. And then sit
as if like everything else, toilet paper
or butter or free speech - hits were rationed.
Awed schoolboys, 'Young Pioneers' taught
and outfitted in political blue monochrome,
have stood in lines waiting for tickets
to stand in other lines waiting for seats,
holding beaten leather mitts waiting for
autographs from Rudi...Rudi...Rudi...
But first up, the visiting Henequeneros bateadors.
Hitting lead-off, a short very dark young man
whose family origins on this isle began shortly after
Columbus from the hold of a slave ship.
The hitter taps his cleats professional style
and steps into the batter's box.
Rudi delivers a fast ball shoe-top high.
The umpire who traces his pure blood
from the 15th century conqueror Diaz
smiles as he yells the strike.
The batter turns and glares.
In Cuba - they play the same game.

JAPANESE can play the AMERICAN GAME

JAPANESE can play the AMERICAN GAME
(after the ALL-STAR GAME 7/10/2007)

no genuflecting
no polite bowing for this
ICHIRO athlete
just speed speed and more speed
a baseball player banzai!

I’m in love with baseball's Boston Red Sox

I’m in love with baseball's Boston Red Sox
[in honour of the RED SOX recent World Series triumphs and for a great year in 2010!]

October 3, 1978 was the last time
I allowed a man to think he used me.

He took me to “green—monstered” Fenway where
God—fearing—ascetic Brahmin bankers

smiled sleazily at my body. Imitating
British accents as they supposedly cheered

for my home team. But the lawless Bronx warlords,
the Yankees, won that one—game play off.

And I remember how forlorn the Bosox looked-
as If they knew the imminence of death while

he laid me on his bed in that BackBay apartment.
Regarding me as some ordinary sexual contest

overcome by my desire for bat and ball and box seat.
A blonde primitive little Amish doll, to do certain chores,

his reward. Payment for a ticket impossible to attain.
Never realizing that I replayed the game,

over and over in my mind. Every pitch, every hit.
Mouthing words of encouragement for players

doomed like I was when one—day or one—night stands
turn into seasons of major headaches. Sighing

In disbelief as Dent took Torres deep. Swearing
shockingly when Yaz popped out to end my ordeal.

Never allowing fulfillment. Afterwards, saying to fans
lusting for triumph everywhere, “I wish it was longer.”