Sunday, February 28, 2010
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.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
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???
Thursday, February 25, 2010
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!!!
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.
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.
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!
(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.”
[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.”
THE SADNESS OF OUTFIELDERS
THE SADNESS OF OUTFIELDERS
i never want to grow old
like Willie Mays
i hope his age never shows
Willie Mays jogs toward centerfield
and doesn't see the reality
that it is 1972 and he is playing for the NYMets
and that he is no longer young
that he is not 'The Say-Hey Kid' anymore
And I watch him move without grace
Willie Mays the most nimble of outfielders
bends down to field an easy single
a nothing ground ball to the outfield
in a game that doesn't matter
and a base hit that turns into tragedy
as the ball rolls past his outstretched gloved hand
And for a moment he can not believe
the ball rolling behind him
not entrapped in the leather glove
that made a mockery
of so many sure hits
in that 'basket style sweeping' catch
And I begin to cry
remembering the Mays of 1957
the Giant who
swatted three homers
against the Cubs
as I watched
from my outfield seat at the Polo Grounds
marveling at how the white baseballs
seemed to leap out of the stadium
when Willie snapped that perfect swing
Willi is always the ‘Say-Hey Kid’
while Mr. Leo smiles acknowledging perfection
Watching ‘the kid’ spinning throwing tumbling
like some continuously twirling top
only to lose inertia and fall returning to earth
the way he did in the World Series of ‘54
to rob Cleveland’s Vic Wertz in black-and-white footage
of another yet amazing over-the-shoulder catch
Just proving he could do the impossible
Sprinting turning his back to the infield
Running into our youthful memories
And I weep not just for Willie
but for myself as I want never
to grow old to grow old as Willie Mays
looked this day and how embarrassed
finally to be relegated
to play first base for the Mets
Because first basemen are always ‘butter-fingered’ or ‘has-beens’
especially when they join ‘the mahvelous Mets’
A freakish attraction of what once was
And I never want to fumble
reaching for something
that isn't there anymore
And I still cry as I can remember
how old he and I became
when that easy ground ball
rolled by Willie and me forever.
i never want to grow old
like Willie Mays
i hope his age never shows
Willie Mays jogs toward centerfield
and doesn't see the reality
that it is 1972 and he is playing for the NYMets
and that he is no longer young
that he is not 'The Say-Hey Kid' anymore
And I watch him move without grace
Willie Mays the most nimble of outfielders
bends down to field an easy single
a nothing ground ball to the outfield
in a game that doesn't matter
and a base hit that turns into tragedy
as the ball rolls past his outstretched gloved hand
And for a moment he can not believe
the ball rolling behind him
not entrapped in the leather glove
that made a mockery
of so many sure hits
in that 'basket style sweeping' catch
And I begin to cry
remembering the Mays of 1957
the Giant who
swatted three homers
against the Cubs
as I watched
from my outfield seat at the Polo Grounds
marveling at how the white baseballs
seemed to leap out of the stadium
when Willie snapped that perfect swing
Willi is always the ‘Say-Hey Kid’
while Mr. Leo smiles acknowledging perfection
Watching ‘the kid’ spinning throwing tumbling
like some continuously twirling top
only to lose inertia and fall returning to earth
the way he did in the World Series of ‘54
to rob Cleveland’s Vic Wertz in black-and-white footage
of another yet amazing over-the-shoulder catch
Just proving he could do the impossible
Sprinting turning his back to the infield
Running into our youthful memories
And I weep not just for Willie
but for myself as I want never
to grow old to grow old as Willie Mays
looked this day and how embarrassed
finally to be relegated
to play first base for the Mets
Because first basemen are always ‘butter-fingered’ or ‘has-beens’
especially when they join ‘the mahvelous Mets’
A freakish attraction of what once was
And I never want to fumble
reaching for something
that isn't there anymore
And I still cry as I can remember
how old he and I became
when that easy ground ball
rolled by Willie and me forever.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Overcome by Cool
Overcome by Cool
Into bleachers of
bright Florida sun…Rookies
hit each aimed fastball.
Veteran pitchers, enjoy
dug—out shade, smirk at
youth... knowing how to hide curves.
Into bleachers of
bright Florida sun…Rookies
hit each aimed fastball.
Veteran pitchers, enjoy
dug—out shade, smirk at
youth... knowing how to hide curves.
A partner to play catch with the sky’s lightning
A partner to play catch with the sky’s lightning
A tribe of primitive throwbacks crouches
solitary and silent beneath
blazing ceremonial poles that light
purple summer nights
Catchers dressed in ceremonial attire
squat and assume a sacred position
Sneaking quick glances at
Thick-ribbed batters
Who take practice swings
that cleave the air
Leaving cool breezes of false confidence
These catchers grab rough dirt
with stubby fingers awaiting
hitters in apparent unhurried ease
Tapping on cleated shoes
Rubbing a hardwood club with dark pinetar
As if they could stickily summon
friendly spirits which would guarantee
Reaching a white pillowed base of safety
And at last this would—be slugger
enters the box of sacred white lines
For it is then that the fairness
or foulness of life spreads outward
from this starting place
Like a curtain slowly parting
to observe a passion play
As thousands in this concrete cavern roar
Calling on heroes to begin the game
Yelling at an all seeing umpire
Hidden behind an impartial mask
But all must wait each inning
and between every pitch
For a catcher to offer up a sign
Just as the first man must have done
Squatting as buttocks bounce against heels
Waiting and hoping for a partner
To play catch with the sky’s lightning
Because catchers are a tribe of throwbacks
Flashing secrets with their fingers,
Broken by seasons of foul tips
Because catchers are always imagined to be there
And it is only after they allow
a throw to get by them we notice their existence
Much like G-d we view them as indispensable
but ignored until we call on them
to throw out or block evil
Catchers kneeling as if in prayer
again and again
Before a magical mound to summon offerings
Barbaric breath stopping 3rdstrike sliders
Knee high and impossible to hit
Which cut corners of a meaty plate
sharper than a honed gutting knife
Drawing blood and something
much more precious
From embarrassed batters
Who hunker slowly back
through cursing shadows
To hide in dug out caves.
Author's Notes:
beisbol my one true love...
A tribe of primitive throwbacks crouches
solitary and silent beneath
blazing ceremonial poles that light
purple summer nights
Catchers dressed in ceremonial attire
squat and assume a sacred position
Sneaking quick glances at
Thick-ribbed batters
Who take practice swings
that cleave the air
Leaving cool breezes of false confidence
These catchers grab rough dirt
with stubby fingers awaiting
hitters in apparent unhurried ease
Tapping on cleated shoes
Rubbing a hardwood club with dark pinetar
As if they could stickily summon
friendly spirits which would guarantee
Reaching a white pillowed base of safety
And at last this would—be slugger
enters the box of sacred white lines
For it is then that the fairness
or foulness of life spreads outward
from this starting place
Like a curtain slowly parting
to observe a passion play
As thousands in this concrete cavern roar
Calling on heroes to begin the game
Yelling at an all seeing umpire
Hidden behind an impartial mask
But all must wait each inning
and between every pitch
For a catcher to offer up a sign
Just as the first man must have done
Squatting as buttocks bounce against heels
Waiting and hoping for a partner
To play catch with the sky’s lightning
Because catchers are a tribe of throwbacks
Flashing secrets with their fingers,
Broken by seasons of foul tips
Because catchers are always imagined to be there
And it is only after they allow
a throw to get by them we notice their existence
Much like G-d we view them as indispensable
but ignored until we call on them
to throw out or block evil
Catchers kneeling as if in prayer
again and again
Before a magical mound to summon offerings
Barbaric breath stopping 3rdstrike sliders
Knee high and impossible to hit
Which cut corners of a meaty plate
sharper than a honed gutting knife
Drawing blood and something
much more precious
From embarrassed batters
Who hunker slowly back
through cursing shadows
To hide in dug out caves.
Author's Notes:
beisbol my one true love...
baseball cards traded
baseball cards traded
baseball cards traded
year after year games replayed
faces forever young
players always just the same
change of teams the only trade
baseball cards traded
year after year games replayed
faces forever young
players always just the same
change of teams the only trade
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
the newest LIE of 'the OBAMA'!!!
'the OBAMA' has stated he only did some tangential work as a lawyer in his practice for the 'fraudsters' at ACORN. Now there are videotapes of how then candidate 'the OBAMA' worked extensively and led ACORN's attempts to influence voter registration and the shake-down of contributors for monies for this criminal enterprise for years!!! 'the OBAMA' more LIES for the BLACK-PUNK-FLY-SWATTER-n-CHIEF!!!
BATHED BY THE MOON'S PRECIOUS MOMENT
BATHED BY THE MOON'S PRECIOUS MOMENT*
I have heard the whispers
and I have seen the looks and nods
Private among yourselves
Private looks and rhythms
among you who have born children
Your bodies brimming full
like the seductive arches of waves
You whisper among yourselves
You whisper among those
who disappear into fathoms
At night when the moon is complete
a spirit gently folds with swells
like the naturalness of a dolphin
That calls all of you each one of you
to cast off your clothes and inhibitions
Women and their children
bound with true cords of memory
heartbeats attuned to steady surf
Naked flesh smooth and round
as pebbles washed by unending amniotic tides
No man may understand this unveiling
No man may watch this communion
No man may feel this gentle pull
Because the sea satisfies entirely
in ripples that caress
the curve of a woman's back
which leads to buttocks cleft with ripeness
opening to a reservoir of dreams where
patches of salty kelp dance
And nipples are bathed
with wet kisses as if
from a thousand tender mouths
murmuring secrets of love through
luminous water which flows
between spread thighs
Where children swim naturally
pulling themselves through
tunnels of delight
And then up laughing in the warm air
of pearl-like exquisite stars
Because children know instinctively
this is where they came from
Because this is where fluid dreams become life
Because this is where men grow
And once separated in froth and foam
desire to be taken back
stored inside shared flesh
Returned toward the mystery of women
As the moon sinks within them
Lowering itself to wombs of precious moment.
*this was written for a mother and her son 'Fathom' who i met at the shore
I have heard the whispers
and I have seen the looks and nods
Private among yourselves
Private looks and rhythms
among you who have born children
Your bodies brimming full
like the seductive arches of waves
You whisper among yourselves
You whisper among those
who disappear into fathoms
At night when the moon is complete
a spirit gently folds with swells
like the naturalness of a dolphin
That calls all of you each one of you
to cast off your clothes and inhibitions
Women and their children
bound with true cords of memory
heartbeats attuned to steady surf
Naked flesh smooth and round
as pebbles washed by unending amniotic tides
No man may understand this unveiling
No man may watch this communion
No man may feel this gentle pull
Because the sea satisfies entirely
in ripples that caress
the curve of a woman's back
which leads to buttocks cleft with ripeness
opening to a reservoir of dreams where
patches of salty kelp dance
And nipples are bathed
with wet kisses as if
from a thousand tender mouths
murmuring secrets of love through
luminous water which flows
between spread thighs
Where children swim naturally
pulling themselves through
tunnels of delight
And then up laughing in the warm air
of pearl-like exquisite stars
Because children know instinctively
this is where they came from
Because this is where fluid dreams become life
Because this is where men grow
And once separated in froth and foam
desire to be taken back
stored inside shared flesh
Returned toward the mystery of women
As the moon sinks within them
Lowering itself to wombs of precious moment.
*this was written for a mother and her son 'Fathom' who i met at the shore
sorry CHICAGO - like 'the OBAMA' both your BEISBOL TEAMS SUCK!!!
CHICAGO - CHICAGO that toddlin town -- both the CHICAGO WHITE SOX AND CHICAGO CUBBIES will suck this year - just like 'the OBAMA' and his corrupt crew your beisbol futures this season are bleak!!! Oh yeah OZZIE and LOU talk a good game about how you'll be contenders - DONTCHA BET ON IT! Your gonna get better odds betting on the DUMB-DOUCHESBAG-DEMBHOLES 'Climate Change Bullshit Bill' going through the US SENATURDS!!! ha! in short the 2 CHI teams are as feckless as 'the OBAMA's first year agenda...
Monday, February 22, 2010
BEISBOL 2010
Spring Training is here – these are the beisbol teams i expect to show something this year…
in the AMERICAN LEAGUE WEST –
look for the SEATTLE MARINERS to show marked improvement with the addition of switch-hitter MILTON BRADLEY as long as his head is screwed-on-tight and winning lefty pitcher CLIFF LEE!!! The MARINERS are now a threat with the All-Star ICHIRO – ICHIRO – ICHIRO in the outfield probably the most complete player in the major league’s since ‘the Georgia peach’ TY COBB!!!
in the AMERICAN LEAGUE EAST –
RED SOX NATION look to have the best staff top-to-bottom with starters now joined by JOHN LACKEY and a host of hard throwing relievers topped by JOHNATHAN PAPPELBON. The only weakness might be DAVID’aka BigPapi’ORTIZ at DH. WE SHALL SEE ABOUT REDSOX NATION.
NEW YORK YANQUIS replaced JOHNNY DEMON with CURTIS GRANDERSON from the Tigers. The current Series Champs have several stars ANDY PETITE, JORGE POSADA, long-in-the-tooth and it remains to be seen where the YANQUIS new catcher will come from. REDSOX NATION could catch them this year if their aging stars do not come through.
in the NATONAL LEAGUE EAST –
look for the PHILADELPHIA PHILLIES to win the EAST crown and probably represent the NATIONAL LEAGUE in the Series with the addition of hard-throwing right hander ROY HALLADAY. Solid over all team.
the WASHINGTON NATIONALS the proverbial ‘joke team’ will show tremendous tenacity in the first half and might be battling throughout the season with any luck. The pick-up of once All-Star catcher IVAN RODRIGUEZ should solidify a young pitching staff. Watch-out they are the ‘sleeper’ team in the EAST this year.
in the AMERICAN LEAGUE WEST –
look for the SEATTLE MARINERS to show marked improvement with the addition of switch-hitter MILTON BRADLEY as long as his head is screwed-on-tight and winning lefty pitcher CLIFF LEE!!! The MARINERS are now a threat with the All-Star ICHIRO – ICHIRO – ICHIRO in the outfield probably the most complete player in the major league’s since ‘the Georgia peach’ TY COBB!!!
in the AMERICAN LEAGUE EAST –
RED SOX NATION look to have the best staff top-to-bottom with starters now joined by JOHN LACKEY and a host of hard throwing relievers topped by JOHNATHAN PAPPELBON. The only weakness might be DAVID’aka BigPapi’ORTIZ at DH. WE SHALL SEE ABOUT REDSOX NATION.
NEW YORK YANQUIS replaced JOHNNY DEMON with CURTIS GRANDERSON from the Tigers. The current Series Champs have several stars ANDY PETITE, JORGE POSADA, long-in-the-tooth and it remains to be seen where the YANQUIS new catcher will come from. REDSOX NATION could catch them this year if their aging stars do not come through.
in the NATONAL LEAGUE EAST –
look for the PHILADELPHIA PHILLIES to win the EAST crown and probably represent the NATIONAL LEAGUE in the Series with the addition of hard-throwing right hander ROY HALLADAY. Solid over all team.
the WASHINGTON NATIONALS the proverbial ‘joke team’ will show tremendous tenacity in the first half and might be battling throughout the season with any luck. The pick-up of once All-Star catcher IVAN RODRIGUEZ should solidify a young pitching staff. Watch-out they are the ‘sleeper’ team in the EAST this year.
more LIES from a DEMBHOLE - JENNIFER GRANHOLM!!!
DEMBHOLE governor of michigan JENNIFER GRANHOLM aka the canadieene c**t stated yesterday that HEALTH CARE was the cause of the AUTO INDUSTRY WOES!!! This DEMBHOLE refused to blame herself for Michigan's rising taxes, rising unemplyment, failed stoopid DEMBHOLE policies that leave more than 50% 50 fookn % of the city of Detroit unable to read!!! Instead of giving blowjobs and sucking coq and c**ts of the UNIONS(had to include the fems unless it would be sexist and not pc!ha!) or getting fooked in the asss byi these corrupt UNIONS and saying how wonderful the bullshit-bailouts were to just help these scummy UNIONS and gangsters of DEMBHOLE MEMBERS - look in the mirror you fookn stoopid governor GRANHOLM - YOU ARE TO BLAME for the economy and michigan's demise and the auto industry's failure because of your cunstunt foookn with the UNIONS not the lame/pathetic dembhole excuse of HEALTH CARE you worthless C**T!!![***addendum feb 23***DEMBHOLE GRANHOM was forced to admit today forced to admit that all 20,000 jobs this STOOPID DEMBHOLE stated were from the SHIT-STIMULUS BILL were registered to LANSING michigan the stae capitol proving PROVING that as michigan employment dried up - STATE FOOKN WORKERS WERE HIRED AND GIVEN RAISES!!! YOU are a STOOPID DEMBHOLE GRANHOLM and a UNION FUCKHOLE FOR PRICKS and those UNION BULLS with fake pricks - like youse a FOOKN FRAUD!!!***]
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Dembholes in PHILADELPHIA, PA 'spy' on schoolchildren through laptops!!!
DEMBHOLES in the school system of PHILADELPHIA PENNSYLVANIA 'gave' schoolchildren free laptop computers and then iniated camera feeds to 'spy' on the chidren and their families!!! 'the OBAMA's administration likes 'COMMIESIR BIG-BROTHER' to be in total control! Some transparency and honesty eh???!!! Free computers given out with 'STIMULUS-SHIT FUNDS' so we can 'spy'/monitor your every move in your home!!! Quick your thermostat is set too high! Ah the wonders of MARXISM - invading your homes!!! ha!
Thursday, February 4, 2010
for BLACK history month - poetry...
Lat-23.5'N Long-20'W Winds-increasing Moving-West
You do not remember us
or consider our chants of beginning.
You do not believe in our religions
or the power of amulets,
bags of magical power
held against our beating chests.
You know nothing of the ‘dydru gysera’
our family histories or the taboo
prophesying bad luck
for those washed in waters
first felt by someone else.
For it is the dry spiced winds
of very ancient things traveling over
great sandy deserts, roaring like demons forced
through a tunnel
which combines with cool sprays
of ocean air -
hissing steamy shouts of rain becoming dark downpours of souls
surging together
in thunderous voices of seasonal parade
pushing wave after wave
shaped by hateful nature
traveling outward from mankind's first continent.
Bound in huge swirling somersaults of howling names.
Christened by forecasters
supposedly bringing enlightenment as: Ashanti
Bantu
Chembe
Dja
Ebo
Fulani
Gulla
Hutu
Before we are thrown wrapped
in weathered chains,
on the shores of the far Americas.
You do not remember us
or consider our chants of beginning.
You do not believe in our religions
or the power of amulets,
bags of magical power
held against our beating chests.
You know nothing of the ‘dydru gysera’
our family histories or the taboo
prophesying bad luck
for those washed in waters
first felt by someone else.
For it is the dry spiced winds
of very ancient things traveling over
great sandy deserts, roaring like demons forced
through a tunnel
which combines with cool sprays
of ocean air -
hissing steamy shouts of rain becoming dark downpours of souls
surging together
in thunderous voices of seasonal parade
pushing wave after wave
shaped by hateful nature
traveling outward from mankind's first continent.
Bound in huge swirling somersaults of howling names.
Christened by forecasters
supposedly bringing enlightenment as: Ashanti
Bantu
Chembe
Dja
Ebo
Fulani
Gulla
Hutu
Before we are thrown wrapped
in weathered chains,
on the shores of the far Americas.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
'the OBAMA's latest outrageous LIES!!!
LIE 1) 'the OBAMA' has stated that most of the HEALTH CARE debate has already been 'aired' on C-SPAN!!! NO NEED TO 'RE-DO' THIS.
LIE 2) 'the OBAMA' states his TRILLION DOLLAR BUDGET will cut taxes - yet all tax rates ALL TAX RATES even for those at the 10% level will increase to approximately 29% and corpoate capital tax rates will increase from 15% to 39+%!!!
LIE 3) These increased tax rates will aid job hiring! HA - just how fookn stoopid do you think AMERIKANS are 'the OBAMA'???
'the OBAMA' has decided that AMERIKA does not need NASA anymore - better to have the CHINESE or INDIANS or RUSSIANS explore into space so we can look at all the 'marvels ' they discover - our monies are better spent on helping out the AUTO and SEIU UNIONS and the criminals and friends at ACORN!!! All hail our new first commiesir 'the OBAMA'=STALIN or MAO TSE TUNG or the CASTRO BROS. or HUGO'phattyfatt'CHAVEZ!!! All HAIL the end of AMERIKA.
LIE 2) 'the OBAMA' states his TRILLION DOLLAR BUDGET will cut taxes - yet all tax rates ALL TAX RATES even for those at the 10% level will increase to approximately 29% and corpoate capital tax rates will increase from 15% to 39+%!!!
LIE 3) These increased tax rates will aid job hiring! HA - just how fookn stoopid do you think AMERIKANS are 'the OBAMA'???
'the OBAMA' has decided that AMERIKA does not need NASA anymore - better to have the CHINESE or INDIANS or RUSSIANS explore into space so we can look at all the 'marvels ' they discover - our monies are better spent on helping out the AUTO and SEIU UNIONS and the criminals and friends at ACORN!!! All hail our new first commiesir 'the OBAMA'=STALIN or MAO TSE TUNG or the CASTRO BROS. or HUGO'phattyfatt'CHAVEZ!!! All HAIL the end of AMERIKA.
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