Sunday, March 21, 2010
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!
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
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:
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:
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
'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.
Monday, March 15, 2010
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.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
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...
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???
Saturday, March 13, 2010
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.
Friday, March 12, 2010
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
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
Thursday, March 11, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
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
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
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, March 8, 2010
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.
(“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.
(*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.
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.
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!
Sunday, March 7, 2010
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.
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.
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.
(*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//
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.
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.
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
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
Saturday, March 6, 2010
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.
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
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
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
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.
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.
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.
Friday, March 5, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
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 earth shakes and tilts
buildings soon crumple away
grief is people’s ground
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
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???
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
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!!!
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