No More Slaves for the Serbs (Remembering Kosovo's Fight)

Kosovo’s Independence (2-26-2008)


More disruption with Bosnian Serbs, we have here, a mob of protesters that are giving humanity a clear message (that they are not able to confront issues with dialogue), actually they gave the citizens of Kosovo that same clear message not long ago, by the slaughtering of them, and now they want the world and the minds of the persecuted to welcome them into their little hornets nest, and to be ruled by them. If I was the Islamic Albanian in Kosovo, I’d dread being under the iron hand of these deadly souls. Look how they feel about their blessed Kosovo, can you imagine how they will feel once they get their hands on the throats of the citizens. I don’t blame the good citizens of Kosovo for wanting once and for all to rid themselves of the beasts across their boarder, God help me if I had to live under such a regime.
They wanted to kill everybody in the US Embassy there, because we stuck up for the weak side. These are real nice people to work with, just kidding of course, but I am so happy the Kosovo had the guts to stand up tall for liberty and freedom and honor, and I say that loud and clear. We have a right, like it or not, to stand up for whom we feel should be independent.
The Serbian capital, Belgrade, does not dictate to the world how they should act, or feel, when you can’t govern a country right, it is the duty of its citizens to set thing proper, not to live under the thrones of those who feel they have a right to rule over you, like a pack of snakes. Be it in Belgrade or Banja Luka, I’d not trust the government of Belgrade with my life, and if I had to be subject to them, I’d go to war I suppose, like Kosovo might, or has in the past to protect themselves from the wolves. I am proud of America, and the EU, those countries standing up for liberty. Spain, is as bad a Russia, and China (China holds a knife over the throat of Tibet, and would like Taiwan as a pet, so no wonder why they are in support of Belgrade’s policy; Spain is not much different, and Russia, well, what do you expect, they lost half their land because they were savages, and now fear they will lose a nasty little friend, one of the few left.

James Joyce and Ernest Hemingway: Who Helped them?

James Joyce and Ernest Hemingway:
Who helped them?


It has always interested me (perhaps because of my background in psychology), how men and women are made, from the days of youth, to the days of just prior to death. It is never because one man stood alone against all the odds in the world. It is because he took opportunity when it came by. He saw it, grabbed it, and thus, waited, or polished, or whatever it took he or she did, to make it to the next step, and so I just wanted to take a quick view of two famous writers, whom would not have been famous had they not done what I just said, or so I believe, and been at in the right place at the right time (and I think I can say, they went to the right place, hoping to find what they did find, as I did in 1968, when I went to San Francisco, against many odds, and wrote a book about it, called, “Romancing San Francisco”.

What made these two people I will bring to light in a moment, good writers? Somewhere, along the line, everyone gets a little help. James Joyce was a very bad writer, I have a few of his First Edition poem books, he wrote a few of them, they are not all that great either. But why was his book, number one throughout the 1930s, if he was not so hot? Some people have good skills and imagination, others have one or the other, and seldom do they have both. Joyce had a good imagination, but stunk on skills, if it wasn’t for Ezra Pound, James Joyce would never have made the grade. Ulysses, was gone over by Mr. Pound, and Joyce took all the information he was willing to give to heart, made his changes as needed: Joyce was not dumb, just not skilled, and thus he produced a best seller, he learned on the job; and the Dubliners, well, he kept what he learned and life went on.
As for Hemingway, he had help on three sides or four. One, it was F. Scott Fitzgerald who got the publishers to look at his stuff. Second, it was Shakespeare And Company that became his second home, and where he got his books to read, and study free. Third, he got Ezra Pound to take him under his wing, and teach him the art, as did Anderson take Hemingway under his wing, and introduced him to his publishers as well, and Stein, she introduced him to the writers and artist, and poets of Paris; in addition, he came from a pretty well off family, other than that, he was a reporter with a rough way of writing, that would not have sold a book, had he not taken advantage of what came his way. And yes, in time he turned out to be a fairly good writer, too much dialogue for me, yet I have most, if not all his books, first editions, so nonetheless, he was a good writer (some psychological problems in the head, but most writers got them, he just could not control them).

MRSA and Aids: who are we allowed to blame? (The Green Monkey?)

MRSA and Aids: who are we allowed to blame?
The Green Monkey?


MRSA bacteria, otherwise known as methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus MSRA spreads via surface-to-surface contact, symptoms can include pimple-like sores on the skin where the bacteria launch their attack. We already got the experts out there, saying it is a super bug disease, and not a gay disease, it did not take them long to blame it on the bug. Dave Mosher, Live Science Staff Writer, makes a joke out of the whole thing, as expected, he is most likely gay.

This is a hard subject, and issue for open minded adults, if it is too hard for your eyes to read, then don’t but it does exist; the seriousness of this issue will not fade into nothingness, and parents need to know this for their children, it can be contagious, if a person has this virus in their hands and you shake their hands, you might need to say some prayers, or quickly clean yourself with whatever it takes. Funny, I’m sixty years old, and when I was growing up, we never had such issues like this, worldwide, perhaps people were more considerate of others then.

It’s a shame, a shame, a shame; we avoid trying to blame Aids and MRSA on the Gays, when they are gay diseases created by them. The Gay community has done an outstanding job, hollering “Discrimination,” so they can carry on with their exposed diseases, blaming it on everyone but themselves (even the Green Monkey), and their style of living goes on unchallenged. It has killed more people than Aids I’ve heard recently, and it is now circulating the globe, and it started in my old stomping grounds (so it has been said), in San Francisco, Castro Street. I lived in that area back in 1968-69. Back then there were many gays, but they didn’t parade their way of life like peacocks, as they do nowadays, and blame everything on everybody else, but themselves; gays are transmitting this new disease, and with their filthy lifestyle, it doesn’t help; and everybody is afraid to call it what it is and put the blame on those who deserve it (no responsibility, no discipline, equals no limits: the gays like this).
It now is a growing problem for Peru, a year ago, no one heard of it (yet it dates bay a ways). This involves bacteria’s (19,000-lives in the USA have perished because of this bacteria).
In addition to gays, it also can be spread by those folks who make love in the rectum other than gays, that is where the bacteria comes from to my understanding.
If the gays could keep it in the family, and not spread it to the general population, I would not be writing this letter, but like most irresponsible kids, they can’t keep their hands out of the cookie jar, they got to spread it around.

CNN: In a startling admission, the head of a major homosexual activist group said HIV/AIDS is a "gay disease."

A new ad campaign out in Los Angeles claims that HIV is a Gay disease (The Gay and Lesbian Center)

Dead Skies over Kenya ((a poem)(and Commentary on Kenya's struggle for peace))

Dead Skies over Kenya
(2/2008)

Deep death, encircles the skies over Kenya
Whence even the lightening seems remote;
Here, the cities burn, with burning eyes
Ask now what hand will save the dawn.

#2285 2-23-2008

Note: In recent weeks, there has been much commotion, fighting, and loss of life in Kenya, and it seems, the United States, along with the United Nations, are for once in unison, with concern over this African nation, not like it was back in the early 90s, when the world ran away from the Uganda crisis, and almost a million lives were lost. All Kenyans seem to agree with one thing, change the constitution, that in itself is a problem, the two sides that are in opposition, are talking, it’s about time, and in one way or another, agree with that above statement. The popular demand seems to be, a better democratic governance in their nation, for it all started because of that very reason, if I recall right, over bad elections. So, better late than never, here are two poems on the subject, or issue of Kenya, as I see it. Even Condoleezza Rice, and the former U:N: secretary-general, Kofi Annan are trying to put out fires before they start back up there, as worthless as Annan has been in the past maybe he can do something good for mankind here in the present, if it is in his heart, that is (I hope so). There will be more mass protests in the near future, but let’s hope it remains at that, better than mass graves are dug, and in that part of the world, who can ever tell. Kenya was perhaps the most civilized, and well off country in Africa, until recently that is. So here is a little poem, for a big issue.

Jungle Treachery in Satipo (Now in, English and Spanish)

Jungle Treachery in Satipo

((Alevosía en la Selva de Satipo)

( Now in Spanish and English))


Note: a true story about an old man and his ongoing struggle with the invaders of his land in the jungle of Satipo!...

Jungle Treachery in Satipo

The old man had fifty acres in the Satipo jungles of Peru that was in 1985, when he came across invaders, squatters on his property. It wasn’t long before they started building structures on his land and assuming it to be their own—out of human greed—thus, they felt it was theirs for the taking (which is not uncommon in Peru).
The old man tried aimlessly with his brother, to talk the invaders out of their quest to take over his land, for the government was of little use, or for that matter, protection. If anything, they were for hire at a lesser amount than the value of the land, and thus, could be bought to look the other way for a few dollars. But old man Augusto with his machete met the invaders eyeball to eyeball, shoulder to shoulder, and started a war that cleaned his land of the invading cockroaches, as he called them.

—But it is not always as it seems, is it? for it was not long after, when more invaders appeared, but this time with more gusto, and more perseverance, and more solitude with their fellow invaders to steal the land from the old man. And this time the law of the jungle—the machete—would be of little use.
Instead of paying the old man $7,000-dollars for the land, they paid the Shinning Path, a terrorist group, $1500, to kill the old man, and be done with the whole mess, or insure he would never return.
Hence, it was twilight when they cornered the old man by his one room shack. There, they surrounded him like hungry piranha. They had guns, machetes, and twenty men; they were lighting torches to set his shack on fire, when he found a shadowy pathway that kept him from the sight of the terrorist, thus he walked in the shadow, slowly, until he found himself in the deep of the jungle ; and behind him, his shack in flames.

It was a long walk to the city called Huancayo (in the Mantaro Valley), where his family lived, but he walked it, mile after mile, for a week straight. Upon his arrival, he had found people were asking about him, people he did not know, thus he throw a sack of fruit over a donkey, and through the Andes he rode the donkey, to Lima, Peru. It was a most trying trip, yet he felt safer doing this than remain where he had been, and moved in with his daughter. It would be twenty-years before he’d return, and so he did in 2005, only to find the invaders now had legally protested the absence of the old man, branding him a deserter of his own land, leaving it to waste away, while they cared for it. Thus, the struggle would start again, but this time, his kids, son and daughters were of an age to where they could help him, and his wife, now dead for a few years, whom had tried to keep the land away from the invaders, had put in her will, a portion of the land for each of the several kids. Thus, making the land worth fighting for.

And so my readers, this saga that took place in the jungles of Satipo, is not over yet; but should it occur in my life time, I shall let you know. End

This story was writtn about three years ago, now the land is half sold, and a good portion is being built on. So the essence of the thing might be, try to work around it, with it, through it, whatever, but don't give up.



Spanish Version

Alevosía en la Selva de Satipo


Esta es la historia de un anciano que tenía veinte hectáreas de terreno en la ceja de selva de Perú, en Satipo. Fue en 1985 cuando él descubrió por casualidad a algunos invasores, ocupantes ilegales, en su propiedad. No había transcurrido mucho tiempo desde que ellos habían empezado a construir algunas paredes sobre su terreno, asumiendo esto como propio—por avaricia humana—así, ellos sentían que esto les pertenecía por la fuerza.

Al ver esto el anciano, con su hermano, trató inútilmente de hablar con los invasores para hacerles cambiar sus intenciones de apoderarse de su terreno, ya que las autoridades eran de poca ayuda, o en este caso, de poca protección. Por el contrario, ellos habían sido sobornados por una cantidad de dinero menor que el valor del terreno para hacerse de la vista gorda, y así, ellos no le prestaban atención a este problema. Pero el anciano Augusto con su machete y con la ayuda de su hermano se enfrentó a los invasores, ojo a ojo y empezó una guerra que limpió su terreno de las cucarachas invasoras, como él los llamaba.

Pero no siempre es lo que parece ¿verdad? Porque no pasó mucho tiempo cuando más invasores aparecieron; pero esta vez con mayor entusiasmo, más perseverancia y más solícitos con sus compañeros invasores para robar las tierras del anciano. Y esta vez la ley de la selva—el machete—sería de poca utilidad.

Los invasores, en vez de pagar al anciano siete mil dólares por el costo de su terreno, habían pagado a un grupo terrorista mil quinientos dólares para matar al anciano y, de esta manera, terminar con él, quien era un obstáculo para sus planes de invasión.

Es así que una tarde, en el crepúsculo, los terroristas llegaron a la propiedad del anciano y lo arrinconaron en uno de sus cuartos de su cabaña; allí, ellos los rodearon como pirañas hambrientas. Ellos tenían armas, machetes y eran veinte hombres; ellos, estaban encendiendo antorchas para prender fuego a la cabaña del anciano, pero él a través de un escape encontró un sendero sombrío que lo mantuvo escondido de la vista de los terroristas. Así es como él caminó en la sombra, despacio, hasta que se encontró en la selva; y, detrás de él, su cabaña ardía en llamas.

Era un camino largo desde Satipo hasta la ciudad de Huancayo, donde su familia vivía, pero él caminó este trayecto kilómetros tras kilómetros por una semana entera. A su llegada a Huancayo, él descubrió que había gente preguntando por él, personas que él no conocía. Así que él decidió tomar otro rumbo, él decidió ir a Lima, para lo cual él puso un saco de frutas sobre un burro y a través de Los Andes él cabalgó hacia su nuevo destino. Este fue un viaje muy largo y duro, pero el anciano era fuerte para su edad y además él se sentía más seguro que permanecer en Huancayo.

Pasarían veinte años antes de que él regresara a la Selva de Satipo y así él lo hizo, en el 2005, sólo para encontrar que los invasores ahora legalmente estaban en su propiedad porque habían denunciado su ausencia, tildándolo de desertor de su propio terreno, dejándolo esto para ser utilizado, y que ellos, mientras, se habían hecho cargo de estos.

Y así mis lectores, esta hazaña que tomó lugar en las selvas de Satipo todavía no ha terminado, pero si esto ocurre mientras esté vivo, se los contaré.

Nota: Esta es una historia verdadera sobre un anciano y su constante lucha contra los invasores de sus tierras en la selva de Satipo! …

The Complete Muhammad Letters (Poems inspiried)

The Muhammad Papers
(Year of the Elephant)

(Inspired, and Illustrated)

Twelve (XII) Poetic, Prophetic Letters found in a Cave in Medina, and now
Translated for the first time

Revelations from the Prophet Moss (634 AD)



By Three Time Poet Laureate, Ed. D.
Dennis L. Siluk

Awarded the National Prize of Peru, "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture (through his Poetry and Writings)
The Muhammad Papers
Dennis L. Siluk
Copyright©2008


Illustrated by the Author





Dennis L. Siluk, Ed. D
Poet Laureate




Haikus for Evil

No one goes, and
Does evil (or kills) in the Name of God;
That is Satan’s work.

#2276/2-17-2008


Muhammad, the Islamic Prophet was born in the “Year of the Elephant,”
And died at age of 62-years, of an illness, in the year 632 AD

In these few short poems; one may gather up the nature of Muhammad, perhaps better than another book, without any biases, they express his nature more than his deeds than anything else, and according to historical data.



Index

Haiku for Evil

The Prophet Moss
(From the Echoes of the archangels)

Letter #2 “From the Grave of Muhammad”
((Inspired by Raguel) (archangel))

Letter #3 “The Battle of Badr”
(A Revelation from the angel Uriel to Moss)

Letter #4 “the Coffin Makers”
(Revelation given to Moss from Michael)

Letter #5 the Prophet from the Orphan
(A Revelation from Gabriel to Moss)

Letter #6 “the Arrow & the Apple”
Inspired by Lucifer (undetected until now,
He was pretending to be, Raguel, who takes vengeance
For the world)

Letter #7 “the Underworld”
(Revealed by Saraqa’el the Archangel, Guide for Moss, while touring Heaven)

Letter #8 “Story of the Cranes"
(Inspired from the spirit voice of Rufael, the Archangel)

Letter #9 “Mecca’s Cry: the Year of Sorrow”
(As remembered from the mouth of Moss the Prophet)

Letter #10 “Pledge under the Tree”
(A Revelation from Muhammad Himself to Moss)

Letter #11 “Spirit of the Dark”
(Amduscias and the Trees of Hell)

Letter #1 “A Poetic Sketch on:
A´isha Bint Abu Bakr”
((Inspired by Sure’el (archangel of trembling)
(Wife of the Prophet))

†


Moss, the Great Prophet from Medina
634 AD


The Prophet Moss
(From the Echoes of the archangels)

Moss, a great prophet of his day,
stood between heaven and earth,
so it was is written, and saw
the emmence, and very pillars
of heaven, and saw the winds,
turn the course of the sun and
saw the stars as well, and they fell,
beneath the clouds, and the angels
held them up, and they were flaming
day and night, and a voice said,
prophet of the earth, listen: mark
down these words, keep them far
from the pit, and let not the foundation
under the waters of the earth,
listen, save, they steal these words
and make havoc with them.
Break down the pillars, tell the truth,
from the beginning, for it has now
turned into a mystery…I give you
revelations on earth’s number one
enemy! (Muhammad)

#2270/ 2-16-2008 (inspired 6:30 PM)
Letter: II


“Oh,” from the Grave of Muhammad

Inspired by Raguel (archangel)


“Oh!” Surprised by death
was—Muhammad?
He suffered from the anger and hate,
filaments he had inside his breast:
madness—; he lays now in his illness,
covered with sand…
his soul, in a washbasin.
His mouth calling “Oh!”
from the dead;
he was surprised
God did not let him into heaven.
Alas! Death came with no other
settlement!...

#2261/ 2-16-2008 (Revelation received, 3:00 PM)















Letter: III



The Battle of Badr

(A Revelation from the angel Uriel to Moss)


There will be blood in the sand tonight—
Like gravy over meat,
Dead bodies eating soil, vultures chewing
Hearts from corpuses’
Eyes plucked out, of their sockets, like
Candles in a twist—
And I see Muhammad hiding in a cave,
Safe, watching all this;
Yesterday, he walked tall, like a peacock,
Among men of the world;
Today, he’s evasive, hiding behind shadows,
Like a frightened little girl.


#2262/ 2-16-2008
















Letter: IV


The Coffin Makers





(Revelation given to Moss from Michael)


What Moss saw in the far off days?

We are Islam.
We are the coffin makers.
We are Death.
We hate Jews and Christians;
we pack them in carts
like potatoes.
The body fires like stars:
we use children,
women and the insane.
We are to them,
their savior.
We are the death makers.
We are Islam.
We have credentials.


#2263/2-16-2008



Letter V

The Prophet from the Orphan

(A Revelation from Gabriel to Moss)

He eats the heart of man
spits them out like fingernails—;
his followers threaten even the Pope
or any man, of speech, and freedom
if they do not listen, take head.
He was once an orphan,
now he’s Islam. Once a poor
broken tool, ornament, whom
decided to make a religion
decided to free a people
(from the bondage of many gods)—
then held them hostage,
corralled like hogs,
accountable; put his new world
under his heel, as they cried
in duress; thus, he simply said:
I am the word of God
(the prophet
from the Orphanage).

#2264/ 2-16-2007)











Letter VI


The Arrow & the Apple

Inspired by Lucifer (undetected until now,
He was pretending to be, Raguel, who takes vengeance
For the world)



Hell’s High Tower


And Raguel heard Satan whisper to Moss, as he was sitting on a mountain top, looking down upon the land (and here is what he wrote in his scriptures):

“You are a knife in my side Moss, I gave Muhammad messages
and you try to poison my words, the very words I gave to him;
give them lies, lies, big lies, small ones they detect, oh yes—yes,
they detect: big ones they never check. You are my infection! Yet
I must admit, I’ve been getting much attention out of this, those
letters you now write for posterity, will not be discovered until
the 21st Century.

What harm have I done you? None! Did I make you insane, as I have
a certain other prophet? No! Have I made your heart sour, as I’ve done to you know who? No! And here you climb to the roof of the city, to this mountain top, overlook it, and pray to God—my antagonist.

Muhammad is dead, under my wing, my pillow, under my stirrups. And you, I, give you all you wish, like I did for Muhammad, and this is what I get, ingratitude.” (And that was that.)


#2267/ 2-16-2008 (Muhammad was 62-years old when he died, in the year 632 AD)
VII

The Underworld

(Revealed by Saraqa’el the Archangel, Guide for Moss, while touring Heaven)

Belphegor, King of the
Demon


Moss, the Great Prophet of Medina, wonderer of the wastelands in 633 AD, wrote the following revelation, as he had ascended into the atmosphere:

“Birds turned into plums and apples; a wind swept me up into the heavens, I thought my body would turn into a corpse, I went so fast, hanging onto Saraqa’el, tightly on his back, I twisted and twirled, and almost lost my grip. Then the birds disappeared, and there I was. I was seventy-three years, at this time, and
this great archangel, my guide, introduced me to Adam, Abraham, Moses, and Jesus, and then I looked about for Muhammad, and then asked, ‘Where is this great, great, great man, prophet of God?’ And an angel by the name of Gabriel answered,’ I think he’s down yonder taking a nap.’ I hesitated to ask, where yonder was, in fear, Gabriel may think I was perplexing, and that just would not do. Then I asked again, and another angel answered, ‘I’ll tell you where yonder is, if you write me a poem?’ I paused to see if he was serious, and he diffidently was. I did not feel great by all means; a tinge of wine would have helped. Then I heard an echo, a deep, deep echo, that ascended from below, that other angel said, here is his voice, and I listened carefully, and it said: ‘Idiot prophet, I’m dead, will you take my place here in Saul…instead’ short for hell I think, ‘the devil’s got me by the tail, hurry up, make up your mind, I’m the great prophet of all time!’ I didn’t say a word, I just wanted to go back to earth, and see those birds.”

#2268/ 2-16-2008
Letter VIII


“Story of the Cranes"
(Inspired from the spirit voice of Rufael, the Archangel)


“Story of the Cranes"
(the Satanic Verse),
Muhammad’s involvement,
I lived through these times,
the account holds true,
that Muhammad pronounced
a verse, acknowledging the existence
of three Meccan goddesses
considered to be the daughters
of Allah—praising them he did,
and thereafter appealing for their
intercession. According to my
observations, Muhammad later
retracted his statements,
the verses, saying Gabriel
had instructed him to do so.
Just in time, I would guess?


Note: In the tenth century this was rejected as a false entry of his life, yet it stood the test of time, for 350-years, until one day, woops, it is no longer history. 2269 2-15-2008 (1:30 AM, received revelation)












Letter IX



Mecca’s Cry: the Year of Sorrow

(As remembered from the mouth of Moss the Prophet))


His heart beat like the sea
his anger was as if he had bees in his mouth;
Mecca became a dead city
after he killed them all
(10,000-soldiers strong, he conquered
them, butchered, like hogs).
The flies had a feast…, for
they tore open their bellies like beasts!
Their heads severed, rolled off,
down the streets—;
they would not listen,
they would not stop
they simply killed and killed,
as if, in a death dance.

#2271/2-16-2008 (10:50 PM)





Letter: X

“Pledge under the Tree”
(A Revelation from Muhammad Himself to Moss)

The Devil

While in the process of conquering the lands of Arabia (624 AD to 632 AD)

“I wanted everything, the houses, the dogs, hogs, ropes, and
jewels, even the souls, the family heritage, even the food, everything, and when the people who did not bend their wills,
I wanted to kill their wills; whoever was left, ate chicken
bones. My army, had pledged their lives to me, their souls,
to die for me, to kill, to kill to the very end of their days: to
battle, be it man, women, child, even virgins; they
died liked chickens or hens; twenty eyes like volcanoes
came and butchered them.

“There is never a silence in my head, only teeth and death. It comes each day, in shock waves, the vibrating twitching of muscles and swords clashing. I killed so many with no reason,
it was a season of red rain, in my days.

“I try to swallow my memory, but it keeps coming back,
chained down to oblivion, like a crucifixion; even
laughter does not help anymore, memory comes back,
luminous, like a clock.

“Once upon a time, I was a young man, and I died, for
no reason, like so many.”

#2272/ 2-16-2008 (11:15 PM)

Note: Muhammad, in the course of his battling with his enemies, he had his followers make a pledge to their death, called, “Pledge under the Tree,” perhaps this is where the suicide bombers got their credo, to the death.



Letter: XI


Spirit of the Dark




Amduscias and the Trees of Hell


Powerful Grand Duke of Hell
powerful demon, of 29-infernal legends in hell:
once a unicorn, once a human, you come in many forms:
thou bends to the music of heaven, commands
at will the trumpets of hell—yea plays
and the trees sway: who art thou
who comes in the form of
familiars (dogs and cats
bats and rats…) your
legend from hell?
so some say, one in the form
of Muhammad! Thus, a curse
to us, ordinary people of this thin world.



There is a Christian, belief, or call it folklore, that Muhammad was born on the day, year and month considered the Mark of the Beast, 666 AD, and not on 634 AD, as history has recorded it, and that he was the beast incarnate, the devil, or at best, a simply demon. #2264/2-17-2008






Letter: I

A Poetic Sketch on:
A´isha Bint Abu Bakr

Inspired by Sure’el (archangel of trembling)

(Wife of the Prophet)




Aisha 3rd Wife to Muhammad


To my understanding Mohammad the Prophet, had 13-wives.
Aisha was his 3rd, and very, very, very young; she was, said to
have been nine-years old, and the only virgin. Sawda, his second,
so it is said, yet there is a belief out there Aisha may have been his
second instead, but did not make love to her until after He wed Sawda,
being so very, very, very young ((`A´isha Bint Abu Bakr)(she who lives))

`A´isha Bint Abu Bakr: mother of believers: so it was, in older times,
one often married to strengthen ties, with families, clans, with other
armies, and kingdoms, and so it has been suggested, Muhammad did
just that, similar to Alexander the Great.

Aisha, lived with her parents to the age of nine, when the marriage
was consummated. Thus, after the wedding, it is said, Aisha continued
to play with her toys, in Median, in 622 AD.

It seems history records she was his most favoured wife, and he received
most of his revelations when she was in his presence. And even though
it might have been motivated for other reasons, they did become fond of
each other, and blessed by heaven.

It has been also said, Aisha had gone looking for her necklace, one
morning, and her caravan had taken off, left her behind, unnoticed,
and soon after a stranger found her, brought her back to the caravan, and
was thereafter called an adulater, until that is, until Muhammad
got a new revelation, from heaven, clearing her of any such charges.

After Muhammad’s death in 632 AD, at the age of 62, Aisha’s father became
the leader of the people, the new found religion, Islam, but his leadership
was to be a short run, only two years, and he gave it to Umar; whom ruled
for ten years, and was followed by another leader, thereafter.



End Note: It would seem, or at least it does to me, Aisha, was a learned woman, who—throughout her remaining years—gave stories to the Muslim world about her husband. Of her own time she must had been quite valuable as a historian. She is now of course, revered as a model for Islamic Woman. She also raised an Army, and fought against Ali, her step-son in-law. She was quite a woman indeed.

#2260/ 2-16-2008 (Inspired at 2:00 AM)





End to the book






†


Dr. Dennis Siluk has a Degree in Psychology, a License to Counsel in Minnesota, is an Ordained Minister, and has an Ed. D. in Education (for teaching and learning); he has traveled to more than 60-countries; and has written 36-books to date. He is a War time Vietnam Veteran. See author's site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com/

Midwinter Winds (A Midwinter Poem for Minnesota, 2008)

Midwinter Winds
(A Midwinter Poem for Minnesota Poem, 2008)

Midwinter winds over the gray,
now heavily displaying in the Midwest,
go forth to gather the day,
for here the magic has come, with dreams.

O, happy winds play within my warm hands,
Ah! Let me play and rest…!
and breath in the yearning, to see,
so much midwinter gray, and snow to be!

#2280 (2-22-2008)

Christopher Brennan, A Great Poet (Review)

Who was Christopher Brennan?

For the most part, a forgotten poet (other than for Australia), who was born 1870, and died 1932; his work was more on the mythological side of the spectrum it seems; born in New South Wales, Australia. His main work, which I would like to bring to surface here, was Poems: 1913, which he published in 1914. He wrote several works, and seems to have influence many poets in Australia, perhaps like Juan Parra De Riego, in the Andes of Peru, whom most people do not know, but did some great things for poetry—creating motion.
In 1888, he, Brennan, entered the University of Sydney (I had visited Sydney back in 1971). His father was a merchant, and his first published work was in 1897; he was a librarian and lecturer, similar to our Minnesota Poet, Robert Bly, whom translated many books in Spanish and German.
The poem, “Autumn” has a shell of haunting to it, he uses such images as Clark A. Smith, Robert Howard or George Sterling would. Autumn is the best of all seasons to me, especially living in Minnesota.
In the poem, “Because He would ask me why I loved her,” once can see a nice rhyme schema, and fine architecture. He seems to shift a little in this poem, to a clearer premise, and a tinge of philosophy than many of his era poets, I like that.
In his poem, “Fire in the Heavens,” almost reminds me of Mary Renault’s work, on the Greek world, although Brennan shifts to Egyptian crypt like imagery, and descriptions. He is a worth while poet to read, even if one has to shift away from Free Verse.
Of the poems I’ve thus far mentioned, I would prefer “I Am Shut out of Mine own Heart,” a lovely poem, with skill, reverberation, and character. He was in love with a certain lady, and here you can get the mood of it, although he is not famous for his embedded feelings into poetry per se, better put, not emotional, yet he seems to get the message across in this romantic poem.
In “Sweet Silence after Bells,” I don’t care for that poem much, but it is a worthwhile poem to read; we often push certain poems aside because we have not experienced what the poet has, and this may be one of the cases.
In the poem, “The Yellow Gas,” Christopher Brennan produces many images, perhaps close to some of George Sterling’s poetic images—who is the master I believe of imagery, but seems to be more connecting and clear than George.
In his poems he does not get into radicalism, or nationalism, like so many poets do today, and half not knowing the issues at hand, it is refreshing; I like Robert Bly’s poetry, but he does this too much, and saturates his books with it, as did Ambrose. He has a touch of William Blake in his poetry also, depending of the poem of course.
At one time, Brennan was facing the issue of joining the priesthood; this also can be seen in his poetry (of faith, and metaphysical lights, embedded into his poetry).
In “Spring Breezes,” we see him shift his style to a more of a free verse style, but does not lose his rhyme schema, his stanzas are not exact, but he gets a good result, effect from the poem. All in all, I enjoy his poetry, and am anxious to read additional books by him in the future, if I can get a hold of them.

William Burroughs (a Glance at "Cities of the Red Night")

…his outward vision, I’m not sure exactly what that is, and to be frank, I doubt he ever knew (Mr. Burroughs died in 1997, about four months after his old sidekick Allen Ginsberg kick the bucket): perhaps he actually believed, and I believe he believed, his vision was his concern of or for society, civilization, their deadly march to the inferno, but I can’t believe that, not down deep anyhow. Anyone who has read Burroughs, knows he is already in the inferno, he need not look for it in the cities for us throughout the world, or South America, if anything, his books are full of nasty words—and his homosexual desires, drives and tendencies—the book should be rated for sex, a triple-X, as in this book I am talking about, nothing new on the corner; it should only be sold in a porno stores; I suppose someone will say, as always: you don’t need to read it. That is an argument in itself, and in this article I do not have time to confront that saying, or issue. Anyhow, I wish he’d smile in his pictures a little more—and nothing is ever said much on love and kindness, just nasty words, and how everybody, and everything, is wrong, perhaps he got off on the wrong planet upon birth, he should have jumped off going by Utopia (there are a lot of ‘if only’ and ‘but (s)' in his written pages. He lives in a world of ‘what if’…he actually should have stayed in one of those third world countries, and fought for freedom and equality there instead of blaming it all on America. Had he wrote in 1981, what he wrote in this book, in Russia, he would not have lived to see 1982, or China for that matter, or Cambodia, Cuba, Zimbabwe, a few countries in South America, and so forth. Thus, what I see in this book is more of his inward look at his sadistic contempt for his soul, society, and America (he talks too much in this book on these issues) which is to me a gift from God (all three), and of course he is God, in his world, what a way to live, and die; on the other hand his soul I trust in on an apocalyptic trip to nowhere in this book he is telling us, what we already know in a childish tale, looking for disaster and hoping to find it to prove to God all us humans, are deadbeats except him. I think he would have loved to take all the causalities of his books with him, on this trip, in the ‘Cities of the Red Night,’ his Beat followers, in particular, and bring them into his mindset, which is pride and disaster. And the book is a nasty trip to boot. Furthermore, after enmeshing those who have read, “Cities of the Red Night,” into his little nest, I’m sure he’d try to sell them some more of his nastiness. It took him ten-years to write the book, the pages must have about 150-words per page, and about 325-pages, that is about 31-pages a year, or a few pages a month, or a paragraph a day, sorry to say, the book could have been written overnight the way it reads, what a waste of a decade.
The story starts in the year 1848, and it is of course Captain Mission (what an obvious, and silly name, he needs to be original, not stupid sounding, that is a name I’d had picked out of a hat, at the age of ten), anyhow, he makes the first comment. On the second page we get into a misplaced society talk, it doesn’t take him long. He thinks he is a Margo Polo, or perhaps James Michener, in this book, yet he is still old nasty Burroughs. As you get into the second and third chapters, the rotgut sex comes into play, as nasty as nasty can be. This guys mind was in the sewer when he was born, and died, where this book belongs.

The Demon's Sea, Over Iceland (Reedited 2-2008)(originally, Uamak's Aquatic)

The Demon’s Sea,
Over Iceland

(Or its previous title: ‘Uamak’s Aquatic’)

[Suspense/ reedited 2-2008]


Delicately, my mind was selecting a muffled tune, out of the dead dark empty space surrounding me…
I saw a shape on a ledge, sitting on a rock, not sure who it was, or for that matter—what it was, it had a human like form, from where I stood, and that is quite a distance; my intuition and sensitivity though, told me something, it always does, and I think it supersedes my logic and simple thinking, and surely my feelings, yes, I was getting a sensation call it, second-sight, for it was and is stronger than a sensation; I’ve heard people say exactly what I am saying, before, not sure if I want to put a lot of credence into it, but sensitivity with numbness is something to be aware of, the body has a mind of it own, or so it seems at times, and give you messages, danger messages.
I didn’t’ sense any danger for the moment, in the moonlit figure, sitting on the rocks, lurking, looking down, and out into the deep sea. I did get an awareness of cramps in my stomach though, like centipedes nibbling at it—from all corners—sucking my pink and red flesh inward, along with my internal organs, stinging their poisonous little fangs into them.
I stumbled about in the thick foliage, lost in its prickly overgrown wild plants and mud, and god knows what else; in corollary, I came to the edge near the sea, over looking the aquatic, edge of the cliff, it was many years ago since I had been here. I zigzagged through the last of the bushes, carefully now, it was the rim of the cliff, and then I got into a clearer opening. I could only hear the noises of shifting waters now—the waters below me, as clattering waves hit, and splashed against the overhang—the sea cliffs, directly in front of me. It was but a few seconds after dark, behind twilight, yes indeed, it had disappeared, swallowed up by an agitated night.
Inscrutability always appears to bring with it a limitless amount of threat, does it not? A rhetorical question at best, sure it does, and that figure on the edge of the cliff, sitting on the rock…as he looked down into the bowels of he sea, the tide was becoming more calm, the longer he looked, the calmer it became.
The around him were mammoth, and the closer I got to the person overlooking the sea, its figure became more jagged, and I noticed it had fangs.
The wind was not gentle over my head, not like it was a few minutes ago, I mean the wind and the mist, just unexpectedly evaporated.
I was about to say, the shape, its silhouette, turned a tinge, it was a huge rock, with a huge figure on it, it now is looking into the sea, for a moment it was looking at me; it is as if he is locking himself into a trance. He pays me no more attention, perhaps I am but a worm to him, and too insufficient for him to bother with. He seems to be talking to himself or perhaps some sea monster (ha...ha) just kidding—but he’s talking to someone, something, and his head is pointed downward, down, down toward the sea. Save for the fact I am not in an illusion.
A fishing boat, no, no just a vessel of some kind, is down there, not sure why I said fishing boat, how do I know, it is lit, a light on its deck, I suppose it’s a deck, it is far off in the distance.
I am walking now, a fog has draped over me again, over this area; I am walking aimless I think, can’t see much in front of me, lest I end up in the sea or on top of that damn monster looking down into the sea, I am not sure why I said monster, perhaps he just a big dud, and that is that. I can’t see much… some shadows just left the moon everything is a bit more exposed now, but it is only producing a little light. In September it is chilly here. I swear that stature has something to do with this mysterious evening. Here off the coast of … (Iceland) my bones are chilled.
I wonder what that figure is doing out here? ‘…what are you doing out here?’ might be a better question. I couldn’t tell you, I’d not have the answer, ‘doing out here,’ what? Maybe that figure on the rock knows—he must be but a hundred yards from me now, maybe he summoned me, I mean I was in Reykjavik this morning, and here I am, like a drawn zombie to this out of the way location; perchance I’ll find out soon enough, and so will you. I mean it is night, but not all that late, dusk was a moment ago, but night is falling quick.
As I was saying, conceivably I was drawn out here. I was visiting a friend, you could say, but only after I arrived. So what provoked me to take this little trip —your guess is as good as mine. I have been to places around the world that seems to draw on a person’s soul, agitate his pulse to the point he has to go—and ends up at, wherever he does—in this case here.

“Aye, good Master,” I heard it mumble “…take the lot as it is….”
This is what echoed back to me, the wind, yes the wind pushed it back into my ears from the spot where that strange creature, or person is, that figure on the huge rock looking, just looking down, and into the–what I assume, the sea, a black hole in the sea, yes indeed, that is what he is doing, just looking down and into a black hole into the sea, for some odd reason, I can see that now, it just faded into my senses, my vision, and is now fading away, as fast as it came.
Evidently, something else is down there—thriving.
—The form looks quite proud with a hint of arrogance, reeking from its countenance (cloudy face). I asked myself, now (being some twenty-five feet away from it): ‘does he have an inkling of my presence (he must)?’ I never seen anyone concentrates so hard, who, I say who can, or does concentrates so hard? I mean look, he is asking the water of the sea something, or at least it looks that way? Perhaps my intuition is correct, someone, or someone is down there; I get the feeling he has lost something, and wants to bargain for it back—death brings out many wishes in man and beast: and he looks to be both. Or is he planning something?
Weird! He is huge, awfully massive. I’ll take a few more steps, a yard now, he should turn around I’d think. I’m sure he can feel my heart beating; I denote his beating, for I can hear it myself.
Again and again I say should he turn around towards me he’d see me, then what? Perhaps he doesn’t want to scare me, or perchance he wants to eat me, and I am almost in his web, his mouse trip—if he eats me, I hope I’m all rat poison to his system.
Now he heard me mumbling my thoughts, he’s starting some incantations as well. A pathway to what I ask myself—, now what, I’m right behind him, three feet (‘mama mea’):
“I’m Uámak, and below me, is the Rector of Doom, and there are many and various, ways to die, he has on a bone-skull plate these ways, they are carved into each and every plate, seventy-two plates, and seventy-two ways to die. He brings one plate out at a time to me, shows them to me. I am forced to look as he mocks me. Doom has no rest, and I am tired, and doom—believe it or not—
has a funny sense of humor; better put, a sardonic sense of humor. He will I fear, play with me for ages yet. He says I must select one, and knows I can’t, for demons lie, and I’m sure on each plate, he has modified it; what I really fear is wherever I go, it not be to oblivion, and so he plays his game over and over and over. I have this right to select, since I am half of what he is, the other half human. I am as old as Adam was; my father’s father was the last of his kind, beside me, we come from the family Og. He gathers my voice and echoes it down to the villages, and cities, and whoever is sensitive to such things, who have second sight, is drawn here, to assist me. He wants to entertain the folks under the crust of the earth—as they laugh at me, with him. I cannot chose, he has given me a certain time to do this, I accepted this, game in fear my doom which was already cut out for me before hand, could be oblivion, and so having a choice I found myself in this conflicting situation, I am torn. Which way has been chosen for me, I can go back to that, or what does he offer me on these plates? I know you have second sight, perhaps you know, and if you do, I will make my choice?”
I was mortified, he turned around and I almost lost control of my physical functions (he was: gloom incarnate; a demigod, half demigod, as he said, whom was being tormented by other demigods, thus I learned they do not favor their own kind, especially one that may have a choice in the matter.
Anyhow, he knew I might know, or could find out something, and he wanted me to tell him what has been chosen for his death bed, and what choices were the demonic beast from the sea bringing up to him in comparison. So that’s why I was brought here, didn’t know, and the fingers of doom as well as the City of Death (in the crust of the earth) would not tell him, perhaps for a long, long time and this would be his death until he begged hell and Doom itself to tell him, or hell got tired and selected one for him; I was his messenger I suppose, his seer. I stared into the blackness where he had been focused, the sea, where he was looking down into or at, and I couldn’t see what he saw, but what I did saw was his death…his death!
“What do you see?” asked the Uamak (the semi demigod).
“A being with wings, putting rocks over your body. You are in a desert, chained to the earth under you, and the rocks over you, you cannot move.”
“What death is this?” he asked me.
“The living death,” I chokingly said.
“Will I be conscious,” he asked.
“Always!...”
“What does Doom offer in its place?” he asked (with a rustic and a choking voice.)
“Repeated Death,” I answered.
“And what exactly is that?” he questioned.
“What he is doing right now, but with every demon in hell.”

It the following day, they found hanging between two branches of a tree, my neck cramped within the fork of the tree, my hands tied behind me, and I was hanging there against the tree, my head green as the grass, my body limp as a noodle. I was found by local police, and they asked me who my assailant’s, I didn’t say a word, they would not have believed me anyhow. It was the inhabiting demonic creatures, small imps, if I recall right. They were upset that I gave insight to the great figure. I hung on the demon tree for several hours, and I can’t blame them, that is what demon do best, they are amused by such activities, and immune to pity, or grace, or anything of such a nature.
I don’t know what he, Uamak, selected, I simply wanted to hightail it out of there, as quick as possible, away from the tree, the sea, and the rocks. Perhaps another time, another day, I may come back, and see if he is still around.

Note: Written 8/12/05/revised 8/19/05 (Reedited, some words were added for description, but the theme, plot and ending were left untouched. About 700-words were added. 2/2008)

The Cigar [a chapter story/Reedited 2-2008]

The Cigar
[a chapter story/Reedited 2-2008]

For some odd reason Günter’s mind started shifting into a different mode, he was at an old friend’s work place, at a party [dreaming, daydreaming]; he always liked a good cigar, now and then, on special occasions that is—and Molly, the secretary, asked him if he wanted one. He looked at her, said “yes,” in an inquisitive way, and to his misfortune, it was quite small—a stub. Bewildered somewhat, if not disturbed, for he had an odd expression on his face, he gave little response, if any, a shallow: “Thanks…!” and went about and lit it.
Then the old friend the one that mysteriously appeared, appeared one might say out of nowhere, just like that, without a warning, was sitting by him, he wanted to try the cigar, check it out: smoke it that is. But there wasn’t much, especially for both of them, and only nearly enough for him. Plus, there didn’t seem to be enough air in the room (this was an unconscious thought perhaps): and of course, you cannot share what you do not possess (he confessed to himself). And if there is a want or need, it is on the beholders side. Nonetheless, he hesitated, and looked stern into his face, his youthful face, a face that didn’t age like his,
“I have an idea,” he says to the old friend (still feeling a bit odd, as if he didn’t know something, something he should know, but couldn’t put a finger on it),
“put the end of this cigar into the chimney of your pipe, and then you’ll have enough to enjoy.”
The mystic friend looked at him pleased, and just happened to have a pipe on hand (another oddity that struck Gunter as being strange, made Gunter think twice, think that something was peculiar, not right, very wrong, something he should know, but doesn’t, and would like to know; in essence, his intuition told him: something was very, very incorrect), thus, his friend pulled it, the pipe, where it came from was, or is also a mystery, at which time Günter put the cigar—what was left of it anyhow—into the barrel of the pipe, and gave it to his stranger-friend, a friend he had known, but again I must add, he could not put his finger on exactly who he was, his name that is, where they had met, and when (we of course are thinking of his past, before this moment, or at least Gunter is, he is searching for that moment when they had previously met, but does not put too much though into it, he has a crisis on hand).
At that moment, as the friend started to smoke from the pipe, he started to choke, as if he was spitting up tobacco, pieces of the cigar, or blood, something: in addition, his throat was burning, a fatal burning sensation (actually, Gunter was feeling the same as his friend, another oddity he tells himself). The best he could come up with, in helping his friend was to tell him, what he did tell him:
“Ah...here, here take some water, swallow it quickly—hold up your head, higher, higher, quickly, to cool the throat, it’ll put out the flame,” and the friend did as he asked; moreover all was well for the moment.
Now, Günter walked away from the table, and its festivities, finding himself by the store next to the office party. He noticed cigars for sale in the window, big cigars, and a selection —, now he thinks: ‘…why didn’t Molly tell me they had big cigars here—and a choice, instead of the little one, the stub?” thinking of course, it would have possibly solved the difficulty with him sharing the tail end of his cigar and not causing the coughing of his friend. ‘Peculiar,’ he tells himself, very odd indeed, yet it is left at that. Then the old man shook his head, told himself to stop day dreaming, rescue Jean-Lee, his daughter in the Great Food that was in progress at this very moment, down along the levee, of the Mississippi River.
As he found himself opening up his eyes, he was also spitting out water.

He had been drowning, sinking, in the Mississippi River to its mud and rocky bottom (in St. Paul, Minnesota, it was the spring of 1951); and he had mentally let go for a moment; now above water, his mind reactivated, he had fallen into the water off the roof of a house that was sinking underneath itself.

Originally written 11-10-2003; revised, 8-6-2005, reedited 5/2007 and again in 2/208; a chapter story from the writings out of the manuscript of: “Look at Me!” about 275-words were added to the chapter story, theme and plot unchanged, just more discriptive.

Who are my Writers? (DLSiluk)

Who are my Writers?

About a week ago someone asked me who my best writers were; I said there was too many to put down. Then today I got thinking of it, that really was a wrong statement. There are really not many, if you look at the long line of writers, if indeed there are any good novel writers out there today, there are only a few, as well as a few good poets (Like Robert Bly and Donald Hall), worth their salt. What we have today, is quick sell entertainment writers. We do not have writers today that will be remembered fifty to a hundred years from now, their books will not be on anyone’s shelves, or in any library. After they are dead, they will be forgotten perhaps in ten to twenty years. The last great writers, or my best writers were such as Nathaniel Hawthorne, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, Mary Renault, F. Scott Fitzgerald, O Henry, Clare A. Smith, William Durant, H.P. Lovecraft, Edgar Alan Poe, George Sterling, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Jack London, Bram Stoker, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, writers of this caliber. We don’t have them today. We do have a few good writers, who have written a few good books, but then comes the garbage thereafter. Colleen McCullough (she has two or three worthy books), Ken Follet (he has two books I consider worthy). Erich Maria Remarque. Longfellow. Julius Verne are also good writers, and well above the pack.
We can write to be read, or just for posterity, or for entertainment, there is nothing wrong in either case; or you can write for both and end up somewhere in-between. My first book, “The Other Door,” now on its 26th year of existence, and is on most every internet bookstore list, has been out of print for 20-years, is still in demand, and a first edition, signed can go as high as $122 dollars, it was a $5. Dollar in 1981, the book had only 750-copies made. It will be around for the next 100-years I expect, if it has lasted this long; it has passed the test of time. It is out of print, and I will not republish it. My point is, it was written for that exact purpose.

Walt Whitman: Over and Over, and Over

Walt Whitman: out in the open


What more can be said that has not been said about Walt Whitman? A good question.
To be honest I do not have any more insight than the average man out there who has read Whitman, but let me give you my point of view anyhow, for what it is worth, and it may not be worth a lot, and then on the other hand it may be a treasure, you never know.
He was known as perhaps the Father of Free Verse, old news, and he was known perhaps as the gay, or homosexual, or bisexual poet of the 19th Century, born 1819, and died 1892. He mostly wrote on his book: “Leaves of Grass,” which started out with 12-poems, and ended up with close to 400, over a forty to sixty year span, he revised the book, like a man would with a weight problem.
In his early editions, or revisions, you can tell when he writes about women, he really means men, and in his later editions, he is more free to unwind this secret of his past, it all has to do with—I would guess—the times.
Whitman was Allen Ginsberg’s hero, as Whitman’s hero was Emerson. Everyone has a hero, even Elvis’ had a hero, who was James Dean, and Stalin’s hero was Hitler. We pick out those most suitable to us—so it seems.
To be frank, I want to cut the chase to this essay and get down to business. Was Whitman’s life time goal to make a perfect book? And this book of course would have been “Leaves of Grass”—right? And did he accomplish it?
Ginsberg tried to be like Whitman in a way. Before Ginsberg died, and prior to it, he did what I’m going to tell you he did, in a more frantic way than I can express, and it seems to me a egoistic quark of Whitman’s also; that is, he’d write his poetic prose, and have his assistant put each typed letter, or poem, into his files, like a man with a precious coin, who feels he needs to preserve it for posterity’s sake. On the other hand, Whitman went over and over and over and over his poems in “Leaves of Grass,” like a man on narcotics, who needs his next fix.
In Whitman’s case, again, I see him doing this for the same reason Ginsberg did his little dance, with his typed out poetry: afraid, posterity might overlook, or not forgive him. Thus both tried to enshrine their poems for humankind’s benefit.
Well, as I was saying, Whitman went over his poetry as if a comma might have been out of place 40-years prior, or a period 60-years prior. He died at 72-years old, and at 17, I think his first book was produced; he paid for its publication out of his pocket, about 800-copies were made, so I am assuming he started writing poetry about the age I did, 11 or 12 years old.
I call all this work he did on revision: destructive change, compromise, tampering with something he should not have been. Why? After ten years, I do not know what I was thinking at the very mount I wrote a certain piece of poetry. And I have written a certain amount every decade 50s, 60s 70s, 80s, 90s, and now; same as he did in his life time.
We need to ask, what was our motive then back then, if indeed we dare rewrite our poetry, and if we can’t come up with an exact reason, then hang it up? I think he, Walt, screwed up a many of his poems in the process of revision, he took and took a good work, and made it into a plain, ordinary work.
Recently I had a review of one of my books, “Death on Demand,” it was done five years ago. A year after that book, I did another called, “Dracula’s Ghost,” both with several short stories. But one story was in both books, and I changed only the name of the story, and the person who did the review of the book said in so many words: why in heaven’s name did he change the name, it was a good name, it followed the story well, because the story was great, he did it damage. And when I look back at it, he is absolutely right.
There are several additions to “Leaves of Grass,” the first 1855, the second 1860, and one in 1881, and another in 1926, and the one in 1926, seems to have most of the 1855 stuff in it. And there is an edition I think in 1876. My recommendation is to find one that takes the best of the best out of the first, and if you can add some of his later poems, all the better. Another noteworthy comment might be, is that, it is not for children, but open minded, mature individuals.
I could tell you my best poems I like of his, if it does not get in your way in reading him, but it will, so if you have not tried Whitman, why not, put your biases aside, and enjoy a good readying, and read between the lines—carefully.

(Example of a change; “Out of the Rocked Cradle,” vs. “Out of the cradle endless rocking”.)

2-15-2008

An Old Sheriff (a poem)

The old man sat in his rocker, on his porch,
back in 1906, sixty-six years old, an old sheriff,
from South Carolina. He sat on his porch, he
had put up his guns, retired some; and
out of the blue, came six-cowboys, one day:
one black, two Mexicans, and three gringos,
all totting guns, and tall hats, on horseback.
Before the old man could reach for his
shotgun, behind the door, the six men on
horseback, shot him, right in the heart.
He fell onto the floor and the six men on
horseback, just looked, and looked, and
stared, until they got bored. His wife, Anna,
was trembling tried to nurse him back, but
the old man knew, he was dying, his time was
taxed (unable to breath but a gulp air). And so,
the cowboys, one black, two Mexicans, and three
gringos, just up and road off, left, to who knows where,
and the old man died, and was quickly buried,
so he wouldn’t stink the air, and he left his legacy,
but no one really cared.

#2258 2-15-2008

Most Read Poet on the Internet?

Most Read Poet on the Internet?

Recently, I scanned the internet for who might be the most read poet on the internet today, and I found a few claims but only one can stand its ground, so I feel: Allen Jesson comes the closest but doesn’t quite make it, that is, he claims to being the most read poet (actually he claims to be the most popular, not sure if there is a difference here, but I can’t prove the popularity part of it, only the reading of Mr. Dennis Siluk’s poetry, three time Poeta Laureado); as do many others, but after checking it out, it was Dr. Dennis L. Siluk, with over 165,000-readers a month, minimum, which is really on the short end of the scale. He is on over 400-sites (over 3000-entries on the internet), one of his poems is on 34-sites alone another on 50. One of his poems has 16,000-hits or readers on one site alone. Dennis, by himself has 30-sites throughout the internet, and has written 36-books. Sorry Allen, but it doesn’t look like your claim can stand any longer. Dr. Siluk’s poetry only features his poetry, no one else’s. On one of his sites alone, he got a year ago, 250,000-visitors, and gets 6000-visitors per month now, which will be 360,000 by the end of the year; perhaps because he has now, 30-sites, at this time, and one can see movies of him now on the internet, he will pass the two million mark for readers this year, if he hasn't already. On Ezinearticles, alone he has about 560,000-visitors—with over 1400-articles and poems ((he has written 2260 poems to date)(and has over 300 short stories, and over 900 articles, and 20 or so novels)), and that is one of a countless number of sites to have his written word on. From Ezinearticles alone, around, 23,000-other folks have come to take his poetry off the site, to put it on theirs, all this can be reviewed of course simply by checking out the internet. So Mr. Jasson’s claim is a bit foggy I feel today—maybe yesterday it was ok, perhaps we can say he is number two at best, and again I say, this is my opinion, with all respect intended for the poet.

Incidentally, Mr. Siluk’s poetry can be read in English, Spanish, Japanese, Korean, German, French and has been put into the schools in Peru, and Bosnia.

By Rosa Peñaloza

Winter of Sorrows (an Elegy for a Friend)

Winter of Sorrows
((An Elegy for a friend) (Grieving for a loved one))


Sunlight settled around her human form
(as she visited my wife and I in our parlor,
room, this afternoon)…
agony deposits, settled around her face,
her eyes settled with gold dark beams
upon mine, we talked about her twenty-years
she spent together with her husband, like
two birds with one wing, and many feathers,
to comfort each other; through the hard and
trying times.

As I looked upon her countenance, her face,
her composure—dignified, (outwardly, quickly
I noticed, she had been aging, from a broken heart,
from grieving…from her ribs aching, and her
fingers turning to rubber, from wiping the
tears from her eyes; trying to hold up her
appearance, to be strong for God, and us;
yet her words were brushed with sorrow hidden
perhaps, laced (even edited) as if on a spool of
thread, for softly like cotton they came.

She had now thawed out, frozen once I
could tell, like a tree stump, temporarily in
the Winter of Sorrows (her husband had
died, just six weeks ago, from cancer, his body
had said “That’s it…” and he said, “Oh!”
Yet he lives in her every moment, her soul.

It is indeed, an unstable place to be, no easy
way out, our spirit surrounded by memories
and thoughts! The deceased gets out of his body,
while she’s left in the box: soft pain, yet it all
drifts to heaven, in the winter of sorrows.


Dedicated to Carmon Alfaro (#2249/2-12-2008)

In a Lost World (a way of thinking)

It was always simple for my mother—or so it seemed—to be who she was, for me, to be me it never was simple, always a challenge; perhaps she was one of the few people who was content with life as it was, not lost in it. As it is I suppose as animals see it, to live life without notion of it, to love, to breed and to die, we although claim to have reason, or a God given cause, and thus, go see our maker after we die, and this makes us less lost—vivid eloquence, for debate. Anyhow, thus, animals are not in a lost world, because they do not have that reason to know they are lost, nor can be faulted for it, we are in a lost world (most of us), and don’t know it, and have raison d'être. Death makes us vanish, and we look back, tell our story, and still wonder why we were, if really, that is possible. Writers don’t like to vanish, so they write thinking their words will be read a hundred, no perhaps 10,000-years from now, unstinting vanity. They leave behind records, stupid records often, that they lived, they were. Perhaps they think, they will get lost in the hereafter, and thus, leave a record, or pyramid, here and there, or writings on the wall, to let the new ones, the ones to follow us, know we were here. Adam and Eve left a few sons behind, so I am told. My mother left me and my brother. I left a few kids here, and they in return, have left a few. We want to read stories, tell them, and live them, it is what we do down here, since we do not have to fight for survival anymore, like the animals still do; lastly, we create politics, diplomats, a form of endurance, to show our continued existence, from the thrones of the world. Boredom seeks in if indeed, we cannot find something to do, fill that gap up, the lost world gap. When we discover that we are lost, we have gained some insight. But what is being lost? Everybody thinks they are found, or not lost because they are established. Lost to me means: the need to kindle in nature (life) and face, and shed some light on humanity, reveal and bring into clear view the corner and cracks of darkness, the true extender, you might call it; man remains in bondage as long as they scuttle to, and adapt to pretense—only finding on the death bed, all those years were really unsuccessfully lived, lost in a lost world. Lost is the person who serves only himself, self interest, the admiration of our antiquity.

The Toe Poems

The Toe Poems
((Little ditties)( Dedicated to Chris Knight,
Casey and the Ezinearticle group))

1

The Fly Toe Poem

How many toes does a fly have?
Not feet—toes!
“I really don’t know, but I would
guess, enough to get caught in a
spiders web.”

#2230 (2-7-2008)


2

The Spider Toe Poem

How many toes does a spider have?
“I don’t really know, but what I do
know is this:
they have enough to slide down
their own sticky web.”

#2231 (2-7-2008)








3

The Elephant Toe Poem


How many toes does an Elephant have?
“I really don’t know, nor care,
but I’ll say this: they have a few big
toenail stubs, that you can’t miss.”

#2232 (2-7-2008)



Note on the poems: today I sat back in a café, in Lima, Peru, had my three shot latte, and a cookie, and got thinking about rhymes, my wife took off to the store to get some watermelon, and I got thinking, and toes came to my mind, rhymes and toes, as I watched the cars go by outside the sunny window, and slowly drank down my latte, and it kept coming to me toes, out of the blue, in this order (after a fly was after my cookie): flies, spiders and elephants, what do they all have in common…you guessed it, odd areas for toes, so what do you do, or they do to get where they need to go with their special toes, and so the poems came to life; that is to say, they seemed to have created a life of their own. And so you have it, the story behind the toe poems.

Grieving on a Ship in the Galapagos (a poem)

(a poem on grieving while on board a ship, in the waters around the Galapagos)


Parts of the day, and nights I watched the sea gulls,
chase the ship, sometimes alongside us,
sometimes in back, sometimes they looked
perched, as if in thin air,
up there, there by the Captain’s helm,
where the gulls seemingly roam,
presumably uncaring,
staring into the Captain’s room;
snubbing the whole world, and its land
under a dark blue sky looking down
and around, onto the dark blue water
(perhaps even me)
((they seem to know something
we’ve yet to learn:
that man is lost in this world)
( yet he hang on)).

Now I pace, to and fro, in the moonlit night,
pace like a child, back and forth
along the side of the ship,
like roses to ashes, I feel,
going from Island to island,
in the Galapagos (it is September of 2003
my mother’s been dead two months):
I have a cup of coffee in hand,
left over from dinner, in the lower café:
my steps are heavy, my feet unsteady
I’m exhausted; death has its own theme, thesis.

A few ship staff, climb up and down the white ladders.
There’s not much of a currant in the waters,
this evening, I notice, it’s like carved smooth marble,
touchable as calm silk—;
it seems, I’ll sleep well tonight,
let the pain of my mother’s death ascend
to the heavens: it seeps out you know,
into my head as if there was a hole, a
hole in the boat, that leads to my brain

but somehow, these gulls and their wings
gliding in the moonlit night, pasted me
on deck, seemed to pacify me, understand:
life was never meant to last, only to grab
appreciate, and then let go, for another.
There’s a little islands full of sea lions, seals,
and I suppose gulls, over there, I hear them:
the water splashing against the rocks, their
voices echoing, I wish I was as happy as them.




NOTE: After my mother died in July of 2003, which seemed to age me 10-years, I took a voyage to several of the Galapagos Islands, I was perhaps not the best of company, for my wife, or passengers or anybody, I kept a lot to myself, but my mother either lived with me, or I with her for 34-of my years, it was traumatic when she died, two months after she died I took the trip. In February, 2005, Donald Hall, Poet, and I would talk briefly, on my loss, actually his book on his wife’s death, helped me during those days. And here in this poem is one of those days on the deck of the ship me and my wife were on during this period. #2178 1-24-2008

A Typical Letter ((Entering Old Age) (A letter, memories of growing up; 1950s))

A Typical Letter
((Entering Old Age) (A letter, memories of growing up; 1950s))



Advance: After sending my brother (Mike) a picture (1950) when we were young kids, in St. Paul, Minnesota, in the backyard, he was six, now is sixty two, and I was four at the time, now sixty, his response, and mine, between St. Paul, Minnesota and Lima, Peru, where I live part of the year (2-7-2008, just simple talk, and memories, between two brothers, hope you enjoy it):



(Mike: after receiving the picture; 2-6-2007) “What a memory that is. Sure was a much simpler world back then. Now we are at the short end of the stick.”


(Response by Dennis, 2-5-2008) “I think sometimes, if you've lived life to its fullest, it’s enough at 60 to 80 (years of age); I think about dying and how great it might be to check the hereafter out, and meeting mother. That short end of the stick, you talk about can be pretty long sometimes, that is, if you can't live life to its fullest. I have a large picture in our house on the wall in Lima, like the one I sent you, and several others. I got a picture of you and me standing by your first two wheel bike, at Arch Street. I can't remember those days to well, but I remember Kiddy Corner somewhat (a boarding farm we stayed at while my mother had to work during the week, and she’d come on the weekends and pick us boys up and take us to her apartment, then we all moved into our grandfather’s house in 1951 or ’52). Anyhow, as I was saying, or going to say, I remember playing with some Indian blankets in the backyard, at 109 East Arch Street; your haircut, that Mohawk style, the barn next to our yard, or Grandpas property. Also, the hill I set on fire (in the backyard) and the pigeons Grandpa had in the basement; the candy gar above the basement steps, the dry ice in the ice box, in the kitchen that led down to the basement, and Aunt Betty running to the bathroom sick from drinking; hiding under the bed so mother would not spank me—and you and I in the center bedroom talking at night, and mother coming by and shutting the door, telling us to get to sleep. I also remember that gas stove (natural gas that is, we had in the corner of the living room. My dog, the one Grandpa put a rope around his neck, and tied it around the cloth line, and one day he got free, and hit by a car, I cried I think for a week. A little dog I had, I could put in my hands—I also keep in mind—who fell from my hands and broke his legs, or a leg; you and I walking to St. Louis school; in the winter, down that steep hill, down Jackson Street; your paper route; and so forth and on; just memories, so many, many memories.” Dennis

"The Miner's Son" & "Children of the Winter" (two poems)

“A Miner’s Son”
(Cerro de Pasco)

Soft dreams, from sun-beams, commencing
over a sill, through a window, down into a crib
o’er the head of an infant boy; he lays
waiting, just waiting for the day…!

With his soft dreams, and many a days of light
tinted warm breeze, he is learning:
he’s a miner’s son!

Sweet is the day, angel smooth skin,
the boy is happy; life is a delight; yet
life still is thin, shadowy,
but he’s learning fast, he’s a miner’s son!

Softly he murmurs, a blink of an eye; dove
like arms, tossed to and fro, as if
he’s ready to lift a pick and hammer,
dig for minerals: he knows no harm;
he’s just waiting, learning, he’s a miner’s son!

Sleep well, little boy, sweet babe, once your
father was just like you, he wore little shoes;
so sleep well, with your heavenly face,
you’re a miner’s son, strong and brave!

#2223 (2-6-2008)

Children of the Winter
(in Cerro de Pasco)

Sounds of Quenas
(flutes) now are mute,
winter in Cerro de Pasco
has come, night and day
along with a new year.
The birds have gone north,
down the mountains steep
through its abrupt terrain;
as little boys and girls,
merrily play, with
llamas, alpacas and
sheep—with long stretched
out necks, and soft wool
they want to kiss.
And then, again, they go
merrily on their way
to find a new game to play,
as they welcome
the new year in.


#2224 (2-6-2008)

Neal Cassady: Beat Generation Hobo

Neal Cassady: Beat Generation Hobo

Born 1926, died 1968, 41-years old. Best known for being an icon of the Beat Generation, nothing wrong with the Beat Generation, but with some of the deadbeats from that generation, and he is one. He met Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, in 1946, at Colombia University (and later on would be in Jack’s books as one of his characters, ‘On the Road’). Anyhow, he would receive an elegy by Ginsberg after his death, but what I want to dig out of this essay, is his essence. He had an on and off relationship with Ginsberg for some twenty years; similar to Peter Orlovsky’s. He is even mentioned in Ginsberg well known book ‘Howl,’ which is in my opinion, not worth mentioning, but I did, didn’t I. He got married and hand children, bisexual, and settled some fifty-miles outside of San Francisco. Funny, now that I think of it, I was in San Francisco in 1968-to-1969, the year he died. He served time in prison, and used some drugs along the way (not uncommon for that time). He is also mentioned in several other books of his day, along with “Hell’s Angels,” and “Visions of Cody.” But what did he write to make his name? Actually this guy shows up in 19-books, by well known writers, and four movie films, and I think they are making a movie of him to be released this year, 2008. But what did he write? He even lived with the ‘Grateful Dead’ and he was put into a song, “The Other One,” but what did he write? Kesey wrote a short story of him, after he died. Thus, he was well liked, and well known to a certain group of that day, which started at Colombia University. He died of a bad cold, after coming out of the rain, he went into a coma, and that was that—the hero died of a cold; and wrote nothing.

Writing on Paper and Learning (an essay)

Writing on Paper and Learning: let me just take a moment, and comment on the issue of writing on paper (and the process of learning; it just didn’t happen overnight for the public); paper which we most likely take less notice of, advantage of, or pay it little attention at all, made the learning process possible for the masses. I am grateful for the times I live in, if it was prior to the Crusades, it would be a problem for me to write so freely on paper, or have had the chance to learn so openly. Let me explain: prior to, in and during, the dark ages when the lands in Europe did less cultivation, the mind of the public at large, was starved you could say, then all of a sudden, it started to be cultivated again, from the lack of tillage, the soil bloomed again, and commerce, became plentiful, and surplus, as in modern times, thus, this created more trade, and the cities that didn’t grow were being widened, and rebuilt and growing now. The wars, Crusades, this led to routes to the East, luxuries came, and so, paper started to come into the cities cheaply, where at one time it was to the contrary, but Egypt made it possible, where prior to this it was costly, as was learning costly. Mostly a commodity only the church could give to its priests. Liberation was at hand after the dark ages, everywhere—there was no longer a reason to remain ignorant. The common dispute turned into research. It was the awakening. It grew from the days of Roger Bacon (1294 AD), onward to Leonardo, 1452, and past Galileo 1564, to its zenith, about 1661 AD (the time of Francis Bacon).

Going--Going, Gone! (a poem)

Going—Going, Gone!

Yes, I’m going, going, going
going far away
yes, I’m going, going, going,
almost gone you might say
yes, we are all going away
almost gone away
we are all going someday;
won’t be back tomorrow
going, going—gone
just like the others
going, going—gone
like the end of a song
gone, gone, gone—going
to the other place.

We were never meant to stay
not much lift here anyway,
not much more to say,
done almost everything
that could make a man’s ears ring
so long, tell them I’m gone!
until we meet again
until another day
no promises, no way
no plans today.

Going, going gone
gone, gone, going,
going, gone away
no more taxes, to pay
no more taxies, to take
yes, yes going, gone
just like that…
like I never was
here today, gone tomorrow
and tomorrow‘s another day.

Yes, I’ve got a gray beard,
waist gone, gone, going
white hair for sideburns
yes, I’m on my way
going, going, gone (almost)
gone, gone, gone (almost)
going there, gone from here
like the end of a song
I came one day, and left
just like that
gone with dong
gone with a song
going, going gone—
Now: I’M SIMPLY GONE!

#2219 2-5-2008

Peter Orlovsky: His Company and Poetry

Peter Orlovsky: His Company and Poetry

Lover to Allen Ginsberg, wrote several books, one “Leapers Cry” (1972). Born 1933, seventy-five years old come July 3, 2008. Like his lover, he wrote some nasty stuff, like to like, or like two peas in a pot, what can you say. Allen went to Colombia University, and his lover was a high school drop out, by the looks of him, he never improved. They traveled the world together, and Allen, did just that, if he did anything worth notice; to China, Russia, East Europe, and Tangier, along with New York City, and Mexico. I suppose, Allen was thinking, pick up a dead duck, and you can lead him around blindly. Educate him, and he will not follow. They knew each other from 1954, to Allen’s death in 1997; Allen died four months before his old kinky friend William S. Burroughs kicked the bucket.
Peter’s “First Poem,” and “Second Poem,” is really no poems to think of, or at least I think of them that way, they have nothing to say, and what they do say, is worthless, you would think some of Ginsberg’s style would rub off on him, besides the rot gut stuff; thus, Peter calls himself a poet, nonetheless. The poem “The Bed is Colored Yellow,” is going nowhere, as is his “Snail Poem.” Peter is best know as Ginsberg’s lover, and after reading his poems, it is best he remain known that way, although his poems are not as nasty as Ginsberg, but I only read a few, or a set, I hate to go to the other three or four books he wrote, God cleanse my soul beforehand.

Tennessee Williams: "In the Winter of Cities " (A Review)

Tennessee Williams:
“In the Winter of Cities” (A Review)


I expect when most people think of Tennessee Williams, they think of the plays he wrote, such as “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,” or “The Glass Menagerie,” or even, “A Streetcar Named Desire,” all great movies, and plays. But he wrote other stories, and one novel, “The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone,” among other things. But he also was a poet, and a good one, and in his book “In the Winter of Cities,” 1956, not sure if you can find a copy nowadays, his poetry is worth reading. He has good form, style, and wit; even some insight to share, and a tinge of wisdom. He is quite descriptive, and seems to follow modernism. Being a gay writer, in the 1950s he is kind of sly on how he produces his romances, leads one to believe contrary to what he is, yet he exposes himself a tinge. He has long poems, short poems, poems that make you think as a poem should, and some have effect, in that it can plague you.

There are several good writers from the past (like Tennessee), that wrote poetry first before heading out to bigger things, so they felt, and some were good and some not so good. Faulkner wrote two books of poetry, it really was a mess, I have them both, and he should have simply not published them. Hemingway, published a few small books on poetry, he is next to Ginsberg with his style, or ethics when he writes poetry, it is more of a release for him, therapy you could say. Not good at all. Robert Howard, who wrote many books and stories, was a great poet, and loved the art, but made no money from it so he stuck with his he-man Series.

Some of the great poets today, like Robert Bly, and Donald Hall, I need not say much, they are good, and have been for ages it seems. But Tennessee, fits the unknown poet bill, so if you get a chance to read his poetry, you might be doing yourself a favor.

Allen Ginsberg's Toilet Paper (Book Review)

Allen Ginsberg’s Toilet Paper

I’ve read a lot of poets in my life, and it never fails me, when I read Allen Ginsberg, especially his new book out, “Collected Poems,” 1947-1997, to think how this guy can write the way he did, did he have no shame. His new book is really 1200-pages of toilet paper. You can see in his book, the last 100-pages or so, he never liked getting old; he talks a lot about his failure to function as a man, or even as a human. Here is a writer, poet, who created some forms of poetry not so bad, just he did not put anything good in the lines he wrote. He had an over laborers lustful dominated mind. He gave no wisdom, nor insight, descriptive he was, and yes, he did explain well, if that is poetry in a nutshell, he did fine, but it is only a part of poetry; in the book, and as he said, he talked about himself quite a lot, perhaps the man he knew the best, and that was about all he knew. And so what can one learn from his 1200-pages? About him mostly, how he functions, dislikes this and that, not sure if he liked anything, or anybody but a few of his so called 1950s beat friends. They are all dead now, or most of them are, like him, and I suppose they are writing their morbid memos some place down yonder. Most of the book is toilet talk, with thousand-dollar flushes, pages upon pages of it. People like this, or poets like him, are curious for the onlookers, we are stunned by his behavior, a man with no morals, and values contrary to most of societies. He tells us what we already know, but adds a stunning sting to it, he knows he is doing it, and that it could infect young readers, but he does not care, matter-of-fact, he wants to go to bed with the young readers, as long as they are over ten. He looks at himself as a lone sheep, too bad he could not see in the mirror—clearer, he was a creep. To be frank, I am glad I never met the guy, even though I have read much of his garbage, he would be I think, infectious. A big mouth, with nothing to say, but enough guts to say it, and enough egos to believe he had something good to say, and perhaps we all simply liked the show he put on for us, and thus we got our monies worth, at his expense; for I doubt he did anything without the media close behind. The best I can say is, he had a lot to say.

So Called, Friends Listening (poetic prose)

So Called,
Friends listening


It use to happen to me often, mostly during my drinking days, in bars, in
particular, but also in bed, at parties, when you simply meet people
and you have a bit of spare time on your hands, you meet them, and
they want to be your friend, they want you to stop and listen to them
(friendships take time, those that come by it quickly, so it leaves just
that way, quickly); as I was about to say, these folks I am talking
about, whom want to be your friend (or at least, they think they do, and put you on their evening menu). So, here you are, sitting at bar, and you think: here is this person I’ve been talking to, he is really,
sincere, has a lot to say, truly wants to be my friend; thus, you sit back and listen to him, or her. In the process of this meeting, you and he, order drinks, beer for me, wine for him, booze for whomever else.
And now you both are really talking away: story after story, added with a little dramatics, some arm and facial movements, even some quotes, by the rich and famous, you are almost a two person play, sitting
becoming friends. So you continue to listen; you are developing links, so you think. You say, “Hmm, yes, sure, I don’t know for sure, oh, yes, yes, I really do understand, can’t say, yaw, sure, wow, wow…!”
You almost moo like an over milked cow. Now you take a few long but slim, and dim, audible breaths you try to fit them in-between the conversation, the stories, tales, epics. He is filling up your evening
with his garbage, he has bags of it, needs to empty the trash.
I jump up, say, “Got to take a pee,” he looks at me, he wasn’t through with his story, he’s a tinge upset, I should have held it, so I read in his eye, on his lips, forehead. Again I say, “Got to go take a pee, a pee…!” He moves about, “Well, go take one then…” he shouts.

In the bathroom, I gaze into the mirror at myself, you’re a little drunk
I say: my eyes sagging, red faced, and hair uncombed, before I know it, I am walking back to the bar, the stools, the reeking smell of the dim lit, damp haven, the meeting place. I crank up a smile, this
friendship is getting a little old—already (I tell myself). My new
friend at the table swirls his barstool around, sees me coming, and hears the bathroom door click shut. Maybe now he can finish his story…so he is thinking, it is on the tip of his tongue. I start to sit down
on my stool, faintly the vowel is all but formed within his mouth,
lips throat; he then witness’ me letting out a long exhausting
breath, almost a sigh (as if to say, this conversation is getting boring, I want to be left alone). He quickly drinks down his last drink, frowns,
(he doesn’t say a word), gets up, and walks outside to his car. I had
walked to the bar…don’t care to drive when I’m drinking. I see his
headlights go on, and out of the bar parking lot his tires scream. I think
he is on his way up the block, several blocks, to “Dean’s Bar.” In the
morning the paper reads, “Man falls to sleep, behind the wheel, on Rice Street, killed!”

#2218 (2-4-2008)

The Boom Box Song

The Boom box song

No doubt, no doubt, please don’t shout
I can sing this song, just like you
Just turn on the boom box, and
We’ll get along, we can both
Sing the Boom box song.

Three freaky guys and a girl
In the boom box world,
What can you say?
Just turn on the boom box
And we’ll play.

No doubt, no doubt, please don’t shout
I can sing this song, just like you
Once in the boom box world
With a boom box girl

#2218 2-4-2008

The Jelly Music Song

The Jelly Music Song

Jelly, jelly, on my bread
Thought of you in my head,
I think I’ll eat you while in bed;

(second thoughts)

Jelly, jelly music, helps me sleep
Don’t be like those little creeps
That eats peanut butter…instead.

Jelly, jelly, John Huling sings,
Looks kind of creepy, creepy, creep
to me…
New Age stuff, for a new cage bluff!

Jelly, jelly what I can say
I think I’ll eat jam today
Today…!


#2217 /2-4-2008

The Moondog Song

The Moondog Song


Ha Moondog what do you say
Ha Moondog get out of my way
Ha Moondog what did you do…?
Got to play
The man did say
Got to play, play,
The morning flute…

Ha Moondog it’s getting cold
Ha Moondog don’t be so bold
Ha Moondog you waiting for spring?
To thaw those fingers with those
Big diamonds rings?

Wow
Wow
Wow

(Play it again Sam!)

#2216 (2-3-2008)

Comes Twilight and the Owls (Four-Poems)

1) Towards spring in the City
(a St. Paul, Minnesota Poem)


Where the Mississippi River nears the pier,
when spring is near, the water is loud and high;
and all the winter birds, come back, against
the morning sky….

Also, there the tireless ice melts, heaps, upon heaps
against the river banks; flows down to
Saint Louis, and then onto New Orleans
(and then, out into the Gulf).

But close at hand, the city wakes (St. Paul)
from the refuges of the winter’s deep;
no longer will the city hibernate, a
large unrest, for spring.

Ten-thousand voices can one hear
moving faster than a deer, as
spring nears, and nears, and nears,
until they can say, “…spring is here!”

#2214 2-3-2008

2) Comes Twilight and the Owls


Comes twilight and the owls,
prowling like cats
upon limb-fanged branches
of trees…;
willing slaves, to the night:
sleek as the fiends,
they are—these
small eyed offspring
of twilight.


#2215 2-3-2008



3) The Day for Dying

And so we live life, the best we can
between weakness and strength,
night and daylight!
Awaken by the morning birds—
to sleep by the evening stars,
and in-between we dread the day
the day to come…
the day for dying!


#2212/ 2-3-2008


4) Mother’s Saint Teresa

There’s more news to tell you, Mom
but I think I said enough—whoops
perhaps not, let me add,
I put a statue of Saint Teresa
alongside your urn (here in Lima).
I had picked it up, if you recall,
in Santiago, Chile, in 2002,
at her grave site.
I had two of them, if I remember,
I gave you one, when I returned
from that trip, and here, here now
is the other….

11/2007 (#2216)


5) Haiku for Peacekeeping

You need big—sharp-teeth
With diplomacy, to win
A war without a battle…!

No: 2100 (12-15-2007)
Dedicated to Dr. Rodriguez Mackay

Talking to Death & Old World Changing (Poetry)

Talking to Death
((Confessional) (#2211/2-2-2008))

When I die
I really don’t give a hoot
if you bury me in the local cemetery
or along some abandon road,
or lock me up tight in a wooden urn,
or throw my ashes over, and down into
the Rimac or Mississippi rivers.
I don’t even care for a funeral!
First, I got no family to speak of:
a brother, one son, a wife—
the wife cares the most,
the others could care, less.
My grandchildren,
they are like ghosts,
I had little chance to visit with them,
led by their parents, of no respect…
—If they have a wake, good,
let my poet friends, and fans
see me: I wrote for them, under
the Algarrobo tree,
in a war, sitting by my window
on the attic floor, at eleven,
in the still of the night
throughout my life,
throughout the world as I traveled.
They, I could talk to all night,
they and my little cute wife.
Yes, make a wake for me, for
they were my faithful friends,
let them come, let them come
and bear witness, of my end,
I am but a poet, yet for some reason
I pleased them.


Old World Changing

While poets chant to Allah, along the Tigris, and near the Persian Gulf,
satellites listen to the angry phone calls from Tehran, Saudi Arabia
Russia, China, Aruba…the phone wires are hot, they even broke the
the other day, the cable that reaches from Egypt, to Italy; I wonder what
they had to say. China had a bad storm this winter, it will cost them
lots of yen, billions and billions. All the people are becoming
hypnotized with the long tales of war and blood. Radios, aircraft,
munitions, newspapers proclaiming earth is reeking, sinking, dying,
changing, a new epoch has begun. Hence, the Earth is overwhelmed,
its muscular bones, broad shoulders, are cracking, leaning, almost
crippled. The Old World is changing. I can even hear its teeth
grinding, along the pacific coast, in the Indian Ocean, in the Weddell Sea—
owe to those who live this century through. Ah, run to the mountains, and
caves, for man and earth will dig your graves, dig your graves…!

#2009 2-2-2008