The Philosophy (s) of D.L. Siluk

The Earth Dethroned (poetic prose)

2009-02-02T17:25:00.000-08:00

The Earth Dethroned

The earth, like the people on it, are like a train, Sebastian, told himself as he was traveling from St. Paul, Minnesota, to Seattle, Washington, and it is going in one direction, he noticed, and they think all is smooth he conclude (and so was earth going in the same direction): “Yes,” he said, “they think all is going well,” then he murmured to himself: “The thing is, it is not so, it just seems so, because they, like me, can’t tell one way or the other, if they are moving on this train or not.” Further, he said, “There are only a few folks who look out the window, now and then, if there were more, they’d all know we are headed towards a blockade.
Now, the earth moves the opposite way (it was originally moving in the first place), and the train is still moving in the old same (from its previous unaltered state), but the push against the train is now felt from the opposing force, something is moving against it instead of with it, the train accelerates, to fight the force.
Sebastian now agrees with his second self, (that person inside of us we seem to talk to, but never acknowledge to anyone but ourselves, and we never give it, or him or her a name) and he hears (listens to) the man in the seat behind him say: “…we have two forces and two systems, in progress here, Lord in Heaven what can we do. Because of its iron mass, the train doesn’t feel the opposing force that much, nor the folks inside the train. Nonetheless, it is there.”
The conductor tells the people, “…it is just a matter of time, and we’ll be to our destination, don’t worry.”
Sebastian, is worried though, and seemingly, it appears the man behind him is worried, in that, perchance, the train will not stop in time, hit the blockade before it stops at its destination, the train station that being, rather hit the blockade just beyond it, the train is going too fast, fighting the forces around it.
Sebastian, He sees out the window a black ray of light, ghostly and haunting, it seems to stop and plant itself right then and there, as if his window was a hole in space for it to seep through, and then as the train moves on, it shows up on the other side, so he notices (the opposite side of the train that is) the other end. He tells himself at this point, “I’ve learned something because of this, perhaps man can bend fate, or stop it for a moment, and that there is a gap between this and that, a gravitational gap some folks might call it, he calls it “hope” he feels someone, or something, has to curve man’s mind, like light, and speed, and you will find peace.
“Is this possible?” he whispers.
In any case, he concludes there was a gravitational field, that deflected light, this was his big break to creating peace, a lasting world peace, his so called stepping stone to his new theory.
As he sat back down in his seat in his cubical, he had to rethink what he had figured out, what was all this dependent on, for it surely was dependent on something? “Oh yes,” says the man behind him, “one person was really and solely dependent on the other,” so they both now concluded. “Yes,” said Sebastian, “we are in essence, one entity, and without God, we would not exist, God being the glue.”
Then Sebastian got rethinking his rethinking:
“What went wrong that caused God to create the flood?” In a way a rhetorical question, because he was questioning himself. That is, a question he had to answer for himself, at best it would be conjecture.
“It was not the situation, which was the flood,” he murmurs out loud, the man behind him hears, “but the problem, it was the problem no one looked at, which is always under the surface of the situation. It was perhaps the folks back then lived longer, and thus could build trains that had the maximum velocity of light, the speed of light that is (figuratively speaking), which is the total momentum of anything in the universe. That they were moving so fast, faster than the second-hands on the moving clock, faster than time, for example, the clock decreased to a standstill, accordingly, one was increasing as the other decreasing, as a result, there appeared simultaneously, unmeasured sin.
Next, He assumed, God might have—whom feel knows all— evidently didn’t take this into consideration, or if he had, he deduced from his hypotheses, and reformulated a living system, family members and so forth, would fellow what he observed, so he gave mankind good examples to go by, social comparison—if you will, yet he did not see, nor witness that mankind had obtained identical behaviors, consequently, irrespective of those he sent to set an example, therefore, he had to shorten life, because they didn’t follow the good example, matter of fact, he even said (referring to mankind’s sinful heart), “I never even imagined this…” so now, he limited man to 120-years of life, not 960, as it had previously been. He even developed a new theory, to slow man down, because he was going at such a rapid velocity, or pace, from good to bad to hatred of his own kind, to evil, and beyond, he broke the magnetic phenomena, known as one language, into propagation, or spread man’s tongue out, to a thousand different languages, that accelerated around the world.
Then God said, so Sebastian, concluded, “The faster you go, the quicker you come, to Arm
ageddon, or in the case of this train, to the blockade.”
He knew it could be postponed—just as the train might be able to be stopped at the transition, if indeed he could lower the speed (in God’s case, or humankinds, that amounted to sin) and that was his theory, that being, the Earth Dethroned from mankind, and given back to Christ, to the point of man repenting.

2-2-2009 (No: 2561)

Mystery of the Waters (by: D.L. Siluk)

2008-03-20T18:52:00.001-07:00

Mystery of the Waters
(After the Visit to the Moon)

When we had left the moon, I was told hastily (as if time was of the essence), to look into the waters of the earth, now finding myself with five angels, on the edge of a cloud, and I saw deep into the seas heart, a vision, within this dream, and Micha’el said:
“Examine and observe what the waters show you, focus, as the waters fill the earth, the waters have their own story to tell, and he was correct, and I looked deep into the oceans, from above the clouds, through the due, deep under the waters, to the floor of the ocean (listened and observed), I was at the ultimate depth of the earth, from one end to the other, under the deep ice of the poles, and its waters: and I was brought back in time by the waters to the pre-flood period, perhaps around 9600 to 3600 BC, or more or less (there had been I realized several great floods in the past, one around 9600 BC, another about 3600 BC, and the last about 1300 BC).
This mist I had noticed, was more like a canopy of water, covering the whole of the earth, and it seemed to make the earthly temperature quite uniform, and the land masses were different, the continents were not as they are today, there seemed to be more water than land, and the land that was above the waters were shallower around each continent’s rim, to where often one might walk into the ocean a mile or several right onto a causeway, to an island.
And I saw a great rainfall, something that was non-existent I believe before around 10,000 BC (except for those special flood periods in time), and under this vapor, this canopy of water in the form of mist lightly and gently dropped onto the surface of the earth, and it was green as green could be, most beautiful, but the flood kept coming back into my mind, both scenes ascending and descending one after the other.
I could now understand why a wide variety of animals and plant life could live; the air-pressure in the atmosphere gave more oxygen to the animals, and thus came a longer life; perhaps dinosaurs (although I did not see any).
Then I had a moment, a relapse moment from this odyssey, and found myself thinking about our ozone layer of today, it came to mind like a flash, for in those far-off days, such a canopy would shield man from the sun’s radiation, which hits the earth from space; all this could play a part in aging, a person or animal could double or tipple his lifespan.
But knowing the nature of human beings, such Godly gifts are over looked, and I sensed this one was, for the next vision was man’s deep rottenness, his depravity on earth in those days, it was a demoralized time in the earth’s history (and the earth and the waters confirmed this for me).
Then I heard the rains, and saw the earth crack open its underground seas poured out and up its waters, and the canopy dropped all its water from above, onto the earth, and the grass, like pores, pushed all its waters upward to and through the earth’s crust to its surface, everything that held the waters at bay, like pillars under the earth, and above, disintegrated within this new unbelievable force of a storm.
And there were icy winds across the planet, atmospheric changes, blizzards, even the Polar Regions melted to add their waters into this great earthy flood. It was as if the earth and the waters had joined forces willingly with God—for revenge on humanity. All waters now covered the earth. And yes, the waters of the earth told me, and showed me all this.
And Micha’el said, “In those days, God warned the people; he told them ‘I will blot out man whom I have created…for I am sorry I have made them.’”
And so I saw this day, in this dream-vision, the world that once was, and thought, perhaps we are coming close to such a destructive day again.

Written as a supplement for the story “The Cadaverous Journey” to be added right after the visit to the edge of the moon. 3-20-2008, 7:54 PM.

Sebire's Cry (a poem with a commentary)

2008-03-20T11:15:00.000-07:00

Sebire’s Cry

You’ve let me cry, and cry and cry!
Now let me simply die, let me die!
No coma please, no more appeals
just help me die, with suicide…!
My plight in life is over, long gone!
The French president, please try
to understand, but all he says
is: get a new examination, options!
His help is nil, and rudely artificial.
Just let me die, let me die in Dijon—
so I can have the last words
to this eating cancer of: bone, flesh
and nerve—the last words to this
unending, vicious, vicious curse.
Hasten my death before I have
to take it upon myself…
Tell the Associated Press of my
deformations, and let me rest
let me rest, let me rest, the pain is
too, way too much, way too much!
Let me die, you’ve left me cry, and
cry and cry…!

#2331 (3-20-2008)

France, a 52-year old woman has just killed herself, Chantal Sebire, commuted suicide, suffered from a rare form of cancer: Esthesioneuroblastoma. I don’t make the rules of society, I just look at its pain and suffering, not sure if I’d like to live like that, death would at such a juncture, have less a sting, than to endure what she had to. One has to look at their beliefs, their church, government, and ask the question, as she surely did: do I dare to have these folks accept this suicide as just? And she did ask of course. Perhaps it is just, and perhaps it is not, whatever, I think God will forgive her for tacking her life (it is not the unpardonable sin); I know I would, and I don’t firmly believe in such things (yet man has chosen to induce comas in such cases, and so forth, they have justified that). It is a funny thing, we kill Whales, and Elephants, and Kangaroos, dogs and cats, and all sorts of things, war upon war (and torturing people to death), and we have a big moral question about killing a fifty-two year old woman who has been suffering with a server case of cancer; painful for seven and a half years (and to my understanding, no pain reducing substance could take the pain away), it is almost laughable. We are so much the hypocrite, what a bubble to live in but I guess we chose to.

Parts of the Dead Souls (in poetic prose)

2008-03-18T16:21:00.001-07:00

The Arrival
(And the three part soul)

(Poetic Prose)

Inside the mountain of Dead Souls, I saw a man come out of nowhere, I looked at
Micha’el and he said:”He is a new arrival here, if you listen carefully you can hear his soul, and I did:

“It looks more like a hive in here, this place would make the devil weep; no breakfast or lunch I suppose, in this land of the dead, gloomy Sundays ahead, everything vaguely lit, soul eating human rats nibbling on one another, faces like ceramic masks…” (he braces himself, no one reacts, he mumbles out loud again), “I feel like an agitated centipede.” This is his first day, his first appearance—he is a new arrival, to this land of the pre-dead, and will be waiting in a pre-trial status; the Archangel Micha’el, told me this. The Arrival whispers “…the dead-end land,” but I suppose he’ll have to deal with it now, he dealt the cards did he not.

I hear the souls of others saying (as they watch this new arrival) “Toro! Toro! Bravo! Bravo!” with a whiff of delight; I think they like seeing others join them in this horror of a nightmare place.

(His Soul Talks :) His soul is telling me (the new arrival): he was not as wretched as the others, that he is being treated unfairly; by superiors (the soul sees Micha’el).

(His soul seems to have three parts to it: the pure spirit, the personal soul, and the false arbitrator, and it is the false arbitrator I am listening to, so I sense, so my intuition tells me, that he is immortal, and can renew itself through destruction; the personal soul, sad to say he is questionable always has been, lives through the development of thoughts and dreams, he has asked: ‘Is God really God,’ and now he says ‘Is this reality or a dream or what?’ hoping I suppose he will wake up, and it would have been a dram. I since in time, upon judgment all will fade but the Arbitrator, unless judgment rules otherwise).

The Personal Soul: I can use a stiff whisky
The Pure Spirit: did you forget the many times you knocked her into the gutter, and slammed her into the door? The drugs, the anger, the sourness of your heart, the dirty sex, the thief inside of you, here there need not be any more pretenses.
The False Arbitrator: God wants a virgin target, and I am it, like Japan who sought peace through Sweden (during the end days of WWII) prior to the atomic bomb being trapped on them by the Americans, but felt Japan did not deserve to get away with all the blood they shed scot-free—and dropped the bomb anyway, they—like God, wanted death—revenge.”

I am glad I am a simple man, for should I have read all these souls, I would have gone mad.

I shifted my mind, and tried to refocus my thoughts away from this newly arrival (onto the next part of the journey); I figured, I could not figure him out, perhaps he was still living in deception, or perchance, did I learn, as long as their are words to talk with, there will be lies to deal with, and a part of him, part of his soul was still in that charade, or make-believe world.

Note: “The Arrival;” written in the afternoon of 3-18-2007, at Starbucks (Benavides, Surco), Lima, Peru. Somewhat inspired by WSB-Last words. The book up to this point has taken five days (5-days) to write. Theology mixed with Mythology.

The Cadaverous Journey (To the Dead and the Dying)

2008-03-14T16:50:00.000-07:00

Preliminary Part of the Journey
(Notes and Dream)

In the Heavens (cosmos)

It was the middle of the night, I awoke, and there was a great figure, five of them at the end of my bed, and one said, “You must come with me, but first you must die, and I will bring you back to life.” Oh, but I thought this was all a dream, so I said “Ok,” and somehow I died, it was like a second dream, that is, a dream within a dream you might say, and perhaps I really did die, I don’t know, I never died before, but after the experience is seemed a simple matter of waking up, and I did, but into another dream you might say, a journey, and so I don’t know what to tell you, but here I s. I suppose it is a matter of if you (in this case me) wake up for the dream, you have died in, and of course I am writing this, so I did. And so this story you are about to read, is just that, a journey from my book of the dead, by the dying. I will try to write it as true as it can be.
Let me add, in the 1980s, I wrote a book called “The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon,” out of fiftey-visions I had concerning future times. The visions came in a seven month period, and I wrote them down, and tried to explain them, for all up to this date have come true. I will not this time, try to explain anything, it is two exhausting, and I am twenty-five years older.

The Angels

There were five angels that appeared, and I shall name them, according to how I understood their names to be, and to the correct spelling I think it might be 1) Micha’el (everyone likes him) 2) Ura’el (another archangel) 3) Uri’el (not sure what his status is, but he is a messenger nonetheless 4) Rufael and Raguel. (My aunt, once told my mother, “Why does Dennis get all the visions,” I being at the time, the worse of sinners, and then trying, or in search of God’s heart. Who can have such an answer, so I said nothing, as I shall say nothing this time), and Surr’el (my guardian Angel was there, but more in spirit than presence, his voice his images).

(Raguel) As we started my journey, and Raguel said to me, “Heaven burns, look in the direction of the west,” and I saw a huge aluminous fire, that seemed to have no rest.
(Ura’el) “I will take you soon to the ‘Prison House of Angles,’ said Ura’el, “where on is detained forever.” And I looked his way, said not a word.

((Rufael) (Inside the Mountain, for the Souls of the Dead)) Inside this great huge mountain, perhaps one fifth the size of our moon, we stood in the middle of it, it was deep, high inside, smooth, dark, yet I could see all, and everything, Rufael was to my right side, pointed to all four corners, at once, explained “The spirits of he dead are assembled in here, gathered here,” he repeated himself, “for the day, the of the Great Judgment.” And I could hear the echoes of many voices, as if they were trying to reach heaven, from all four sections, corners of the inner mountain.
I asked, “Please explain more clearly the reasoning for this?”
“For the sinners,” he said, adding, “upon death. Judgment, the Great Judgment, is not executed immediately for their lifetime of sinfulness (I realized I had once read there was 72-deaths, thus perhaps judgments were based on this but I didn’t ask, and he did imply death at this point, not life); then he went on to say, “…sinners and criminals will remain, here with their kind, and those who go well with, the judgment (s), yet are of the non-righteous, remain in the other corners, these souls will not be killed on the day of judgment, but shall not rise to heaven either; those who admit their destruction, and were killed in the process by others before their time perhaps, a make dispute.”

(Notes: I wondered at this point, if I could wake myself up from this dream, I have in the past, but I couldn’t, I was like in a bubble, and my second thought, would I remember all this, and Micha’el nodded his, ‘yes’.)

(Uri’el) Uri’el pointed now at the “Prison House of Angels,” seven stars were bound together, as if in a cluster, how far I was from it I don’t know, but it was perhaps likened to our satellites orbiting the earth, however close that might be. The stars looked more like mountains carved into pyramids like figures, burning wildly, and Uri’el spoke: “This is the place mentioned before, the ‘Prison House for Angels,’ those that have sinned, went against the commandments of the Lord, and here they remain for ten-million years, according to their number of sins.”

The Great Canyon of Pain

Satan after his demise

(Uri’el) Then we came to a great fire, a canyon of sorts, that extended from sea to sea, and great rods of fire forced it way to and fro, burning with flames consuming all, it poured like lava and Uri’el said, “Here is the canyon of Pain.” And I was scared, freighted it might reach us, but it didn’t (Note: I told myself, this is a dream, how can this heat reach me, yet I felt it, but it did not burn, and turn to pain, and I caught my breath, I wasn’t exactly sure at this point were we were).
Said Uri’el, now looking at me, face to face, shoulder to shoulder: “We are in the Prison House of Angels, whom will be detained here without end!”

(Angelic Renegades) We then came upon the images of angels, their spirits; these were the ones of old, the Old Ones, as foretold in ancient literature, so I knew immediately. Those who were allied the Watchers, and slept with women, cohabitated, and taught man to sacrifice to demons (and I was told within my mind’s eye, the women that were persuaded, they have been cursed, thus, will have a peaceful death and afterlife.) And I said, “I don’t quite understand.” And Uri’el said in plain words,
“Heaven is heaven, as is blood and flesh which must die and perish, blood and flesh, and when one has abandoned heaven, and its ways, and seep with women, defile themselves, can not possess eternal life, and they begotten children, giants of old, deformed, these are evil spirits, that have come out of their bodies, for they were at once created by the holy ones, the watchers, their first origin, spiritual foundation. Thus they will walk the earth, and be called such, for if you are born upon the earth, you remain, they eat no food, nor thirst, and they shall challenge the people of the earth until the last days, when comes the slaughter and destruction.”
And I saw many faces, and asked, “Who were they?”
And before me came the faces of Azaz’el (condemned for teaching corruptness.
And Micha’el brought forth Semyaz who fornicated with the women, and said,
“He has died together with them, and sleeps in their defilement.”

(Notes: and I thought in my head, and Micha’el made it clear, souls of pleasure, were the children of the Watchers, and this sin of injustice has to do with, heaven is in itself the reward of pleasure or immediately gratification, and sexual intercourse on earth was mans pleasure, and holly angels could not mix these.)

(Judgment of the Watchers: Micha’el) And the son of Lamech was brought before me, as an image, and his history was, of the same, a Watcher before the Great Deluge, flood in the time of Noah, and he hid from God, but was destroyed. And Azaz’el was bound and thrown into darkness, and Duda’el was buried under sharp rocks, unmovable—and I learned in those far off days came many judgments unto the Watchers.
(Teaching of the Arts) Amastras’ taught incantations, and the cutting of roots; Baraqiyal taught astrology with Tam’el, and Asder’el taught the course of the moon, and Azaz’el taught how to make swords and knives, shields.

The Blessed Tree

Then I came upon several beautiful mountains, and they appeared to be carved in the shape of a throne, surrounded by fragrant trees, and I was shaking my head, as if to get out of this dream, almost fearful, but it was a wondrous sight, and fragrance, and all those huge beings bowed, and I flowed suite (I matched what they did); and there were followers everywhere, and the tree that caught my eyes the most was a beautiful tree and very fruitful, and it looked like a palm tree, and I just gazed at it, and Micha’el appeared (seemingly the chief of he group) smiled and said (for he had left but a moment, how long the moment was I don’t know, but it seemed to me he perhaps went to get permission, or at least that is how I saw it at the time, with my earthly thinking), said Micha’el:
“The mountains are God’s throne, where resides he Eternal King (Christ), and he is the one whom has visited the earth. The tree cannot be touched until after the judgment, the conclusion period, and close the books once and for all (only the righteous and pious he old me would be able to touch it); at this time he also told me the fragrance will penetrate one’s bones.

(Jerusalem) Then we flew over a city, it was Jerusalem, the old city of Salem, of which the high king, Melchizedik once brought bread and wine to Abram. Here under a mountain I saw a holy stream, it was flowing, then another mountain and a valley, here ran the stream towards the west, then a smaller mountain appeared and another valley, dry and deep, with hard rocks and no trees, and it was all such a marvel.

Notes (and Interlude #2):

First Origins

(Notes: during this process of watching and seeing, and asking questions, I had a moment of time to seriously think of what is called “First Origins,” and related it back to my studies in Philosophy, Psychology and Theology. I guess what I saw is modern natural philosophers look at the nature of reality, not qualified scientists by far, so they express themselves, as often I do in poetry, or on the metaphysical schemes of life. So was evolution involved in creation. Well, the cosmos are changeless, and all things are changing, and this journey helped me come to this understanding, and everything is meaningful and purposeful, so I feel, thus, there is a great chain of being, or life forms involved here. So I’d like to think, or substitute evolution for creation since scientists are limited, to only studying occurring objects and events in the present environment. I add this in here because Plato, or Aristotle contributed philosophy and nothing for the laboratory, and scientist I think will back me up, the Biblical criteria for God’s created universe is better than it happened human philosophy. )

Who were the Renegades?

(Also, before I go on with my dream journey, I’d like to address one other thing quickly, the Angelic Renegades: did they exist? In my Old Testament studies, at Liberty University in the 1980s, working on my Masters Degree, this was a most interesting subject. In spite of the complexity and vagueness, I concluded, at least for myself, the issue solved. In the Old Testament, they were called “Sons of God,” perhaps a tinge of a mythological sound to that, if not supernatural, but they were historical descendents of somebody, or they could be the daughters of men, also used. But it was plane to many in the fist century AD, after Christ what it meant. Even some theories say they were marriages between Cro-Magnon men and Neanderthal women, most unlikely. I see a clear line between divine beings and humans. History as recorded Gilgamesh, to be two thirds supernatural (or demonic) and one third human, as was Saint Christopher. So I do not find supernaturalism so far fetched. The Jewish and Christian writers have interpreted these beings to be also supernatural, educated men, with lots of PhD’s We should not look at this as mythology, but theology.
I have looked at two manuscripts, especially the Alexandrinus Codex (forth Century A.D.) And have written about them in poetic form in a few of my books, and the Septuagint, all confirming these were angels of God. But the most confirming piece of evidence I found was the Great historian Flavius Josephus, whom was Jewish, but worked with the Romans, to the dismay of his Jewish counterparts, along with all the church fathers of those far off days. It was not until the 5th century this theory was abandoned of the supernatural interpretation of Genesis.

The Journey and Dream
Continued

(The Latter Days) After we had left Jerusalem, I was taken on a trip that seemed to me to go from one end of the world to the other, and I saw many gates from the heavens open up and down came rain, and snow, and hail, and down came frost and mighty winds, and I saw violence and sorrow upon the earth, during this time. And then we changed directions, and we went instead of north, we went west, and I saw in time in the east, more destruction. And to the south, and again the winds and extreme weather conditions prevailed.

(Note: in 1998 and 2000, I had some dream-visions, I documented them, but not like I did in the 1980s, and made a book out of it, but what I say was the false prophet, and what I heard was the world would be under satanic influence, it was a two part vision: the message was: ‘The Beast, his army the antichrist, terrorism and war,’ this was before I believe Bin Laden was the number one criminal in the world. You need not believe me it is just something I found after eight years of this book sitting, and I read inside the book what I wrote, and put it in here. It is nothing we do not know; it just confirms with me, I’m on the right track. Actually right after I had those two visions, I wrote the outline of the book “The Manticore…” it was not properly edited at the time, and sorrow to say, it didn’t sell well, but it was the bases for the plot. I figured out the Secret of the Beast during these latter days, it being ‘even if you win, you lose, for there is more than plan, and maybe he wants to lose.)

But on this journey, all these things came to mind, and that Christ had told his followers above all, let no man deceive you. And as I looked down upon the earth, I saw many God-pretenders, for now there are many Christ pretending cults, such as the Mormons, and Jehovah Witnesses, in both cases I attended their services, and studies, and to include Armstrongism. There were on earth I saw them, many Jesus movements. I realized, since the time of Daniel and Nebuchadnezzar, these have been the times of the gentiles, for the most part. As we sailed across the a atmosphere I knew I really did not have to worry, I mean the destiny of the breast (the Army of Satan) and false prophet has already been determined, it is just a matter of how many will join him, in this millennium.

(End) It was hard at times to behold the faces of the angels, they were so holy and righteous, henceforth, I did, and then as I was about to say something, a whirlwind grabbed me, and I descended to earth, it carried me back to my bed, and into life I woke up.

†

The Ancestor before Time

Those who were sick in their hearts
(during the latter days)
made dwelling places for the elect ones,
those chosen by Satan; surrounded by his
ten-wings, created before time;
Lord of the Air, and to his followers
he demanded to be worship;
I saw him in a 1980s vision: pacing
like the Tiamat, among the clouds.

#2326 (8-15-2008)

The Angels Never Came Back
(In the Latter Days)

A ´poem

Imprudence could be found at all corners of the earth
During the latter days; no place for holy angels to rest
For wisdom went out with death, but death came back
It needed no rest, and thoughtlessness remained:
With the children of the people of earth; and in time
Wisdom tried to return, and settled among a few
Then came iniquity into every crack and crevice
And the angels moved out again, and man
Wondered if they’d return, for the few
That were left, they were the dew
And the thirst of these days,
But like rain in a desert,
They never came back.

#2325 ( 8-15-228)

Final Part of the Journey
(Notes and Dream)

Journey into the Deep (Hell)

((Surr’el) (the Long Chain)) When I had woken up, I saw in a vision the following events, perchance, the angelic beings did not prefer to show me these, personally but with an adjustment to my eyes, I saw what they wanted me to see: those locked in Sheol came forward, brought back to life, and voice was picking out the ones whom were holy from the dead (of one of the 72-deaths). I seen many souls wrapped in linen, walking with dark faces, or no faces, and among the risen dead, the Elect One, selected and saved, he sat on a throne and called their names. And the mountains and the hills moved when I talked, and the angels were present, and many glowed and smiled for they had known many of the dead (this was a secret vision I do expect).
I heard my name, it was Surr’el, he said he was he angel of peace, for now and then, that what was revealed to me was then, not now. And I sat as if in a honeycomb, and it seemed to be melting about me. And all the souls deep into a valley, a sea of people, sinners, facing the earth, and then came a long, very long chain, and Satan was the tied to the first link, And Azaz’el, to the second, and on and on, until they got to the demons, such as Agaliarept, Satan’s Henchman in Hell, other Demonic soldiers (Buer, one of the guards in hell, under his command) Gusoyn; the three Heated Dogs; Amduscias, the Grand Duke of Hell, Belphegor, the King of the Demons, Tyr the Mischievous; and the Nightmare Demon, and the lesser spirits.
And the chain was long and heavy, and the Angel of peace had prepared these chains and the smaller links were for the kings of the world, those destroyers of the earth and peace, and humankind.
And I put my hands over my head, trying to wipe away anymore visions, but nonetheless they came, and I saw: great judgment and disasters, feminine, tribulation and a deep valley. And there was fire in the valley, and many a soul was pushed into it, and the chain dragged many more into it. I saw Micha’el again, he was present, and Gabriel (and I told myself, “When will this day and night ever end!” Then I say a host, a horde more like it of Holy Angels marching, with an iron and bronze net, and they searched high and low, and those they found hiding and guilty, henceforth, to be reckoned with, they cast into the crevices of the abyss in the valley. And the valley got filled up with bodies, and the elite of the earth was shaken by what was happening, and just then, the earth shook, from end to end, and all could feel and hear the sound of this noise, and those whom did not want to bow, bowed anyhow.

Trying to Understand Nighmares

2008-03-14T16:39:00.000-07:00

(The Nightmare Demon: see picture on front cover) There is such a think as called the Nightmare Demon, it is biblical, and there are charms, spells that can produce this. These demon, or spirits of evil, imps, looks similar to the picture on this book, which Clark A. Smith drew. Such spirits are foul, they and if you wake during their visit, often times one can become short of breath. A friend of mine, artist friend in Lima, has had many such visits, where he actually saw them; I have not experience this in that capacity, although I have seen demonic figures, and smelled their foulness. Anyhow, they have a heavy breath, and sit on your bed, if not your chest, and breathe this foulness into you, and I assume this creates a nightmare, so I have been told, and have had many in the past, I now simply pray to the Lord each night to rid me and my house of such imps. These creatures attack at night, and breath into your nostrils, causing horrible dreams, and if present can cause a paralyzes, although once dreaming the body automatically goes into a state of being frozen, this is different. Dreams in themselves are necessary, but nightmares are not.

(The Incubus) An example of such demon, might be, the Incubus, a male demon, ghostly sexual wanting intercourse, seeks out women in the night (different than the nightmare demon, but similar for he acts when she is sleeping), as proclaimed by giving birth to Mother Shipton, the prophetess, whose mother was said to have been visited by one, off and on, and the villages tried aimlessly to protect her, in the 15th Century, legend or Lore, or reality? It is for the reader to figure out, but do not be fooled and think everything one cannot explain is legend, and untruth. The word, Incubus, is Latin for Nightmare.

(Imps) When I imply imps, I perhaps shouldn’t, for they dwell mostly in the forest, but I used the word loosely I suppose to mean demonic small forces, lesser forces, or unfamiliar spirits.

(Diet, Psychology, Prophecy in Dreams) Nowadays, the scientists, and psychologists, and so forth, blame nightmares on the vagaries of diet, and that may very well be part of it. But there is more to it then food, I believe; perhaps one’s sins, occupation, various forms of stress. These dreams, bad dreams, nightmares can be blocked, either by prayer, or oneself, if trained to; we are not talking about avoidance, but possession, nor are we talking about prophecy. Psychologically we can use dream rehearsal and dream lucidity. Check with your professionals, as well as clergy for therapy, or learning more on this subject.

(Education vs. Theology and Psychology) I did much of my graduate studies in Theology, and undergraduate studies in Psychology, and doctorate studies in learning and education. So in the above information, I have used all but the educational part which I will now. Education is teaching, or edifying, cultural or learning. Many of my previous books are in Peruvian cultures. Other parts of my education were in sociology and philosophy, so you get in this book of course all of the above, and now the Educational part as I have already told you. Nightmares, can be a necessary medicine at times, they can present, openings, depending on whose nightmares you are receiving. They can be healing, from past emotional stress, and thus a release. And even at times warning, if present in a pattern; I kept getting a nightmare in Vietnam, of getting on a plane and crashing; I had the dream over and over and over. When I left Vietnam, I was talking to a stranger at the airport in Saigon, a man, now that I look back, talked a lot about Jesus, to the point he got me annoyed and I said, “Yaw, yaw,” got up to see how my plane was doing, and the man said, “We called that flight fifteen minutes ago, you missed it. The next flight was an hour later, I got on the plane, and when it landed I heard my original flight crashed just before reaching Japan. I never had the nightmare again.
So here was a behavior pattern, and an opportunity that I did not realized I needed to remedy, but some angelic being problem did. So in the process of learning, I’ve learned to take all into consideration. Be it psychology, theology, science, and faith. What is the sense having having these disciplines and not taking note of them, and using them? If you are asking, or telling, or saying at this moment, “You didn’t know, so it really didn’t help you,” you might be right, but it can help you.

Multiple Sclerosis (Perhaps a Help)

2008-03-14T16:37:00.000-07:00

Multiple Sclerosis

Here is a mysterious disease, one that South America and most warm states in the United States do not have. It seems to belong to the colder more gray climates of the world. Now look at the article, and it may help you.

Keep walking, walking, walking, never stop, if you do, Multiple Sclerosis, will get caught up with you, and bye by, to walking, get the wheel chair my friend, it is the end to the end for walking. Get out of the cold and dimly lit environment you are in, and gray climates; get to the sun, where you get Vitamin D, sucked up into your body, like a hurricane (perhaps drink some milk); your immune system is nil you know, and it knows it…icky. Stop that stressful job, and your headaches may disappear, or your spine may become cured. Get rid of those who chant, you can’t. MS is many things, but few know how to care for it while it increases each day, unto months, and debilitates you to a puppet. For your numbness, take Glucosamine 500; and for your vision, and if you are dropping things try several natural enhancers. Find a doctor to give you calm down pills, perhaps, Alprazolam. If you are going to the bathroom, 16-times a day, see the doctor and ask why can’t have, Oxybutynin Chloride (5mg, should do). Amantadine can be used for your throat, for prevention (again see the doctor on this, do not take my word, and check it out). DHEA can help as a supplement for your strength; also, CQ10, can help; and for the spine pain, Naproxen (500 MG), well good luck, I’ve had it since 1996.
Systems are not always the same, we are not inbreeding humans, we are a diverse species, and therefore, we can not predict exactly what will work for each individual. And MS is a new, fairly new disease, and many doctors do not know much about it, just putting it on the table as a neurological and often soon, a debilitating disease. So if one doctor discourages you, fire him, and find another you can work with. Some like to play God; matter of fact, pray, that may help more than all the other advice I just gave you.

Yoreth, the Twenty-seventh Demigod ((reading his Tablets)(poetic prose))

2008-03-02T20:56:00.000-08:00

Poem of the:
The Twenty-Seventh Demigod,
Yoreth

(Yoreth,
The Plato of Hell’s Shallow Waters)

He called his assemblage, unveiled his plan
To the seven-two names, that sat in a circle whom
Were to rule the worlds, with various qualities
And redundant plans, under a hypothesis that
That was taking too long…

He lectured, and preached,
on the table of archangels, whom to feared, that
watched over the worlds, and wrote down their names,
as commonly written, on tablets for his assemblage—

He said, Micha’el also goes by the name of Lelah,
Elsewhere, that is, so where you are assigned,
Beware, this information I’m about to give, for it
Comes under the hard research of Vau, which
He seized from the 6th, Sophiroth (spirit of beauty
And evil).

I beckon you to you all, during your trials and
Adventures, missions and all, to use black magic as
Often as possible, make much use of it, it is all related to
The order of demons, and spells to the order of
Angels and evil spirits, as well…
The arch devil Belphegor has cursed us if we don’t.
He has his legions of demons standing by, but
Fears the Arch Angel Michael his army (the Malachim).

And so today, it is my task to try and translate
Hebrew symbols into readable English
I have handed out clay tablets to each of you, to help,
and believe me tt is almost a hopeless task, however
I am the Plato of Hell’s Shallow Waters, and have
Twenty-four PhD’s, and thus, I have created these
Language tablets, lost once to mankind, now found and
Translated by me, so make sure you pronounce the words correctly, due to the fact, Aramaic was its earlier language
Of Palestine, written before the birth of Christ.

To each of you, my students, I give the Talmud, and
Of the old scrolls of the Scripture; hence, we
Shall look at the verities that existed once in the Bible,
Until translates came into being.
You will see, and witness in the Bible, and my
Tablets, ‘signs’ (astrologers) assume the signs to mean
Certain things, and this of course was taught
To me by one of the Great Watchers’, of
Prehistory, an arch angel, one of the two-hundred
Azaz’el, to watch over man, and decided to cohabitate
With woman, review Genesis 6, when you got time.

Vaho, the 49th student, stood up, said:
“The tablets submitted in this lecture, are of great
Assistance, now we will know in this world, what we are
Dealing with; this archetypal world, of a vast universe;
world of materialisms. I see in this tablet you gave,
Something that reads ‘destruction of the soul’
Which I assume is our goal?”

You are quite right Vaho, we can call it pure spirits or
The soul or sprits, or the plastic mediator—call it what
You will, but I do not use the word destruction,
Because the soul cannot be destroyed, that is why
I am giving this lecture, so you do not go off on
Some half hazard adventure. These tables
Is a mystery to the entire universe, but me?
And those Old Ones who write them.

Let me explain Vaho, the soul is immortal
By renewal of itself, even through destruction of its forms;
And so while the prey lives, you must bury the soul,
We have done this to a certain degree by presenting
Evolution as an idea, and thus this has produced
Forgetfulness without destruction, buried the soul alive,
Sort of speaking: the human flesh, the body is
The shell, the veil, like a shroud, do you understand
(Vaho nodded his head yes, still standing).

From the graces of God, proceeds the great angel Micha’el
The good angel of the soul; but you and I are of course
Uninfluenced by the good aspirations of this spirit, as is
Samael the evil spirit, the one next to you (Samael, is an
Angelic being, he laughs).

Thus, we see good and evil on the table of thoughts
Do we not? (Yeli, stands up, the 2nd in the assemblage)
“Yes, Maestro…” he yelps aloud so all can hear.
Is it not true Yeli, that God allows us to carry on to
See if His so called pure emanations: to the worlds
Can deteriorate after those whom are given his
Radioactive light, if we can produce decay in those
Grabbing on to it? “Yes indeed (says Yeli), that is God’s
Plan, weed out the decay before it gets into heaven.”

So with this in mind, you should know that humans
Have wisdom, intelligence, love and justice
Circulating in their minds; what else do they have–?
Haa (26th name in the assemblage) stood up to answer:

“Maestro, there is, according to this tablet,
Beauty in their minds, and firmness in their souls,
and splendor, and righteousness, greed and materialism.”

Student Haa, do you understand these words?
“I think so,” said Haa.

So you are not sure? Some are similar to others. For each
World you go to, different worlds have different terms, as
Did different times, and different location on earth, term righteousness differently, earth is a material world.

As you read these Hebrew tablets, some I see are reading them
Wrong, why have you not asked me how to read them?
This is a question to all?

Sit, 3rd in the assemblage, stood up, said, “Is it not
Because of pride, we do not want to look bad in front of you?”

Oh yes, yes indeed, you will be a help to your missions.
You read Hebrew from right to left, thus, just the
Reverse of English. Number one starts at the right hand side.
And if we supply the vowels, we secure the names of the enemy;
Those angelic beings watching over the cities of the world;
We must remember the names you come out with are
Aligned to the four heavens on the other side of the tablet,
These names go back to the days of the creation of the earth.

Note: and so it was, at the assemblage, all were—thereafter, assigned their missions,
duties, and locations, on earth, and elsewhere.

#2308 3-2-2008

Faith and Logic

2008-03-02T09:51:00.000-08:00

(Logic vs. Faith) We talk of faith as if it is abstract, an intrinsic spirit that has to bite you before it becomes real, subjective (and when you get the blessing from the faith you don’t have, but wish you had, and the echo hits God’s ears, then we call it by-chance, for nothing else could have produced it). Faith, its roots are belief, trust, very simple roots, but if you hate God, pride will stop the faith from entering the soul, and what do you have left, a Jaw bone from Darwin’s theory; logic has much more to deal with, in the race of thought (or thinking and deduction). The question may come up in this prose work, is God to be understood logically or by faith? If you saw Jesus, whom the Christians call God incarnate, would you say “This is not logical?” So therefore it is not, and is simply an illusion, for some reason, my mind must be taxed? In reality, I don’t know what the other man would say, but I know what I would say “It is Jesus, because I saw him,” and therefore logical or not, it is (we may have to look at whose logical concepts are we dealing with also, Plato’s or Aristotle’s? (or my own)—they did not think the same you know, so who was right?). And no one can tell me otherwise.” All the scientists out there don’t read this, it will just spoil your breakfast or lunch, go back to the moon. But is there a moon (maybe he can’t go back there, he only saw it), maybe it is not, but we’ve been there right? Or at least someone has, maybe it is not so, just a lie, on top of a created illusion (like Darwin’s Fairy Tale, no one ever saw an ape man; we saw a Jaw from the Heidelberg Man, and a few more fragments from the Java woman, and now we got a human ape running around a million years ago, sent by Darwin via, his theory, is this logical? It takes a lot more faith to believe in this, than God.) Anyhow, the moon, perhaps we saw, special effects as they call it. Anyhow, I will take it by faith that man has been on the moon, for I can’t see any real concrete logic here.

Now what is logic and faith have to do with the moon? I believe because I saw it on TV, and in the magazines, man landing on the moon in 1969, sat in a bar in San Francisco, but I saw Jesus also, on TV and in the magazines also, and in some visions, and I see the moon in the sky so it is as seeing Jesus in the person also, so I have three equal elements here, actually Jesus has one up. What is logistical here? We shall look at that in a moment, we can call it reasoning out, in what we are doing now, or common sense (which is not all that common nowadays, which is seeing might be believing), or it can be judgment, and that we have to hope is correct, and it does not mean judgment by science, although scientist would claim I think it should be. Logic to me is perhaps closer to ‘What else could it be?” Most folks who study the cosmos come to the conclusion, there has to be a God (I read that someplace, but it makes sense in that, we cannot conceive a beginning, only an end).

(Did Jesus exist?) More evidence out there says He did, and it’s been out there a very long time, perhaps more than believing in a Davy Crockett, or Daniel Boon, or a Muhammad or a George Washington. We have only paintings of these folks (and some written documents), like Jesus, in a way, but his has more worldwide expectance, more pictures, is known in more countries, and the New Testament of the Bible was written because of Him. Christmas was created because of Him, and BC and AD was created because of him, until some goofball change it, must had been an angry believer who did not get his way with God. Anyhow, point of fact, Jesus is more known than any of these fellows, yet, he is more in question of His existence, this is not logical to me. But we believe our historians would not make them up, so we have faith in them, we believe them, we trust them (or do we, and perhaps we are in a bubble). But I like Davy Crockett, although I think, and could most likely prove, a lot of what they say he did (or he said he did in his book), is not up to the full truth (and I never ever even say Davy in a vision yet).

(Logic and Reason) When we talk philosophy, we are talking about logic or reasoning, are we not? Plato, Socrates, and Aristotle, and their kind, argued on what was and what was not, or appeared not to be, but should be because it is. Socrates was killed because he made what he thought was a logical determination, that there was only one God, not many, Athens did not like it. He put logic and faith into one bag. Prior to this we had a whole lot of gods in one bag doing nothing, all based on faith, no logic; I’ve found out in life what seems right today, ten years down the road, it becomes to the contrary, and so at best, I got to say we bend logic in each age as did the Athenians, as we bend the bible, or Karen today, or the Talmud, to suite the reasoning we want to come out at the other end, and those who go against it, go against the: church, mosque, or synagogue, are outcasts, whom really are observers, and should be treated as such.

(Examples) Is it right to kill whales, so we can have whale stews, or steak? Or to kill Elephants because there are too many in a park, and people want ivory? Debates are often won by who buys the biggest dinner, it all sounds logical to be a big receiver. It is all in who is the interpreter, especially if it involves self-interest. If anyone knew this, it was Socrates. Philosophy is perhaps the only discipline, if you can call it that, which has not advanced much in comparisons to psychology, anthropology, sociology, and all the rest of the zoologies and methods we use to understand the world of man.

I don’t wish to be the logic–chopper today, but take all these theories, and theorems and disputations and throw them into the wind, renew the encrypted, and nuclease mind, the first step, to expurgation the overlapping pretense, and self-interest, now common sense can flow (which was not common a moment ago, with faith).

(Conclusion) In the process of reasoning out whatever you are reasoning out, use some faith with it, it is better to believe in something believable, even if it does not hold the logic the professor prefers you have—why? First, because to you it is believable, second is there a reason not to believe it, I mean, did the believer, the one you believe in do something to you to be put into second place, and thus, untrustworthy? If not believe—why? Here we go again, because it is healthier to do so. The reasoning here comes into play, when the person is not trustworthy, then if you believe in him, it is not faith you are working with, but gullibility (and you are blind, or it is more painful for you to jump out of denial).

(Going against the grain) Do not damn the sources of error, or make hurdles for folks to jump over them, some minds are weak, and need pictures and images to worship, a weak mind of faith is not domination, or the unpardonable sin, it is reality for the other person, habit you could say, and often mistaken for a thing (let’s hope it is not, a pray is better than a curse), but the error is not so unreasonable as to make it proceed above a human being. Let it sink, where it may, God will take it from there, He always does, contrary perhaps to the suspended universe, hovering above us, but I can live with that, if the mirrors can live with my face.

3-1-2008 (prose, #2307)

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

2008-02-26T13:15:00.000-08:00

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?

2008-02-25T21:09:00.000-08:00

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?)

2008-02-23T20:15:00.000-08:00

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))

2008-02-23T18:43:00.000-08:00

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)

2008-02-23T14:27:00.001-08:00

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)

2008-02-22T10:29:00.000-08:00

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)

2008-02-21T21:24:00.000-08:00

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)

2008-02-21T21:03:00.000-08:00

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")

2008-02-19T18:42:00.000-08:00

…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)

2008-02-17T20:18:00.000-08:00

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]

2008-02-17T18:50:00.000-08:00

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)

2008-02-16T22:58:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-15T19:54:00.000-08:00

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)

2008-02-14T22:31:00.000-08:00

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?

2008-02-12T22:10:00.001-08:00

Winter of Sorrows (an Elegy for a Friend)

2008-02-12T20:04:00.000-08:00

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)

2008-02-08T21:57:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-07T19:18:00.000-08:00

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)

2008-02-07T18:38:00.000-08:00

(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))

2008-02-07T10:13:00.001-08:00

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)

2008-02-06T20:51:00.000-08:00

“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

2008-02-05T21:18:00.001-08:00

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)

2008-02-05T18:27:00.000-08:00

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)

2008-02-05T18:00:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-05T16:04:00.001-08:00

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)

2008-02-05T08:42:00.000-08:00

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)

2008-02-04T21:38:00.000-08:00

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)

2008-02-04T14:59:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-03T22:16:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-03T22:10:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-03T21:52:00.001-08:00

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)

2008-02-03T20:43:00.000-08:00

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)

2008-02-02T20:39:00.001-08:00

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

In the winter of Garmisch (1970) Partly in German, and English

2008-02-02T16:27:00.000-08:00

[1970]

She stopped the car, her care, on the road, it was full of ice and snow, the road leading into Garmisch that is, Garmisch, Germany; Chris’s right forearm resting on Chick Evens’ arm for a moment; in the distance ascending into the sky were the ski slopes. The wind was whistling around the car windows and the pine trees were swaying, it was a chilly winter’s morning. The mountain pass had to be made by car or bus; no trains could make it through the pass only around the mountain, and within a certain distance of the areas ski resort. She stopped the car, rested the motor, there was a lodge behind them, about a mile back down the road; and just beyond the pass ahead of them was the village (or town-let), called Garmisch, a ski region, a wintry haven for all of Europe; and a simple old tourist village the rest of the year.
Everything was shinny white, in the frosted weathered morning sunbeams; so much so, it was almost blinding you could say; thought Chick Evens staring with his sunglasses on. Chick, he was Chris’ American boyfriend, military boyfriend. Chris looked at him, a brief smile, a comforting intake of air, and drove forward through the pass.
“Is this Garmisch?” asked Chick with a vibrant blow to his diaphragm, trying to absorb its wintry wonderland’s beauty.
“Yes, yes, but it’s not quite the way I remember it to be, it was long ago you know when I was last here.”

They now had driven closer to the village where they both could get a better view of the whole countryside, a breathtaking panorama—; for a moment, a fairytale moment you might say, Chick was taken back, a bit awe struck from its beauty, a young soldier but twenty-two, first European trip; then as they drove a little further they were in the village itself; a little quaint Bavarian Village of the Alps.
“The hotel is farther down,” Chris instructed.
Chick looked over his shoulder, out of the back window, it was a long ride from Augsburg, where he was stationed, and then down to Dieburg, he and Chris had drove, then now up here to Garmisch, and the incline was steep and slippery, he was adjusting.
“Happy to have made it up here in one piece;” he commented.
Chris burped out “We’ll have to cross this small bridge ahead of us,” turn to look at Chick’s expression, then added “…the hotel is right beyond that (pointing straight ahead).” Chick noticed a stream went under the bridge she was pointing at, and all the way (seemingly) through the village up to some farm pastures towards the mountains.
Said Chris hesitantly, but with pride, “This is lovely country in the spring as well as summer: streams and forests all mesh together and give out many shades of green; and as you can see, most of the houses still have that old Bavarian architecture.”
“I see,” said Chick.
“Across the bridge is the hotel,” commented Chris.
“And where exactly is the skiing area?” Although in Chick’s brain, the whole area could have be considered a ski area, for it was all mountainous.
“There, over by the big hill, mountain I mean, you can’t see it fully, got to get a little closer, but it’s over a mile run down those smaller slopes alongside, there are several you know. We’ll be able to see it closer later; the mountains all kind of blend together, as you can see.”

As Chris Steward pulled up to the hotel, Chick Evens cleaned his sunglasses a bit. At times, things were so bright, it was blinding, therefore, he rubbed his eyes, shut them for a moment—to rest them. The snow was heaped up several feet high along side the hotel. Chris parked the car. This was their first trip together; they had only known each other going on a month.
“There’s no bellboy here,” said Chris.
“I see the ski-lift now,” the young man said, tucking in his shirt as he got out of the car, grabbing the two suitcases in the backseat.
“Perhaps we can ski this afternoon,” Chris explained to Chick, walking into the hotel.
“The weather is perfect for it,” it being twenty-five degrees out.
“How many folks are skiing do you think?” he asked, pointing now at the ski lift, way in the distance, or where he thought it should be, although only a configuration a shadow of one was noticeable.
“Perhaps (she paused to look about, think before saying another word)…conceivably about one fourth of the normal folks that would usually come on a holiday or weekend, you know today’s only Thursday, we got a few days before the rush starts.”
“Great, great, I don’t like crowded anyhow.”
“Do you wish to ski as soon as possible?” she asked.
“Depends, ah, depends on what we have to do now I suppose!” he said aloud not realizing he was being overly loud; overcompensating for being tired I’d expect. She did a double-take on him when his voice had exceeded her calm zone.
“Yes, yes, I hear you…!” the young woman said, adding “but we should eat a fine, if not resilient meal first, rest a bit, and go later on towards early afternoon—we’ll be fresher and not so…(she hesitated, lost her thoughts, said), you know, not so loud please.”
“I’ve forgotten I’m hungry, and I didn’t mean to be so sharp, I suppose I’m just ornery from being tired, it does that to me some times,” said Chick.

[Inside the hotel] “Guten Morgan,” a voice said behind a counter, noticing Chick as an American he changed his language to English: “My name is Koln, do…” before he could finish his statement Chris interrupted.
“I am Chris Steward; you should have our reservation here?”
“A moment…bitte…please (he corrected himself back to English),” Koln said as he thumbed through some reservation cards: ‘hmmm,’ came from his mouth.
“Ya... (a pause) Ms Chris R Steward…, and…dd, of-course—your guest…” (He said with a reluctant voice, or so it seemed).
“Yes, that’s me,” replied Chris.
“Room seven, second floor, I see you’ll be here just three days; fine, it’s good skiing weather,” he smiled and gave her the key, trying to readjust his earlier tentative sneer.
“Danke,” said Chris as they left the counter area, heading toward the main lobby, down the hall, Chick asked: “What is the ‘R’ for?”
“I told you I was a German-Jew, it’s my father’s last name, Rosenbourm, is that a problem?” she said with a higher defensive voice.
“No, no-oo… (a pause) not at all; what’s a Jew got to do with anything anyhow? I mean, I’m Russian-Irishman, American—big deal.”
She didn’t look his way, just asserted herself forward as she found the room and opened the door, smiled at Chick as she laid her suitcase on the bed, as if to say, the adventure of the weekend is about to start, let’s not draw back from each other.

[The Ski Lift] “We must have climbed a mile?“ said Chris, stopping to rest by a farmyard fence; two cows came up to the wooden fence, with two big bells tied around their necks, Chris was leaning against the fence.
“How charming,” commented Chick, satirically? He walked up the path a little further, toward the farmyard; two little boys came running down the path towards him, and two cows followed along side them, along the other side of the fence. It was as if one boy ran after the other, and the cows just followed. They were twins, blond haired twins of about four to six years old.
“Guten Morgen” said one of the two blond haired boys, the one by the name of Cody.
Said Chris with a perfect pitch to her voice, as if it was a soft flute playing (wanting to know where is the ski lift): “Wo ist…der skilift?”
Said Cody with an impetuous smile, “Es ist…gehen Sie… geradeaus… (go straight ahead).”
Chris looked straight in back of her, where the boy was pointing: ah, she could see it now.
“Gandige Fraun…” said the boy, “wie heissen sie?”
“Chris,” she said, was her name, to the boy. And she explained that Chick was her American Military friend.
“Ja…” said the boy with a bright smile again.

Then with slow and broken English, the boy named Shawn, commented,
“He’s…my cow sir, isn’t…he big?” Chick looked at them, “H...mmm, they are big and healthy looking cows are they not?” Possibly it was a statement-question, but the boys both looked up and understood most of what was said; then they looked at each other, and were indifferent to it, as if they were holding back a laugh.
Both boys now looking at Chick, Cody said in English, “My name is Cody, and he’s my brother Shawn, we live there (pointing to the house up the path).”
Chris thanked the boys in German, saying: “Danke,” as the two boys stooped under the fence and ran towards the cows at which time the cows started to run, and then all of a sudden the cows stopped turned to them (the cows, stopping and turning about) the boys jump back and laughed.
Said Chris to Chick, “They are quite interested in Americans I think, they took a shine to you Chick,” Chick didn’t say a word, nothing; it was more of a statement he thought, than a question.
“Nice boys, cute blond hair, just like little Germans. Anyhow, do you mean we got to walk all that way over there, I mean we’ve been walking for two hours, I think, or is it three [?]” He looked at Chris, she didn’t say an utterance, I suppose nothing to say, then finished his thoughts, “It’s just a little ways now.”
Having said that, they started to transverse over to the area the boys had pointed towards. Then Chris got thinking: perhaps she was a tinge cold hearted, she should ask how he is doing, and asked, “How are you doing Chick?”
“I suppose all right, I’m a bit fatigued, I mean, I mean, I only rested, not slept but an hour at the hotel. And this long walk, and the long ride up here, don’t you German-Jews ever get tired?” She smiled; not saying a word, figuring it was a rhetorical question at best.
Chick, at the present, took off his jacket, he had a sweater under that, and a wool-shirt to boot, and a cotton undershirt under all that, and as a result, he was starting to overheat.
Now, noticing Chick quite exhausted, Chris (shaking her head) stopped, said with a humbling voice, “You can wait here, I’ll go check and see if we can ski.”
Chick [brooding] “O—No—no, I came all this way here, walked all this distance, no need to stop and rest a few hundred yards from the site now.”
It was more like a quarter mile, but the mannish part of him—the Id was the driving force, although not destructive at this point, and it was a little ego involved, that is, which got its demand from the Id, I suppose, thus, he felt in control; in any case, he—the mannish part of him was not going to allow the female species to have the upper hand.

—Said Chris to the husky, beer bellied man in the green ski-lift hut, sitting down operating some gears, occasionally looking through a window in front of him, and Chris to his side, “Wo kann ich eine fahrkarte kaufen? (Where can I buy a ticket?)”
“…Heir!” said the burly German, watching several ski-lifts going higher and higher up the mountain, threw the sparse wooded area. “Zwei…” (he said, implying she needed two tickets, as he looked, or tried to look, deep into her bottomless and blue beautiful eyes; Chick catching his gaze, the German paying Chick no heed.
Chris responded in German: “Bitte…” (please).

Chris was catching her breath, said to Chick in a low tone, “Three Marks for a ride, three each, that’s close to a dollar!”
“Swell,” said Chick [suddenly], “let’s go for a ride.”
“Guten Tag,” said the man—he now pointed to the ski-lift they were to go on.
Chick saying in English, as if to impress Chris in the fact he understood a little German, and very little, “And good day to your sir…!”
“Are you able to ski?” asked Chris, realizing how exhausted she was, and he seemed even more so.
“We shall see once we get to the top.”
I think he was thinking if she would, he could, but if she gave a little hint she was tired—well, I suppose he could go along with anything to get a long rest back at the hotel; anyhow, that was his answer.
He sat back tight against the ski lift as it ascended up the mountain; Chris by his side, the seat was made of wood, the rest was made out of steel. It was all painted green, like the woods around them; under him were some twenty-feet of air, and accumulating more the higher up, they went of course. Chick gripped his hands tightly onto the sidebars of the lift attached to the seat. Being somewhat fatigued, his eyes started to close. Chris noticed that; she nudged him to wakeup: reinforcing the fact he needed to hang onto the side of the seat’s side-bar.
“To ski down this mile run is nothing,” said Chris, “if you are not tired that is; but if you are—tired like me or more so, you—you could possibly break a leg.”
She was a much better skier than he, and Chick knew it, and so hearing that, he took in a deep breath of air and thought on what she had just said a moment ago. On the other hand, Chris knew that men seldom listened to women when they sounded competitive, or she felt they could outdo them, so she added:
“I’m more tired than I had previously thought,” and although she was tired, she could have skied a few hours more without much effort. But for the most part, this was the best she could do with a warning for him, in allowing an escape path for his ego; thus, let him do as he pleased with this kindest escape clause, so, she had done her best to create.
“Yes, yes, I understand,” he said with eyelids half open.
“Yes, I see you do,” commented Chris. At the same time Chick started tapping with his fingers on the steel bar next to him.
Said he, “How do I determine if I’m too tired or not, or how have you determined you might be…?”
Chris [interrupting] “You are not deaf, are you?”
“No,” said Chick wiping his brow.
“Well, I’m telling—trying to tell you we both are—tired, but if you’re not going to listen we’ll both break a leg together— so go ahead, I’ll risk it also, otherwise we can turn about and go back to the hotel; I mean we got three, or is it, two days [?] anyhow, we got more than enough time to go skiing, it’s no big deal, as far as I feel, we do not have to push ourselves beyond what we know is not safe”; having said that, they both got off at the next stop and jumped on the returning ski lift and back to the hotel, not even stopping to warm-up.

—When they got back to the hotel, they sat at a table, the bar area was behind them with stools and a few guests lounging about, but practically the whole place was empty—for the most part, perhaps four or five other people were present. They stayed for a few hours talking and drinking. A man and his ten year old boy were both playing violins with German, Bavarian traditional festive cloths on.
As the waiter came up to take their order Chris quickly took charge to arrange, “Ich moechte zwei Stueck Brot, ein Kruegel Bier, und ein Glas Wein…danke.”

Chris had two glasses of Mosel Wine, and Chick some dark beer, while the father and son team played away: a most handsome pair, if not down right touching thought Chris.
It was going on 10:00 PM, when the hotel waiter asked if they wanted a last drink before they closed up.
“Nein,” said Chris, politely, rubbing her arms together as the waiter looked at her mysteriously, “Kahlt,” (cold) she told him, as he walked away with a flat shape to his face—with no smile. When they got back to their rooms, as Chick undressed, he felt stiff and cramped, it had been a long drawn out day—to say the least. Halfway through the undressing, ready to jump under the cool linens, he told himself it was a worthwhile day, a great day, and he was happy he had come at her request. Chris wanted it to be just such a day, very much so, and noticed him content as he pushed his youthful and muscular body quickly under the heavy quilt.
In point of fact, she was not feeling well, her head felt light, as she had a sensation sharply move through it, the temple area and frontal lobe to be exact, even a numbing of her teeth surfaced slowly, agonized her, along with a jagged feeling in her spine, then came an explosion with wreckage within her cerebellum. She had these signs and symptoms before and never told anyone outside of the doctor at the clinic, and a girlfriend who worked with her at the restaurant, and I suppose Günter knew something about it; I mean the surface information, not the underlining facts, the symptoms themselves: thus he referred to them as headaches, as she did. The doctor had ruled out such things as viruses, direct damaged, destroyed nerve tissue, or infectious diseases of the brain. But there was no denial of a general personality deterioration because of it; for some folks would agree she was more unmannerly, and tactless, and at times more unconcerned with her appearance than a year earlier.

She noticed his trousers and shirt lay on the floor. She sat on the edge of the bed, tried to smile as not to spoil the day, which had now of course, turned into the evening.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“Nein…no, I mean, I don’t remember…lieben…I mean Chick,” came out of her mouth, as if it was automatic. She added, “I wonder if they have a tower around… hier…I mean here?” She seemed to be drifting off, Chick notice, drifting into some dissociate zone… thinking in English and German at the same time. Dieburg, had an old tower, where they had visited a day, it was an eleventh century tower, and there were towers of some sorts in Augsburg, so this is what went through Chick’s mind.
“A tower,” said Chick [inquisitively], “what for, what kind of tower?” his eyebrows up in confusion, his eyelids closing out of fatigue.
“Pay no attention to me darling, you look absolutely dead, please go to sleep, I’ll stay up awhile.”
Intracranial pressure increased her headache almost bringing her to the point of vomiting; she was a bit confused, if not with a little memory loss. She picked up his cloths, found a proper place for them; everything was in slow motion for her now. Then she went to look out the window slightly depressed. The view was not great, not as great as in Dieburg she thought, or Augsburg, as at her apartment looking out her window; this view was of the back of the hotel. Chick was falling fast to sleep, but he had a few peculiar thoughts going on about Chris in his head, she seemed odd this evening, he deliberated, but it was soon forgotten as he fell into a deeper sleep.

Notes on the Sketch: Originally the introductory chapter in the book “Cold Kindness,” (2005) modified for this book, “The Meatpackers Boy,” 2008, as an end, and additional sketch chapter; the actual event of going to Garmisch took place in 1975, not 1970, and was not with the woman of Augsburg, Chris, rather with a woman from Dieburg, as indicated in the book, “Cold Kindness.” This chapter was originally called, “Winter in Garmisch,” (1959); Cody and Shawn, are the names of the author’s kids, and were present on this trip, in 1975, they were three years old, blond haired Germans; as he uses their names in the story. Thus, the story is based on mostly true events.

Plane to Iraq (a poem)

2008-02-01T22:50:00.000-08:00

Plane to Iraq
(Poetic Prose)

Walking the length of the plane, exercising,
upstairs, in the lounge, drinking beer and vodka—soldiers,
The New York Times, The Guardian, newspapers
laying about, everyone talking, we’re flying over the
Midwest, soldiers on their way to Iraqi, Negros and Whites,
Mexicans, and Yellow, and Reds and even a few Arabs…
so many young soldiers on this flight, they’re thin like trees:
in the morning, they’ll be rising someplace in the
Middle East, forgotten this plane flight, and all their stories.

“It’s my country, the good old USA,
better I fight over there than here, they’ll rape my
mother and sister,” such a way to think, but they say it.

A few soldiers in the back of the plane, singing away,
one saying, “I better fight, no choice now
I reenlisted the other day… we don’t want to
lose the war, now do we, then what? We’ve already paid
a dear price.”

Young minds for crazy times—what can I say.

“Those Arabs, we can’t stop them, not now,
there are too many of them, we’re fighting for oil,
on someone else’s soil,” an old man bellows
to his wife by his side—
“Isn’t that so honey, what it’s all about?”

There must be a hundred soldiers on board,
“In boot camp you learn to eat fast,” a soldier says,
I remember Vietnam, when the bombs
came, you learn to eat fast there also,
threw the food on the tray, everywhichway,
mostly in the air when you hear the sound
of the rockets nearing… hide, or dig a hole,
and bury your head, before it is severed…
I guess he’ll have to learn.

—I think they’ve been listening to programs
of propaganda, they believe what they are told
mostly, told mostly by the so called, friendly lies,
the truth is—so I think, walking the length of this plane
—is, ‘…eat well my soldier friends, for soon you will
be living like animals, packaged like dog food, sardines
and there will be no magic formula to get you clean…
or out of Hell.

#2208 2-2-2008 (Originally called ‘Steel Eagle’)

"Little Boy Moondog" (Moondog poem three)

2008-02-01T21:32:00.001-08:00

Little Boy Moondog
(Poem Three)

The little boy Moondog, got lost
in the woods,
led by the Mooncat, who was
led by the Moonrat,
and thus, began to cry;
his tears, appear’d white
(perhaps from kissing the cat and the rat)
now sorrow pale, the lonely kid
lost his tail,
still lost somewhere in the woods.

To make a long story short, let me say,
the cat and the rat, turned green
as they laughed, laughed
like dimpling streams
and the grasshopper laughed
that couldn’t be seen—

Then Grandma Moondog
saved the day (sweet round mouth)
“Ha, ha, he!” she said to
to little boy Moondog,
as they laughed merrily
all the way home,
to Moondog Bay.

#2207 2-2-2008

"Night for Moondog" (Moondog poem two)

2008-02-01T21:15:00.001-08:00

Night for Moondog

Moondog! Moondog!
Where art thou going?
O, but you walk so very slow,
speak Moondog speak to your poet,
let the world know it…
where you want to go
with your wand’ring light!

The night is dark,
way over here, in Lima,
a dog is barking outside I hear—
the dark is deep
and across the street
a child weeps,
and away the vapor flows
from the ocean
west of my home.

#2207 2-2-2008

Rhyme for the "Moondog"

2008-02-01T20:41:00.000-08:00

Moondog,
you look like a hotdog
a gray frog, all dressed in
dark-gray ash,
yes…a hotdog
with no hair on the head
(I’ll stay with that).
Moondog,
you need a shave
your beard is way, way, way,
out of the way…
perhaps you’re too busy to
get off your train…?
(it’s really not a question).
Moondog,
sing me a song,
and I’ll finish this poem
someday…with a
bang.

#2206 2-1-2008

The Fat Cats of Germany, Got Sassy

2008-02-01T10:29:00.000-08:00

The Fat Cats of Germany,
Got Sassy

Germany refuses to send troops into Afghanistan, more troops that is, what is the problem here, Gates says there is a problem, no such thing, my recommendation is, tell the German Minister of Defense Frank Josef Jung, we will simple send 20,000-troops we got stationed in Germany there (and not replace them), and thus, the issue is settled, and the German folks who depend on the dollar to can watch their German Minister on TV tell our Mr. Gates, how he cooperated. There is always a solution, we should have moved out of Germany long ago, anyhow, moved our troops to a place closer to Turkey, let us say, a country that appreciates us like, Romania (it is cheaper and a better location, since the trouble is in the Middle East nowadays). The fat cats of Germany got to fat and sassy. The US has paid a dear price keeping troops and spending money on NATO, when NATO, is really a segment of Europe, and drains our man supply, not to mention money. NATO is really more of burden than a help for us, so I see it that way. It is always with Germany, help us first, and we will throw a few peanuts your way, to show our gratitude. They are hard working folks, but just greedy, a German is for a German, not for the interests of the United States, we just can’t figure that out though. Jung said they were already assisting in the 3,200-troops they have sent, a drop in the bucket really, when it comes to how many troops we have stationed in Germany. We really need to look at the interests of the United States here, not the German interests, they all ready are doing that for themselves, and of course milking American tax payers in the process. I suppose I can’t blame them, if we are so dumb, well, whose fault is that.

George Clooney: Angry Messenger

2008-01-31T17:30:00.000-08:00

I heard George Clooney talk today, on the refugees in Chad, he seemed upset, mad, even sarcastic because the world body, or perhaps folks like you and me are not doing enough for these poor folk who are dying night an day, starvation, disease, etc. He has a mission I see, and he blames everyone who does not help, or those he expects should help, to carry is burden of unmet expectations, he is even angry about it. Perhaps he needs to travel more, see more poverty, just not go and have a camera follow him around like a mouse following an elephant, take pictures, show it on CNN, and talk at the UN like he is an expert. If indeed he cares as much as his face shows, go sell everything, and bring those poor suffering souls what you feel they need. Perhaps God is calling him, and he should act on this calling, but he is not God, and maybe God is not calling all those folks he feels should be called.

On the other hand, if you have traveled widely, he would know, Chad is but one heartbreaking place among many. He proclaims simply to be a messenger; he sounds more like the not so Good Samaritan that walks around the poor man on the ground, hoping someone else will fix it for them. He needs to get a hold on his arrogance, and pray, if he believes in God, then write that check out George, that will prove your worth, or is it salt. Take ten-million dollars, it’s just a half movie showing for you, and feed these people: or perhaps 20-million, it is one movie for you, three months pay, but it will feed these folks for along, long time. We need more action George, not so much talk, and pictures.

I looked at George closely while he was on his trip to Chad and his speech at the UN, and he looked healthy, no tired eyes, nice ironed cloths, cleaned shaved, he had the sparkle of a star, and he is one, in Hollywood, I doubt anyone knew him in Chad, and if the poor would have known, they may have asked him for a hand out. Anyhow, the folks he visited didn’t look as glamorous as he, how could he walk by them and not feed them. Nice pictures though, now he can tell his grandkids, how he went to Chad to save them, but the UN, wouldn’t listen.

Obama vs. Hillary (and EK?)

2008-01-31T16:55:00.000-08:00

Obama, is somehow in a high because Sen. Edward Kennedy has put his arm around his shoulder, as if he was an Uncle Tom.
I do not know Obama that well, as far as a political person, or his views, but I do know Edward, and I’d not allow his hands over my shoulder when the camera was looking, Edward is what I would call, a cold blooded murderer. Remember the book, “Dark Waters,” by Joyce Otis… here is a guy when the chips get down,
runs to a hole in the ground and like an ostrich, hides his head, hoping no one saw what he did, or have we all forgot he was responsible for the death of a young woman not so long ago. It is like having O.J. indorsing me for an honorary PH.D, forget it.

#2202

Abu Laith al-Libi (Poetic Epitaph)

2008-01-31T16:30:00.001-08:00

Poetic Epitaph

Saddam’s been waiting I hear, down there
down younger in the netherworld, waiting
for you Abu Laith, planning a big bash, with
lots of whores, booze and cash.
They say you worked hard for Allah, up
here, on earth, killing and robbing,
rapping and all sorts of nasty things…
things that would make a persons ears
ring, all in the name of Allah!
Now it’s simply, a gravy train, all you
got to do, is find Allah, before the
devil—for it seems to me, He’s also
been waiting for you.

#2201 1-31-2008

Sociology in Peru (Tribute to the Sociology College in Huancayo, Peru)

2008-01-31T15:50:00.000-08:00

(The Premise: for the reader's better understanding of Sociology in Peru)

I was invited and received an award from the Sociology College in Huancayo, Peru, and thus, I feel I should write a tribute for them. I do not claim to know more about sociology than they (especially in their own country), for I only have a minor in undergraduate studies in sociology, but I do have a major in Psychology, a License in Counseling, a Ph.D. in traveling the world, and a Ed. D, (Doctorate) in education (culture and learning).

The reason for this essay of sorts, perhaps my help the English reader more than the Peruvian Spanish reader, simply because those who come to Peru, may fall into the category of cultural shock.

Sociology, if compared to many of the other sciences, is rather new, it looks at cause and effect, as does psychology; but more as a whole, than an individual, where psychology does just the opposite—and at what we may call, the present social picture, its status, or phenomena—reading a society’s history will help the person involved in knowing the society they are stepping into (my wife Rosa, read two huge books, over 1000-pages per book, so she would know the United States, when she moved there with me for six years); in this case Peru, and its people. Other elements involved are the government, economics, and problems in the society. Etc.
And like all sciences, the sociologist of Peru, look to make a chart; anthropology is always involved with a society, sooner or later it is put on the table, I had studied antropology in College years ago, and it does tell stories, perhaps of why a society is what it is, or ended up to be as it is, and a few more why’s.
The cup of tea for the sociologist, is quite mixed as you can see for in a society there are of course many, many obstacles to look at, and each society may have different ones, ones more serious, or less serious than its neighbors, or friends.
Like in most all sciences, one will find prejudices involved, here as well, for my opinions are mine, and perhaps not my friends. Also the French, or Russian, may not agree to my way of thinking. This is ok, they see things differently. Who is correct? In a society, you must adjust. For forty-years the singing group, ‘The Beatles,’ was banded from entering Israel, now Israel has invited them to Israel. Things change in a society, slowly. Social and political views do not always remain the same, as well as for solutions.

The Seeds of the Eel People (Part III)

2008-01-30T18:51:00.000-08:00

Part III

The Seeds of the Eel People

They know their ways, they act stupid some times, but it is on purpose, they
think faster than we act, --it is our life they
process, as if it was theirs—a war is going on here. They feel they are special, and the rest of us
we’re made to adjust to them—the eel people (one must remember, there are several species to the eel family).

Magnificent, they can look, and act, President Garcia of Peru, is one, and so was, and is W. Burroughs, A. Ginsberg, Saddam, Castro, Hillary, Annan, Giuliani, Russia’s top dog, Iran’s middle dog, and I can go on and on and on.
The faces may not even match the slayer instinct they have, for it is hidden often, their slim colorless souls, are never exposed…
the eel people haul them about, like a trash can; in the world they may
even be giving flowers
out, made out of utopian dung, nameless faces, are many, headless, blissful
hymns they sing to heaven, hoping God will want them—fooled they are in their on dung, for God is not their pet, and yet, they’d hope so.
These are the eel people, the arguing ones, and strangers unto themselves,
afraid of death, because they’ve done so much wrong, but can’t believe God would send them to hell, or one of the 72-deaths.
Thus, knowing where they are going (some do you know, especially just before
they die) they plant seeds here on earth, doing the Devil’s work.
Yet, let them not kid themselves, death, in a world of nothingness, awaits them;
day-less, darkness, only a black handkerchief to wipe the tears and sweat
from their forehead; yet, like phantoms, they come!

I never thought of people like this before, the, so called eel people, it perchance
was a hidden fancy; lo, to think I was so immature, unstable, to see civilization with glass marble eyes—and no mirrors, when widespread
corruption, rooted in the
people’s soul and heart, was the immeasurable abyss the eel people had come out of, bringing their most revered traditions: arms of pleasure,
pessimistic views, to let the people know or think they can restore to society
(what they took, in the name of God—and righteousness, and so all can have a better life) their great anti decadents measures; these are the conquered souls by Satan.
This subtle infusion of cult in our time, and false faiths, with mystic superstitious,
roots, indifference, all penetration of the eel people, into the enslaved—us-
people, people they want to rule, and control; hence, deep in their hearts, they have no ethical theory, yet they produce one
for us, --we are the ‘us,’ thing for them: these are the laughing philosophers—kin to the eel people, you
could say.

The Eel People (Part II, Hid in an Egg)

2008-01-30T17:43:00.000-08:00

Part II
The Eel People
(Hid in an Egg)

There was no key to life, so I would find out—in the great city of San
Francisco, back in 1968-69, if there was a key it was in my head,
my head, somewhere in my head; so I simply walked the streets
of Castro, Mission, Dolores, I’d walk, day after day, caught the
trolley along the way. In those far off days—everything in Frisco
seemed to move, I, myself was in a state of poverty, I knew,
and I think everyone I knew, knew, but I didn’t care who knew
back then, I was but twenty-one. Strange, how things work out,
soon thereafter, after I’d leave San Francisco, I’d be in Boot Camp,
down South, and onto Europe, and in time back to Minnesota.
But back to Castro, the streets were full of homosexuals, trying to pick up
my cigarette putts, to prime me I suppose, to their abodes, bars,
buy me drinks, in hopes and wishes, and so forth…but I escaped
their whims, and desires, and universe; I guess that remains
with us, even if you’re not of the same strain, it gnaws at yaw.
Enough of that, --cancel it! What came, or comes, is gone, and good.
Leave it closed, for no regrets, they just gave me toothaches.

I then went to Mexico, met my brother in Montclair, California,
got robbed, and bare, by three fat Mexicans, they almost laughed,
(I hid my money in my sock, bare I might be, but with socks on)
Alas, offering them what change I had in my pockets, they
moaned, and groaned, but took it, and the whore left me alone
(she was part of the set up…sex that way is only pleasure,
happiness does not come along for the ride…you marry for that).
I suppose I didn’t mind, we all must sacrifice to the hungry hounds
sooner or later, and to the hounds of Mexico, why not?
and the roar of the Mexican skull came, frowned, that he only
got, $22-dollars from me, some change…! no more, yet
five hundred dollars remained in my sock, and I walked out of that
mess, with no broken ribs. Ai! Thank God, all I had was a
laughing eye, lucky that day, but in years to come, luck would
stay with me, would remain. Two plane crashes, a heart attack, a stroke,
a few close calls in the war of Vietnam, I feel like a cat with nine
lives. At Sixty, you have to grab the last moments you remember, they
fade quickly. In saying that, let me explain:
“Later perhaps…” I tell myself, but I don’t foresee later, nowadays,
so for you I got to write my first thoughts, lest, I lose them.

So much I didn’t know. God waiting for me in the void, waiting
for me to wake up, and grab his palm. Taking my eyes out of the dim
clouds, and instead of dreaming, I became all I could, told the dream
to shove off. I told myself each year, I was getting too close to the
grave, thus, move and become, I set the halo down, and believe it,
the war was on. Triumph after triumph…and I even made peace
with God!
The main problem along the way, was the eel people, the incapable
people, whom want you to become like them, incapable…oh yes,
yes indeed, the eel people, breed, bread I say, breed eel people
—they have no sun on the mind,
no, nothing, just existence, a pitiful group they are… you know them,
freaked in the brain, lost to cocaine. Cannot, or will not adjust to
change. Hid in an egg (you could say) waiting like idiot for the
snowman to walk, talk, and play their games.
We are the forever people, headed for the end, and the eel people, are
right behind, asleep.

#2197 1-30-2008

Intestines of the Devil (at Ta Prohm)

2008-01-30T14:32:00.000-08:00

They strangle the temple walls,
these intestines of the devils
(the roots at Ta Prohm).
Intestines of the devils—they
leave as they pass this way,
big as huge pythons:
thumbs and limbs, of the dead,
coughed up on their long
journey back to hell…
Returning home at last…,
leaving a haunted midnight!...

#2195 1-30-2008

Lima's Anniversary (a Little History/1-2008)

2008-01-29T22:29:00.000-08:00

Lima’s Anniversary
(a Little History)

Just a word or two on Lima; I live in Lima, about four months out of the year, have been here going on eight years. Lima, the word Lima, comes from one of the oldest languages in the world, a language much used in the sierras, but not much in the eight-million metropolis of Lima, nowadays. Quechua, is the name of the language, and the word means, “Rimac” or in simple English, it means, ‘The talking River,’ (or, Rio). My wife’s mother spoke it well, and those who can in Peru, are considered able to speak two languages. In Lima, the river is called, the Rimac Rio.
Lima is known in the world as “The City of Kings,” founded by the Spanish conquistador, Francisco Pizarro, close to five-hundred years ago.
Furthermore, “People of the Sun,” better know as the Inca, had their empire here in Peru, which spread out almost like the Roman Empire, touching and swallowing many South American countries (to include, Equator and into Chile).
Most folks in Peru are of the Roman Catholic religion.
There is also a great verity of foods in Peru, especially in the mountains, but also in Lima, Ginny Pig, which I enjoy, being one of the favorites of the Peruvian people, all over Peru.
They, the Peruvians, like Americans, perhaps one of the last countries that do, and they treat Americans with much respect, yet it would not be wise to carry too much money on you, there are a lot of thieves, and they don’t care if you are white, black, yellow or red, American or European, or Chinese; money is money, and so be careful, if you visit Lima.
Peru, at this time, is a good place to retire (your money is worth three times its value in the states), not sure how it will be five years from now, things change in South America, fast.
Well, I could go on and on, but let me close by saying, there is much to see and do in Lima, from archeological sites, to museums, to festivals, and dances, and the Plaza de Arms, which has its grand cathedral.

Fatal blow: who will be Presidnt of the USA?

2008-01-29T19:34:00.001-08:00

Fatal blow: who will be President of the USA?

First of all we have a very poor selection of candidates out there running for president of the United States. I hope we do not end up like Peru, who had to pick between the devil (Humala), and Garcia (who drained the country dry in the 80s. And guess who they ended up with, after having a selection of 105- candidates, you got it, the lesser of the evils, Garcia; thank goodness for Bush, if it wasn’t for him, Garcia would look worse than what he does, and should. If Bush had not brought the dollar down in South America, Garcia, would have inflation higher, and the Soles worthless. America is headed down the same road.
Let’s be frank about this, did anyone really think a black man could win the race to become President of the United States. Put your bias aside and be honest, I could have told you that a year ago, the blacks maybe ready for it, but they are the only ones that are.
And a woman, well, maybe the country is up to that—if it is shoved down their throats, but Hillary? (My selection of a black American, and woman for president, would have been Rice, I would vote for her tomorrow if I could).
Here we go, picking between the evils. And now we got McCain on the other side of the fence; the laughing hyena. All these candidates are a joke; Barack Obama, sounds more like the old Mahmud Ali, the boxer in the ring, ready to throw his punches for a quick knockout in round one.
Hillary says she’s got the experience, perhaps she does, if she don’t give the country away to the Arabs, or kneel to the United Nations, or play house with the PLO, or is it Hamas now.
Edwards, male, young, white, a good kind of boy not sure if he is ready for the big time though, and there are a few religious elements involved here; Romney, a more serious lad than McCain, but what does he have? They all want to end the war in Iraq, I think, but dare not say so, too quick.
If we end up with Obama, you can be assured, Alabama will end up being emancipated. Hillary, will have the military bow to her whims, and McCain, may go on a laughing spree. Too many ducks in the pond, and all too willing to eat the others; Mitt Romney keeps coming to mind, not sure why.

Russia: King for a Day

2008-01-29T10:32:00.000-08:00

Russia: King for a Day

Russia is warning the world, or at least the United Nations, which represents the world, and the EU, not to fool around in Kosovo, or we may slap your hands, or perhaps start a nuclear war, or perhaps, stop sending them oil, or perhaps, not talk to them for a month. Not sure what they can do, but they are warning the world all the same: do not send troops into Kosovo. No one has paid full attention to them yet, but who knows, maybe they will. I am happy the EU has thus far, told them in so many words, hush up, we can, and we may. Although, the EU is really a weak set of states, if it comes to push and shove, I think they would fall over with a blow of wind, if not for the United States NATO, and even NATO, is not brave enough to fight Russia alone, without the nuclear backup of the arsenal the United States has around the world. So why be so daring when you know, the price can be so High? It is called a bluff. If the EU falls for it, then they might just as well hang it up in the future, they will be bullied about, isn’t that how it usually goes, an old game from my high school days. But if you get a lot of NATO soldiers in the Kosovo, then Kosovo feels safe to part its ways with Serbia, and that is bad news for Moscow. They don’t want another free thinking country over there—do they?

Annan the Anticrhist: Bend Your BAck (1-29-2008)

2008-01-29T10:13:00.000-08:00

Annan the Antichrist: Bend your Back
(1-29-2008)

Annan is part of the problem at present, not part of the solution in Kenya, or at least he is at the moment; when Annan was there in the 1980s, and was suppose to have solved the issues there, three-million citizens died because of his lack of vigor, and his lingering in his proud arrogance. Now again he is given political supremacy over this war in Kenya, round two (as the referee): he put to death the soul of Kenya back in the ‘80s, as the rebels bombed to death the cities, and ground, and people, in government and in thought, the wills of the nation. He simply, back then, quickened the process with his presence, and thus came decay. Now he wants Kenya to drink poison again (enough is enough).
Former, United Nations chief Kofi Annan, can he fight this new ethnic violence? Is this trouble we see in Kenya, really about the rigging of the December 27 vote to win re-election? Usually it is the situation on top, the problem is underneath. Annan can’t see it, because he is part of the problem, not the solution, at present. He fights with words, old used up words, and gives advice, perhaps he should ask questions, and give them something better than what they have—back!! Why else would they stop? If you gave me words and nothing better than what I have, why would I stop? Why would anybody stop without something better than what they started out with? He answers because of arrogance and greed—it reeks on him, I say again, he should be asking a question that really is the sum of it, he does not have the luxury of competing with jealousy, envy—the power in Kenya is out of control, and he is not the controller.
I have really followed this guy much too long in my writing career. He needs to ask the people: by war, what will be their way of life—if continued? Now and after; if it continues; and when they are no longer housed, or have work, and commonly striped barefoot, no substantial cloths, or school, what then? No feed for live stock, no barley for beer, and no wheat for bread, what then, no flour, any loaves, any salt, or olives, or cabbages. Hit the pulse, the diet of the rich as well as the poor, the rebel, they may not be expected to live on peace, but peace will give them old age for now. Bequeath a similar life to the rebels, to give their chilren a better life (the rich have money to fight back, the rebels, can be bought, so buy them for now—give, so they do not have to take). Be humble, tell them infanticide will prevail—their children as well as those they wish to kill, but may not get the chance to, will be left on doorsteps, for no one to feed; but it is too hard for the antichrist—Annan to bend his back in his aristocracy.
He needs to stop talking about ‘Human Rights,’ it is over played by all the so called goodie groups out there howling the same old crap, and doing nothing. The mourning will not stop so easily. No one cares how much you know, or have, until you show how much you care, and give. Perhaps he needs to cry for the people, cry, and cry publicly and show them how much he cares. Take the $2000-dollar suit off, and cry. He needs to feel the pain of the people, and then maybe, just maybe, he will walk out the hero, as he wants to be.

Four Fame and Death Poems (by: D.L. Siluk, Ed.D.

2008-01-28T20:41:00.000-08:00

Four Fame and Death Poems

1

Allen Ginsberg’s Mess

Allen Ginsberg wrote a poem once
“I got old and s..t in my pants … …”
and so forth.
When he was young he did the same thing,
so what’s the difference now? I ask myself.
In either case,
he let others clean up his mess…!

#2193 1-28-2008

2

Guyana Today
(1-28-2008)

They’re killing wildly in Guyana
these days—gangs,
smashing down doors
to houses, and killing kids
with smiling faces, like fish, on
a butcher’s table…!

#2189 1-28-2008

3

Earth, from the Moon

The moon, has a bright eye
and a dark, and blindside to this eye;
yet, it sees, from day to day, the earth’s ways…;
the over population, and the many military invasions,
countries playing nuclear science, like Monopoly,
and much, much more!
It isn’t worried about human salvation,
alchemy, or equations, or such things.
The moon feels, all such related should be
cared for, by the humans, those with
two good eyes.

#2188 1-28-2008

4

The War God

Three words: The War God.
Who is the war God? God?
I thought I knew, until now.
I never heard his voice—
the God voice, the real voice
of the War God.
Some have said it is Jesus,
for He will come on a white war horse,
for war—during the end days!
But that is not now, perhaps soon though.
Others say it is JHVH—from the past,
but again, that is not now, it was then!
I eliminated Buddha, for some odd reason.
So who is left, but Allah?
But like the rest, that also is a guess.

All the religious folks shut their doors,
when they hear such talk, or
blame it on Satan, he has broad shoulders,
does he not?
Perhaps Satan may blame it on Confucius,
or some Hindu god (why not!).

Perchance the world is addicted to war,
and god and war are a good exchange
for peace, when one gets tired of war.
On another note, we need someone to
blame, do we not,
when we get tired of the same old game
played way too long.

#2187 1-28-2008

The Eel People (Requiem for an Era)

2008-01-27T21:36:00.000-08:00

The Eel People
(Requiem for an Era)

It is quite strange that it comes to mind, gone days of an era, without rules or
ethics, a time when I walked the streets of San Francisco, slept in the barracks of North Carolina, and Alabama, and onto Germany, and Vietnam.
talking, reading, fighting, breeding, listening to Rock & Roll, Elvis Presley,
whom we all wanted to be like; buying records to listen to on the stereo
the rhythm, the rimes, they floated wild in my mind—even forty-years after—
And read Will Durant’s books, cover to cover, silently, and wept, realizing
how the world came to be— (perhaps will end)
Dreaming back through time, my time—alas, how it accelerated to now, to-
ward, Armageddon (terrorism), the final conquest—
countdown; the cities burning Night and Day—and what comes next,
it would seem from history, and visions, more unrest, intimidation
a moments cry away, and the great Bear, and China, with the phantom
Satan, awaits a crumbled bed for America, that now is forming—
like this poem I write, in the dark—tonight, wanting to hide in Oblivion—
And perhaps Death will be the remedy for many, who remember,
prophesy, in the book of Revelation, or Denial’s Book of things
to come to pass—and my own imagination of a thin world—now—
Dreaming back through time, my time—alas, how it accelerated to now, to-
ward, Armageddon.
Not much to say, but tears for those I saw in my visions, dream-visions,
massed, and fooled by illusions,
like the days before the Great Flood, I saw people screaming, selling, drinking
kneeling to, and doing whatever for fame and fortune,
worshiping the god of lust, in it all—longing for it to last—while age
leaped forward, and all became the past—nothing more?
They leaped at me, as I went out to walk the streets, looking at me like eel
people, in Castro, in San Francisco, in the corners of Augsburg,
Germany, on Wabasha in St. Paul, Minnesota, in the corners of
Vietnam, eel people, coming out of their pits, under the clouds,
stinking—the sky above—, no rest. And I went down South,
—Alabama, North Carolina, in those far off days,
the eel people, like shallow water, some hidden deep, 12,000-feet
eating off another’s grief, giving you poisonous things, as they did me
in Seattle of America—frightened I ran to the train, back to St. Paul,
Minnesota—where I had come from
to the quiet life for a spell, then onto Vietnam, war and hell,
sand and sweat, in the back of five-ton trucks, muggy and wet—
I found education along the way, a few marriages, all broke down,
and my learning continued, mad as I was, it was no dream,
rather, it was life in the living, some in the making?

#2187 1-28-2008 The poem refers to the time period, as indicated in the poem, perhaps 1968 to 1971, and now in 2008 being remembered, for what it was, and what it is now (or has come in the past 40-years), and what it might turn out to be (in the near future); just a poem on imaginative prophecy, according to patterns, history, and Biblical verse, in poetic prose.

Eel and Whale in Reykjavik (9-9-'99)

2008-01-27T15:52:00.001-08:00

Eel and Whale in Reykjavik
(9-9-‘99)

In Reykjavik, one evening
I walked into a restaurant
(with a visiting female)—
ordered:
thick slices of eel,
slices of thin cut whale,
rolled in syrup like gravy
with potatoes and rice
(in the day, month and year of 9-9-’99);
rolled up my white evening shirt,
then took a bite of her dish
and she a bit off mine.
….
We sat and talked, a while, thereafter,
I with my coffee and coke,
Her with a glass of dry red wine,
she even had a smoke,
but I didn’t mine.
….
Then all of a suddenly,
our plates disappeared,
along with the vinegary and mustard,
and her empty glass of wine.

“I enjoyed the whale,” I told her,
and she said to me,
“So did I, and the wine.”

I thought, as I walked her
to her hotel, in the rain,
it was simply nice, to have had a night
with good company,
a stranger I had met on a boat,
off the coast of Reykjavik,
and no complaints.

#2186 1-27-2007 (2:45 PM), now looking back, remembering my long weekend in Reykjavik, and a few incidentals that took place, it was a wondrous four days there. The people were friendly and kind, alas, the prices were sky-high. And outside of the city, a few hours north, are beautiful cliffs, and a lighthouse, all memorable sites. Please do not take this poem as one saying whale killing is right or wrong, I just simply enjoyed the meal, right or wrong. I do not protest, nor do I march for anyone. In Egypt I bought Ivey, some man said to me, “How can you do that, the poor elephant!” I did not kill the elephant, I explained to the man, and in Egypt it is legal to buy ivory, or was in 1998, for I bought it publicly, yet the man felt he had a duty to display his anger with my purchase, I told him a few other things, I will leave out of this narration, for it was not going anywhere, if not in circles, and I have the nice sphinx of Ivey to this day, and do not regret buying it, as I do not regret eating eel and whale (although the eel, I would not repeat). So I seem to go with the flow, and the rules of each and every country, I don’t make them, nor march for them, I simply go by them. I do hope you enjoy the poem (if it offends you, don’t read it again.)

Garden Music (a poem)

2008-01-27T15:51:00.001-08:00

Garden Music

Green leafage and roots
with flowers and stems:
a cactus and a totem pole,
in the center of the garden.

In and above, my deep dark
earthly garden, makes for
charming music, --upon:
twilight meeting the moon.

And the birds perched,
along the houses, once in
the garden, are now settled
reconciled for the Evening.

So, much charming music
prevails, along the many rooftops,
and countless window sills,
with dark feathers, flopping

flopping wings, softly swaying,
swaying with bent heads,
to the music of the garden,
to the rhythm of the night:

in and above the garden’s eyes.

#2177 1—27-2008

In The Fighting Fields of Bagdad and Kabul

2008-01-27T09:26:00.000-08:00

In the Fighting Fields
of Bagdad and Kabul

Outside, and within the cities
Of Bagdad, and Kabul,
The sands blow wild,
Between the country’s roads
The hawks and the scavengers,
Here, they bravely sweep, fly low
Seldom heard amongst the arms below.

In these fighting fields
Of Bagdad and Kabul
So many dead, long days ago;
They lived, felt twilight, saw home
Were loved, gave love, and now they sprawl
In the low and wild sandy fields
Where the hawks and scavengers never bow.

Pick up this battle with the foe,
To you, who sent us here long time ago…!
We bring to you the torch, hold it high,
Do not break belief, for here we die.
If so, we shall not sleep, in these fields below
Where the hawk and scavenger, fly low.

#2185 1-27-2008

Note: Everyday some soldier is dying for the liberty of another in sandy fields of Afghanistan and Iraq, I am not sure if the inhabitants of these countries even care for freedom, or liberty, I often think we are shoving it down their throats; nor at times do I think they appreciate all the young lives be given up for them. Perhaps I look at it sideways, and this is more on how I feel than think. In any case, the only winners in this long drawn out fight is perhaps the low flying scavengers’, whom have feast over this. May the Lord be with the soldiers whom are fighting for such virtues in life to be extended?

Dirty People! ((a Poem)(Revised))

2008-01-26T15:29:00.001-08:00

Dirty People!
(Revised 2-14-2008)

Dirty! Dirty! Dirty! Dirty! The world is dirty!
The core around the Soul is dirty, dirty, dirty!

The flesh is dirty! As is one's face and eyes!

The tongue and mouth with no hair is dirty!

Hemingway, Faulkner, Tennessee Williams,
Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassidy,
W.S. Burroughs, Peter Orlovsky, Robert LaVigne,
all dirty, writers; and so is Plath and Sexton...!
And many, many, many more—like Allen Garcia
and Hillary Clinton, Castro, Chavez, Morales,
and many, many, many more. (All dirty as Imps,
devils from the abyss.)

The saints on earth are dirty, as around the core
of my Soul! The computer, television, radios are
dirty, with their filth and gore; this poem is all
humility, or perhaps vanity, whatever, it is dirty
also, like ecstasy or encrusted happiness: dirty
(as in lust, envy, aching for?) within this world's
summer of cities.

I walk about, around, in and out, to and fro, inside
this inner city circle, see dirty walls written on;
signs, and dirty cars, and poets all looking for a
lasting name, drenched in pride, dreams and shame,
from San Francisco, to Main, from New York City, to
New Orleans, from India to Egypt; from Lima to

Buenos Aires, from England to Moscow, from Iran, to Saudi
Arabia, and Australia (someday each and everyone
will be famous for a day, and then forgotten for eternity).

Dirty are the cafes of most cities in South and
Central America; with rats and cockroaches:
rivers of brown muck, dirty, dirty like swine, and
they serve the meat, chicken and fish, cow and pig
(muck style, when you dine...) it is all part of your times.

Dirty are the beaches around Lima, and the streets of Huancayo,

and the back allies of Cerro de Pasco, and the basements of

St. Paul, Minnesota, and attics of Minneapolis, and all those

good folks that made it possible: who blames the government

for what they have to do, feel they have to do... blame it on

society, they got broad shoulders: as they do in Lima, Peru,

Buenos Aires, Santiago. It's all in a days work. Ugh! This dirty

earth is filled with awful dirty people. All people who do not

even take time to flush the toilets, eat at fast food cafes,

in Lima, dirty people making happy faces, shameful minds;

dripping with venom talk and walking like peacocks.

I see, everyday, the dirty people walking, drinking rot-gut

alcohol, dope, marijuana, but no, not all, some are in this very

coffee shop, drinking this very coffee, same coffee as me,

I hope they washed the cups, I hope, I hope, I get sick

so easily. I'm in here almost every day, I wonder,

I really wonder, if anyone but me, can see the angel nearby;

not one, not even one person, is watching him,
he just turned aside. He has a silent smile, he whispered
something…"God loves you!, you’re His child!"

#2188 1-25-2008

Death Coma (a poem)

2008-01-26T14:50:00.000-08:00

Death Coma

My mother—three days she lay in a coma
(lapsed into a death unconsciousness), before she died.
Her death was as she would have had fashioned it.
If she had a poetic last breath, or one of
some philosophical meaning, it was this:
“I am ready, I’m not afraid—,
would you like to live like this?”
Thus, somehow she made her peace
and found her quest!

#2182 1-26-2008

Allen Ginsberg's Image of God (a poem)

2008-01-26T14:40:00.000-08:00

Allen Ginsberg’s Image of God
(a poem)

Allen hoped there was a gay Creator—
and he died with that hope—.
Now he is in hell, and hoping for a
gay savior…!
His image of God—never ends,
he thinks God is his pet!

#2184 1-26-2008

Rhyme of the Ten Ton Toad (a children's poem, of Satipo, Jungle of Peru)

2008-01-26T10:34:00.000-08:00

Rhyme of the Ten Ton Toad

In the Satipo jungle of Peru
near the Tambo Rio,
amongst
the foliage and trees,
lives an ancient ten ton toad,
with four big, one ton toes
and a one ton tongue
behind his teeth.

His back is fat
yellow and green;
his eyes are small
like a jelly beans—
and his front arms are
open and stretched
as if ready to jump—
on someone’s chest.

His shoulders have
little green lump—
knobs, bumps and humps;
ugly as can be
this ten ton toad,
with four one ton toes
and a one ton tongue,
behind his teeth,
who lives amongst
the tall trees
has lived here, or is
it there, amongst
the foliage, and leafage
since who knows when;
or who knows how long,
or who knows who—in
del Canuja, the
jungles of Satipo
in Peru!

#2178 1-26-2008 (1:06 PM)

In the jungles of Peru, the Satipo jungle to be exact, about a six hour drive from Lima, Peru (by bus), which is considered the central jungle of Peru, whereas the Amazon is of course of a different classification (and is north of Satipo), there is a giant stone construction, hidden amongst the tall trees and the leafage of the jungle, this structure of stone is by the River Tames, a stone figure, petroglyphs del Canuja, better know as. This is the ancient stonework of the natives in that vicinity; rock art, but this construction, or carving out of stone, is way beyond that, a beautiful, intricate stone carving of a great and giant toad.

Last Roundup for a Star

2008-01-25T17:42:00.000-08:00

Why is everyone making such a big fuss over this dim light from Hollywood, who was a star for a few movies, or years? They are portraying it as if James Dean died, or Marlon Brando, or even Elvis. I had to stop and think just who this guy is, woops, was, Heath Ledger. As I searched my memory, and saw that he played in
“A Knight’s Tale,” I said to my wife, “Yes, I know the guy…too bad he died, wonder what happened (a rhetorical question?)” Then I went about reading some poetry of Tennessee Williams, and Allen Ginsberg’s.
It is always sad when someone takes their life, and of course we are not sure of that yet, if indeed he did overdose purposely or what—and one so young, too bad he could not have gotten this kind of notoriety while alive, it does him little good now.
And as far as “Brokeback Mountain,” goes, it was a slimy film, I’d pick “A Knight’s Tale,” any day over that, but Hollywood does strange thinks for pretty boys. I suppose what we don’t know now, will come out later, it always does, and usually it is the secrets behind closed curtains; because at this point, it is, or seems pretty strange to me, they know so little about what took place, even with a good examination, and yet they know so much about him, it tells me, something is fishy in the kitchen. But I will have to endure the suspense, for now.
I am sure the movie folks in Hollywood, are happy to have all this coverage, when the Batman will be flying over the USA pretty soon, and dropping tickets so us good folks can see, the last move of this great, great, great (not sure how many greats I should put here) hero.
Has the world lost anything? Perhaps not; his movies in time will turn to dust, and he will be on the back page in a few months, of some magazine of one of many who died in 2008. To his group of loved ones, of course he will be remembered, and the few movies he made, when they air on TV, we will say “Yah, I remember…him, what’s his name?” I do hope he died for something.

Helicopter over the Jungle ((From a Dream)(Motif...))

2008-01-25T10:25:00.000-08:00

((From a Dream) (Motif, first thought poetry))

Mike my brother, hot muggy,
jungle all around him, lost in its sea of green,
my helicopter softly roaring
my helicopter softly roaring
my helicopter softly roaring
over the top of the mass of green—
(they just saved someone from the jungle a day ago—)
told my Commanding Officer, an Army Captain,
we had to arrange this helicopter to drop me off
in his last known locality—:
in this sea of green, this jungle
in this sea of green, this jungle
in this sea of green, this jungle:
below me, with its suburb colors of foliage
with so many shades of green
below me, in this sea of green,
with no alleyways, stop lights
just bugs, green and weeds.
Mike I thought:
where can you be,
where is he,
where can he be…
deep in this sea of green,
deep in this sea of green—below me:
the ground below me, spots of brown
brown spots, eh, where can he be?
in this sea of green, this jungle,
in this sea of green, this jungle,
below me; I notice—in this early morn,
a bright sunrise beyond the copter’s eye,
way beyond its eye, way, way
beyond its eye…
rotary motion above my head
like a watchtower jumping, rocking
“Jump” a voice says,
“we’ll pick you up later.”
Thru the blue ski I fall,
thru the blue sky I fall, fall, fall,
fall, and fall to the hot planet below,
I almost feel like an angel falling to earth,
falling to this sea of green, this jungle.
I fall, and fall, to the hot planet below,
then hit land, insects hop back and forth;
hit land, insects working hard,
with heavy green loads on their back,
with heavy green loads (I see a toad
in the foliage—hiding big as my head,
in the sea of green, this jungle;
between my feet, fingers, and boots, the
ants march, march with their loads
like trained little soldiers.
I have a horn type loudspeaker
and some other equipment, food;
it’ll have to do, last a few days.
I tell myself, ‘Staff Sergeant,’ get up,
the helicopter will be back in a day,
available, to rescue me.
I search the terrain,
I searched the terrain,
this sea of green, this hot, muggy jungle,
with heavy green toads, and ants with big loads:
thought, thinking, had a thought,
he might be in… then it all of a sudden,
my thoughts, thinking, stopped,
there over there,
there, right over there,
over there, over there,
I see him resting from the heat
under a large tree, in this sea of green,
in this green sea, this jungle:
bushes on both sides of him,
he’s eating something.

#2170 1-25-2008 (Dedicated to Mike Siluk)

Notes: About the Poem “Helicopter over the Jungle”: Here is a new poem from a dream, many lines repeated, to incorporate the motif tone, and first thoughts to produce the sensitivity and texture (or grain I want) for the poem-dream. I do not claim this to be a” First thought, best thought,” poem, that was not the idea behind this poem, or even spontaneous insight, was considered, not sure if there is any insight, other than a psychological message for me, and if so it is most likely my fear of my brother being in some kind of mental turmoil (and this in itself is a good premise for the reader to look at, for dreams are often made up of fears, desires and wishes, and messages from the Lord, and some nightmares, come directly from His Adversary). What you get in this poem really, or so I think, is a sequence of thoughts not particularly in any solid form, it is more of a natural form, mindfully set of course.

Hot Day in Lima (a poem)

2008-01-24T22:02:00.001-08:00

(Thursday, January 24, 2008)

The city’s streets here in Lima
(on this hot summer’s day),
is full of junky cars, so it seems
weaving in and out like blind bees.
Carbon smoke, it chokes
all us, eight-million people (a million taxis)

Ugh! –it’s a hot day in Miraflores,
Rosa and I walk by the bookstore
go in and check it out,
she gets a Sherlock Holms book:

Q. “Do you want to buy some DVD’s?”
A. “Sure, I’ll get us a taxi.” Rosa says.

And the taxi takes us a few miles
into another inner circle of the city,
to what is called the “Circle”

Haw! A few cars come close to hitting us (not uncommon,
I think I’m waiting for the big accident, it hasn’t come
yet, but every day here, odds are against me).
I tell myself ‘Why not buy a car in this over crowed city?’
Haw! ‘It’s so much cheaper to take the taxi (I’m either
too lazy to look for a car, or too cheap to buy one).

Great! We made it to the shopping center safely.
Knock on Wood!

I buy the DVD called, “The Assassination of Jesse James,” and
think: ‘What more can they write about this guy…’ :
in the evening I find out it is more about Robert Ford, the
assassin. Casey Affleck, the supporting actor, is a better
actor, than the main actor, Brad Pitt. ‘Oh well,’ I tell myself:
just eat the beef jerky, and the hell with it.

Great! Its 12:56 a.m., my wife is sleeping in my sofa chair,
I got to take her to bed.

#2179 1-25-2008

Four Holy Poems (written in the '80s)

2008-01-24T21:11:00.000-08:00

Here are a few poems written in the 1980s, never published before, I call these four poems "The Holy Poems." They were found among my papers in 2003, after my mother died, and I cleaned her house, I had many things packed away I guess. I hope you enjoy them.

1) The Hand

Of all the beauty that I’ve ever seen,
It was a hand that was supreme;
Like holy due with lights from heaven
It filled the space within our presence;
And there I sat, in respectful fear,
And torched the hand that disappeared.

Notes: Written November, 1987 ((from visions, #87) (Ref: Isa. 49:15))

2) The Garden

In a garden I saw Him,
Elbows upon a rock—
Deep in thought;

His eyes firm,
looking towards heaven.
Like pillars of stone
A lake at rest.

Then I whispered, “Lord,
Is this really you?”
An undertone come back:
“Yes, it’s True.”

Notes: Written November, 1987 (from visions) #88

3) The Mist

He said ther’d be no tears in heaven
Where I shall be some day;
And I thought, when by the pearly gates:
“What of my friends in hell?”

Then within a mist of sacred dew
I became awe-stricken, paralyzed;
It permeated my pours (osmosis)
A new beginning, I cried!

I knew now, the divine wonder to be—
A touch of God’s joy, inside of me.

Notes: Written November, 1987 ((from visions, #89)(Ref: Rev. 21:4))

4) The Thorns

Within a crown of earthly thorns
In a misty fog one early morn—
Strenuously I looked straight ahead,
And saw the deity of Christ’s head;

Tears rolled down my ransomed face
Unto the earth that took His grace
And with a hiss and smile inside—
Silently I knew, He was Alive!

Notes: Written, April, 1988 (from Visions) #93
St. Paul, Minnesota

Stillness on the Ship (a poem on grieving and the waters around the Galapagos)

2008-01-24T20:27:00.000-08:00

(A poem on grieving and the waters around the Galapagos)

Parts of the day, and nights I watched the sea gulls,
chase the ship, sometimes along side us,
sometimes in back, sometimes perched, as if in the air,
but up there, by the Captains helm,
the gulls would roam, seemingly, uncaring,
staring into his room;
snubbing the whole world, and its land,
under a blue sky looking down onto the blue water.

Now I paced, in the moonlit night, paced
like a child, back and forth
along the side of the ship, going from Island to island,
in the Galapagos (it was September of 2003):
I had a cup of coffee in hand,
left over from dinner, in the lower café.

A few ship staff, climb up and down the white ladders
there wasn’t much of a currant in those waters,
carved in smooth, calm silk—it seemed,
I’ll sleep well tonight this evening,
until the pain of my mother’s death ascends
to my head again: it seep 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, especially when
we went by little islands full of seas and sorts:
I could always hear the times hit the rocks.

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, I kept a lot to myself, but my mother either lived with me, or I her for 34-of my years, it was traumatic when she died. In February, 2005, Donald Hall and I would talk briefly, on my loss, actually his book on his wife, 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

Fools for Kofi Annan (1/2008)

2008-01-24T09:47:00.000-08:00

In all the writings I have ever done, and you might put them at 5000, I have but once or twice used the word fools, or fool. It is a word even the bible cautions a writer to use. But I have to connect the dots here, and if this is not the most foolish thing I’ve heard, it is next to it. Annan (that lost soul from the United Nations, whom was General Secretary, the antichrist’s assistant, I think I called him that years ago, still believe he’s got his connections in that area; this is the guy that left his post to protest against, George W. Bush for president, and marched for his candidate, and then slid back into the UN to continue his job while resting in the Millionaires Club down the hall, I was in the UN in New York it is an impressive place—and has that club, you need only last ten years and you will be in it); anyhow, I did some sixty or more articles on him a few years ago, about five years ago or more, on the United Nations in particular, when I had inside information, even before the regular news media got a hold of it, I had it—which involved many of his so called friends.

Anyhow, he is back in the Kenyan lives, back I say, and God help them now. Let me update you on history (I do not want to make this article long, so I will tell it briefly). Before he was General Secretary, he was in charge of the He was ahead of the team that was suppose to bring stability to Kenya, sent by the UN, in the 1980s, but stood by and watched three-million lives slaughtered. He is, was a walking talking, Pol Pot, christened by the United Nations, and he screwed up the whole thing. Are we out of our heads to allow this man to get back into the same position he was in, to take care, and responsibility for the lives of these people? God help us, our decision makes are fools. How much history do we need to put on the table to learn our lesson? He maybe a brother to that nation, but he has no brotherly love for it. That is all I can say.

Sand (a war poem on Iraq and Afghanistan)

2008-01-23T21:28:00.000-08:00

Stack the bodies high in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Lower them onto the ships and planes—
Be quick about it, we have two wars to fight;
I am the sand.

We stacked them high in Korea
And we stacked them high in Vietnam
Just lower them onto the ships and planes
Be quick about it, we have wars to fight;
I am the sand.

Where am I?
What is this new place?

I am the sand.
Let me fight.

#2177 1-24-2008

Guard Duty on a Dusty Road (a poem out of Vietnam--1971)

2008-01-23T19:40:00.001-08:00

In Vietnam I wrote one poem and only one (1971):

Guard Duty on a Dusty Road

I’m out here on guard duty
rifle and all…
(sent a letter to Rachel).
The dust on the path
that leads to my hut
(near the ammo dump)
is dusty and rough…
not much to do here
just talk to yourself
count the hours
as they go by
(make sure the VC
don’t get too near);
wait for the five-ton
to arrive, take me back
(off this dusty road)
to 611 Ordnance,
which I call home!

Note: I remember thinking (at the time), I should send a poem home, perhaps to my mother, or send it to someone, anybody, to let them know I was alive, even a magazine or newspaper came to mind. I remember, the day was long, and hot, I was in Cam Ranh Bay, South Vietnam, and was selected for guard duty, and when the truck picked me up, to take me back, we drove down along the South China Sea, a smoother road there, and up into our campsite, several miles from the three ammo dumps that occupied the peninsula. I put the poem in my pocket, and forgot I left it there, would not realize it for a spell, and then tucked it away. The poem was written about June, 1971. It was shortly after this time, we got hit by rockets, which were at 2:00 AM in the morning, and I’d have to go this time inside of the ammo dump to guard, not sure what we were guarding, the rockets came all round us, and some within meters of me. The VC would blow up the Air Force dump that night which was next to Charlie Dump, (one man got killed) and our dump being Alpha. It was a trying night. Anyhow, after many years, the poem appears, and for the first time since 1971, it is available for reading. It doesn’t say much, just a hot day, on guard duty, far away.

The Unattested Echo (Poem 20/1964)

2008-01-23T18:18:00.000-08:00

(The Threshold) Poem #20

Advance: In 1964, being 17-years old, my poetry had changed a little, to a more profound philosophy form; in that year I can only find two poems left, that I wrote, where the rest are, no one knows, anyhow, #20 “The Unattested Echo,” and #21, “The Master of a Hundred Hounds.” These two poems were put into my first book called, “The Other Door” (1981, reedited and revised) The poetry after these poems, came slow, a few in Vietnam, and then I started back up writing again in the 1980s, a newspaper in Minneapolis picked up about ten of my poems, published them, and then onto the 90s, but I didn’t reach a large amount of poems in those years, up until 2001, I had only written about 250 to 400 poems (many of them misplaced), in comparison to the 2200, I have now (1/2008). .

Am I the water of the seas,
The copper-pointed tides?
Is he the rain that falls on me,
The wetness that subsides?

Are we the tumult in the ice;
The streaming glacier’s glow?
Is he the dampness that frostbites;
The trench, its flowing echo?

Were we the tempo of all chants,
The chimes that dwell—befriends?
Was he the weather among their rhymes,
The meter that begrimes?

He is the tempest in the rain,
A shadow in the snow.
We are his lust to shame;
A blasphemous thirst; echo.

The Master of a Hundred Hounds (A poem #21, 1964)

2008-01-23T17:52:00.000-08:00

Advance: In 1964, being 17-years old, my poetry had changed a little, to a more profound philosophy form; in that year I can only find two poems left, that I wrote, where the rest are, no one knows, anyhow, #20 “The Unattested Echo,” and #21, “The Master of a Hundred Hounds.” These two poems were put into my first book called, “The Other Door” (1981, reedited and revised) The poetry after these poems, came slow, a few in Vietnam, and then I started back up writing again in the 1980s, a newspaper in Minneapolis picked up about ten of my poems, published them, and then onto the 90s, but I didn’t reach a large amount of poems in those years, up until 2001, I had only written about 250 to 400 poems (many of them misplaced), in comparison to the 2200, I have now (1/2008).

The Master of a Hundred Hounds
(The Vine’s Soliloquy) Poem # 21 (of 2174-poems)

He swam with his kind,
Sighed when they sighed,
And had become the master of a hundred hounds,
—a pilgrim of Evil—
As the masters before him.

As he walked, others carried his load—
this was not uncommon of his foe, yet
Forward he trusted oppressed,
Insidious, more entrenched;
Forward he became repugnant.

He slept then with toiling thoughts,
Hoping for their extinction,
But they did not (there was little time left).

Then the master upon awakening apostrophically cried:
“Oh, but there is no God.”
Then talked of days past:
the wars he never fought,
the heroes he never knew,
the ideas that were just there.
With all of this—He
hallucinated,
burdened with logic;
Yet he could not conceive nor digest,
For he knew, he lived it!

Then boasting of only one regret—that being,
The loss of breath,
He emphatically screamed in a personifying characteristic:
“I, the master of a hundred hounds—I am!”
The standing sullen and erect, he wept (there was so
Little time left).

Thereafter he removed the dirt from his eyes,
Wiped he dew from his lips,
And with a murmur, substantiated his deterioration.
He knew now he had run before he learned to walk,
for his legs did not obey,
And on reflection had followed teachers who never
taught;
He knew now hey were the thinkers who never walked,
(He knew now, time was very short).

Ensuing, a tempest of catastrophe flooded his cerebrum;
Insofar as his title became an overtone.
There remained nothing of his own.
He then called to the dawn and daylight; as a result,
light was laced upon his dynasty; now,
Opening his eyes for the very first time,
He knew for he very first time
The dreadful closing of them.

And to his descent he left:
the dampness shed upon is lips,
the blisters that swelled upon his thighs,
And the sand that covered his eyes.

Beyond Man (Dennis Siluk's #18 poem, 1963)

2008-01-23T16:51:00.000-08:00

(A poem written before its time)

((Originally written in 1963, and published in “The Surveyor,” Washington High School newspaper, St. Paul, Minnesota)(and first time published on the internet; the poem was originally written while in Journalism Class, at the age of 16-years old, Dennis’ first published work)) Poem # 18

Let’s assume!
People seem to think
It’s far too far,
The darkness beyond the sun;
But it’s actually but a distance
Of the far-off run.

But yet it shields
A shivery chillness,
A warming sense of defeat,
But an ever lasting wanting
Of the far-off victories.

You know,
Imagination can go a long way,
As far as man can see,
And yet beyond the darkness
Man has yet to be.

Beyond he blue of the sky
Man has yet to see
The everlasting oceans,
Which stir eternally?

Note: One must remember, this poem was written before man had landed on the moon. Space was just being challenged, Star Trek, was just beginning to show up on TV. The Universe was a strange and haunting viewpoint of sorts; guesses for everyone. #18/ 1963. Therefore when I wrote this poem, it captures the moment, giving a breath of imagination, for us students at Washington High School. Metaphysics, or the study of the cosmos, was for the population at large, a new branch of study, other than the fictional movies of monsters from the moon or Mars, or Edgar Rice Burrough's books on Mars. So it was a poem for the school to be looked at, and the journalism teacher found it good enough for the paper.

"Christ’s Hymn of Conception"

2008-01-22T22:59:00.001-08:00

There was nothing, nothing at all, all was non-existent:
there was no universe, no beginning beyond it.
What came about, and was? Was shape, and sanctuary?
And in this shape was unfathomed power and life?
Death was not yet born, created, only immortality:
there was no day or night, just thrust.
That very thing, that came from the breath of the Creator
apart from Him, there was nothing at all.

Darkness came, when the Creator,
created a being that concealed his darkness,
this all was haphazard, thus, chaos prevailed in Bliss
somewhere in what was now called the universe.

This Adversary, thereafter raised a craving
in the beings that were created by the Creator along with Him.
This new thing called aspiration was a kind of
primal germ, within this spirit.
A new creation, that came out of freewill,
no kinship in the non-existent past with the Creator.
And the Adversary’s darkness, gave his seed
to the other beings, from corner to corner
of the Creator’s abode, called Heaven.
This all was above the blue dot,
and then, all the darkness was sent below it.
And those beings that lived on the blue dot,
begetters of the Adversary, were not equal to the
angelic mighty forces—they were dark-men,
once ruled by the Adversary their king, now
sent to hell, beneath the earth, demons.

No one knows for sure, when this all took place
When this and that was created, when men
of another nature, turned to be demigods.
He, Christ, the hands of creation,
formed it all, in the eyes of his father, in highest heaven,
He, and the Holy Spirit, all together.

#2173 1-23-2008

Chant to the Arc Angel

2008-01-22T22:10:00.000-08:00

Hear me arch angel, who knows me for who I am.
I know you have been with me since I was born, and I know you will stay with me until I return to where I came from.
Perhaps you are the passionate whisper whom inspires this poet to dream.
You are the One who calls to me at the end of each journey, after day is done, to bless my rest.
You were sent by Him, from which all things are born.
I have seen the shadowy tomb, where all things must go, to die and be reborn entirely.
You, my arch angel friend, are from the weaver of time, the teacher of mysteries; I know though, I can swallow fear, discover the beauty that is far and near, be given strength and courage to endure, when you are near.
I am but a simple man, with scars from injustice; I have tried to overcome, fight the hidden demons that transform, forge their way into my life.
You are my glinting sword that protects me from harm, and from their might.
You are the healer of my past wounds, the angelic soldier who stood by me when I was right or wrong, in my time.
You have helped me become strong; bury my arrogance to become humble. You rise up for the oppressed, and I have fought to be like you, Justice tempered with mercy.
Perhaps in a way, I am you, part of you, and I am within you, for I have sought you, within and without of my heart and soul. Know me; take my Love with you…!

#2172 1-23-2008

"When the Rose Dies" & "In the Nick of Time" (In English and Spanish)

2008-01-22T19:56:00.000-08:00

Two Complimentary Poems: these two poems will be put into Mr. Siluk's forth coming book, "Poetry of the Miners," in the "Complimentary," section, by One Peruvian poet, from Huancayo, Peru and one American poet, from St. Paul, Minnesota, USA as indicated by the two poems.

(1)
English Version

WHEN THE ROSE DIES

By Poet, Professor and Journalist:
Apolinario Fermin Mayta Inga
Translated by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk
Edited by Dennis L. Siluk

WHEN THE ROSE DIES
IT LEAVES AN EMPTY HOLE IN THE AIR
THAT NO ONE FILLS:
Not the echo of the mountains
Not the light that comes out of one’s tears
Neither the river with its banks, that goes alone
WHEN THE ROSE DIES
IT LEAVES AN EMPTY HOLE IN THE AIR
THAT NO ONE FILLS:
Not the shade of the wings that the birds leave
Not the winds from the wheat fields
Neither the sadness of the clouds.
WHEN THE ROSE DIES
IT LEAVES AN EMPTY HOLE IN THE AIR
THAT NO ONE FILLS:
Not the sky full of doves
Not the dreams from the grass
Neither the stones in its anguish.
WHEN THE ROSE DIES
IT LEAVES AN EMPTY HOLE IN THE AIR
THAT NO ONE FILLS:
Not even the color of the morning.

Spanish Version

CUANDO LA ROSA MUERE

Por el Poeta, Profesor y Periodista
Apolinario Fermín Mayta Inga

CUANDO LA ROSA MUERE
DEJA UN HUECO EN EL AIRE
QUE NADIE LO LLENA:
Ni el eco de las montañas
Ni la luz que sale de tus lágrimas
Ni el río que en sus orillas herido va sólo.
CUANDO LA ROSA MUERE
DEJA UN HUECO EN EL AIRE
QUE NADIE LO LLENA:
Ni la sombra que el ala de los pájaros deja
Ni los vientos de los trigales
Ni la tristeza de las nubes.
CUANDO LA ROSA MUERE
DEJA UN HUECO EN EL AIRE
QUE NADIE LO LLENA:
Ni un cielo de palomas
Ni los sueños de la yerba
Ni las piedras con su angustia.
CUANDO LA ROSA MUERE
DEJA UN HUECO EN EL AIRE
QUE NADIE LO LLENA:
Ni el color de la mañana.

(2)
English Version

“In the Nick of Time”
By Poet Cindy White

I met Dennis (Siluk) at B&N
Café—a decent place to
write and draw. To
set one’s creative juices
among the crowd. Among
the roar of the blender that
would wind up words for
a poet—any poet.

Dennis is an inspiration,
for this lowly poet, as
I sit in the same B/N
café without him, thinking
of his new life in Peru.
Thinking I might catch
his spirit, his muse and
sprout my words.

It was an honor; still
is an honor to sit
in this space, where
one poet met another poet
in the nick of time.

Spanish Version

“Justo a Tiempo”

Por la Poetisa Cindy White
Traducido por Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk

Conocí a Dennis (Siluk) en el
Café de Barnes y Noble—
un lugar decente para
escribir y dibujar. Para
colocar los creativos zumos de uno
entre la multitud. Entre
el estruendo de la licuadora que
finalizaría las palabras para
un poeta—cualquier poeta.

Dennis es una inspiración
para esta poeta modesta, mientras
me siento en el mismo café de
Barnes y Noble sin él, pensando
en su nueva vida en Perú.
Pensando talvez pueda coger
su espíritu, su meditar y
desarrollar mis palabras.

Fue un honor; todavía
es un honor sentarme
en este lugar, donde
un poeta conoció a otro poeta
justo a tiempo.

Two Poems: "The Potato Patch," & "Smirking Cucumbers" In English and Spanish

2008-01-22T19:54:00.000-08:00

Advance: The poems, “The Potato Patch,” and “Smirking Cucumbers” is an expression by the author of how sometimes we learn, that is to say, the process of learning can be an interesting quirk of fate (or irony); as often times it has been for him.
The “Potato Patch,” tells the author: life is full of surprises, or can be, contrary to the poem on the “Smirking Cucumbers,” which teaches, or taught the author, there are wise men around us, if only we will take the time to notice them, learn, listen and put to use such wisdom in life—he has tried—this is to say, life often times is obvious.

Spanish Version

Avance
(Dos Poemas en el Desarrollo de la Vida)
Los poemas, “La Parcela de Papas” y “Pepinos Sonrientes” son una expresión del autor en cómo a veces aprendemos, esto es decir, el proceso de aprendizaje puede ser una idiosincrasia interesante del destino (o ironía del destino); como a menudo esto ha sido para él.
“La Parcela de Papas” le dice al autor: que la vida está llena de sorpresas, o puede estar; por el contrario el poema “Pepinos Sonrientes” enseña, o le enseñó al autor, que hay hombres sabios alrededor de uno, si sólo nos tomáramos el tiempo para fijarnos en ellos, aprender, escuchar y poner en práctica tales sabidurías en la vida—él lo ha intentado, es decir, la vida a menudo es evidente.

1

The Potato Patch
(A Minnesota Poem)

One day—oh, I suppose I was, say ten,
I asked my mother to ask my grandfather
For a garden plot—, somewhere in our
Backyard:
And somehow, she got him to agree—;
Twisted his knees perhaps—I don’t
Know—but the Old Russian Bear
Was hard to please…!

It wasn’t a garden to plow or hoe,
Just a patch, a little plot in the backyard
By the fence: that’s all.
And there I planted my first garden—
Potatoes….

It was kind of neat (so I thought), hidden
From anyone passing by; until I found out
Potatoes grow underground—
(not on top), and yes, it was
A mess, thereafter: digging, weeding,
Watering.

It seemed the season would never end,
But I did stick with it; and then came the
Day, the great day, to pluck those
Potatoes from their abode, and to show
Them to my mother and grandpa:
I was quite proud.

And when I did, when I pulled those
(roots and all) potatoes—from
Under the earth, I was devastated to
To find out: the eyes were bigger
Than the potatoes.
Traumatic I took it at first, I think
I even cursed

Advice? I have none, but I’ll tell you,
I never tried to grow potatoes again.

The year this story took place was perhaps 1958, in St. Paul, Minnesota. We all lived together in an extended family situation, my grandpa, mother, brother and me, on Cayuga Street: written at the Coffee House in Minnesota (Har Mar Mall, Barns and Nobel). No: 1183 1/2005

Spanish Version

La Parcela de Papas
(Un Poema de Minnesota)

Un día—ah, supongo yo tenía, por decir diez años,
Le pedí a mi madre que le pidiera a mi abuelo

Un terreno para jardín—, en algún lugar en nuestro
Patio trasero:

Y de algún modo, ella consiguió que él aceptara—;
¡Torció sus rodillas, quizás—no
lo sé—pero el Viejo Oso Ruso
Era difícil de complacer…!

No era un jardín para arar o cavar,
Sólo un segmento, un poco de terreno en el patio trasero
Por el cerco: esto era todo.
Y allí planté mi primer jardín—
Papas…

Era algo estupendo (eso pensé), ocultado
De cualquiera que pasara por allí; hasta que me enteré
Que las papas crecen debajo de la tierra—
(no encima), y sí, esto era
Un lío, después: cavar, arrancar la mala hierba,
Regar.

Parecía que la estación nunca terminaría,
Pero me mantuve en ello; y luego vino el
Día, el gran día, de sacar aquellas
Papas de su morada, y mostrarlos
A mi madre y a mi abuelo:
Yo estaba bastante orgulloso.

Y cuando lo hice, cuando saqué aquellas
papas (raíces y todo) —de
Debajo de la tierra, estuve devastado de
Encontrar: que los ojos eran más grandes
Que las papas.
Traumático lo tomé al principio, pienso
Que incluso maldije

¿Consejo? No tengo ninguno, pero te diré,
Que nunca traté de cultivar papas otra vez.

El año en que ocurrió esta historia fue quizás 1958, en San Pablo, Minnesota. Vivíamos todos juntos, en una clase de clan familiar, mi abuelo, mi madre, mi hermano y yo, en la Calle Cayuga. Escrito en la Cafetería en Minnesota. # 1183 31/Enero/2005.

2

Smirking Cucumbers
(An Alabama Poem)

I planted my vegetables for a few
years, exactly where I wanted ‘em
to be planted. Said to myself: if I
had to make a living and nothing
grows, no one needs to point
fingers, or be anonymous; so,
it’s my hoe, my garden—, I’ll clean
the scraps up, I’ve been at that so
long I can’t possibly wear my hands
down (so I told myself). All my life
I’ve been at it: they lay it down, I
pick it up; weedin’ with a hoe-blade
isn’t easy. You try it—see!

I loaned my land out to a retired
farmer one year, who had little land
to mention, but wanted to grow
something: better than me with a
hoe he was—made whatever he
planted grow (I never could). He
even used his own water (he lived
across from me, in Alabama back in
’77).

As I stood—day after day—looking
out my kitchen window, watching
him plant, and hoe, and water, and
the cucumbers grow, (God knows
what for) —He said those vegetables,
cucumbers he done planted would
grow fat, and huge—, and they did.
He could have shown me a few
things about planting, hoeing and
growing (back then); things I never
thought of, but I just wanted some
of those cucumbers. Funny, when
we’re young. Now looking back I
can still see that old farmer looking
over his shoulder at me: smirking.

Notes by the author: reflections of my youth, when I lived in Alabama, back in 1977-1979. During this time of my life I was in the military, served 11-years, 8-active, 3-reserves; owned a home outside the military compound, in a little nearby city, and like so many times in my life tried to grow a garden. I have given it up after a half century of trying; it is not my gig in life. #1010 1/28/2006 (Written at the Coffee House in Minnesota).

Spanish Version

Pepinos Sonrientes
(Un Poema de Alabama)

Planté mis verduras, por unos cuantos
años, exactamente donde quise que ellas
fueran plantadas. Me dije a mi mismo: si me
tengo que ganar el pan y nada
crece, nadie necesita echar la culpa,
o ser anónimo; por eso,
esta es mi azada, mi jardín—, limpiaré
los restos de encima, he estado en esto tanto
tiempo posiblemente no puedo agotar mis manos
(eso me dije). Toda mi vida
estuve en esto: ellos los dejan, yo
los recojo; sacar mala hierba con una azada
no es fácil. ¡Tú lo intentas—ves!

Presté mi tierra a un agricultor jubilado
un año, quien tenía poca tierra
para mencionar, pero quería cultivar
algo: mejor que yo con la
azada él era—hizo que cualquier cosa que
plantara creciera (yo nunca pude). Él
incluso usaba su propia agua (él vivía
al frente de mí, en Alabama allá por los años
1977).

Mientras estuve—día a día—mirando afuera de
la ventana de mi cocina, mirándolo
a él plantar, y cavar, y regar, y
los pepinos crecer, (sólo Dios sabe
para qué) —él dijo que aquellos
pepinos que él acabó plantando se
pondrían gordos, y enormes—, y así fue.
Él pudo haberme mostrado algunas cosas
sobre plantación, cavada y
crecimiento (en ese entonces); cosas en las que nunca
pensé, pero yo sólo quería algunos
de aquellos pepinos. Gracioso, cuando
somos jóvenes. Ahora que miro atrás
todavía puedo ver al viejo agricultor mirándome
sobre sus hombros: sonriendo perversamente.

# 1010 28/Enero/2006 (Escrito en la Cafetería en Minnesota).

Apuntes por el autor: Reflexiones de mi juventud, cuando vivía en Alabama, allá por los años 1977-1979. Durante ese tiempo de mi vida estuve en el Ejercito, serví por 11 años, 8 años de actividad, y 3 años de reserva; poseía una casa afuera del recinto militar, en una pequeña ciudad cercana, y como tantas veces en mi vida traté de cultivar un jardín. Lo he dejado después de medio siglo de tentativa; este no es mi actuación en la vida.

Mountain People (Near Cerro de Pasco, Peru)

2008-01-22T19:50:00.000-08:00

Introduction: in this book, “Poetry of the Miners,” I have written about the miners, and the city of Cerro de Pasco, also about Stone Forest, although only one Epic Poem, yet it is a long one, and tells an ancient story; but what about the mountain people that live in the outskirts, that is, the outer edge of all this. Oh yes, they have a story to tell, and every time I go up the mountains and pass their adobe houses, farms, corrals, and so forth, and see the alpacas, dogs, and donkey’s, I wonder aimlessly about these mysterious folks, I can’t help but think, how come I have not written about them. The children in the doorways, the mothers cooking, fathers herding the sheep, or alpacas pacing in the corrals and on the hillsides; they have their own story to tell 15000-feet up the Andes, and so, having said that I shall tell you my feelings on the matter, in the following two poems, simple as they may be:

High Up in the Sierras
(Mountain People I)

High up in the Sierras, deep in the Andes—
men and women covered with warm cloths,
cheeks like roses, eyes half closed, (inexplicable)
live; walk the mountain paths, hillsides, marked
with Alpaca feet.

Here, one must be careful though, rocks slip down,
fall from their holds. Here, not many trees grow,
and those that do, bear no, to little fruit. Mostly naked
and dotted along the country roads. But so very
little seems needed here anyhow.

A radio, a fiesta (with dance, song and drink),
spreads a cheerful smile on most faces, along the
landscape, here, near Cerro de Pasco, Peru.

No: 2121 (12-23-2007)

Daybreak near Pasco
(Mountain People II)

In the morning, be assured in the center of the houses
(on the other-edge of the City of Pasco), high up in the
Andes, someone’s asleep; warm blood is galloping in
the outside corral; a baby is moving in the womb of a
housewife; the light of the sun is just appearing over
the horizon—; shadows are leaving the moon; prayers
are being said, as the mouse hides deeper inside his
tunnel…!

No: 2122 (12-23-2007)

The Old Miner-Exiled (in English and Spanish)

2008-01-22T19:43:00.000-08:00

(Foreword to the poem:) Very seldom do I give introductions to my poems, but somehow I feel I must for this one. Perhaps this poem is more philosophical than hard core miner juice; it was not really meant to infer miners in particular, but in a broader sense, people in general. So as I started to write the book “Poetry on Miners,” I added a miner into this poem, which really wasn’t part of the poem to start (in heart, it wasn’t part of any book to be quite frank, it was just a poem that came to me one afternoon sitting in the sun, thinking, just thinking—but also I was working during this time on the miner’s book), but thinking at the same time, miners are like everyone else, as humans we all have certain traits, attitudes, thoughts, views and judgments, we can also add doubts and qualms about things, life in general, death in particular, living after death if indeed we can come to some peace of mind about this. Anyhow, many of us fall into this category—and so this is where and why the poem was created. Not to put the miner into a box, and say: here he is, or here they are. Rather to say, ‘Here is a box, many of us have fallen into’; I have also found in much of today’s writings, in particular, poetry, certain subjects are taboo, and thus find a lack of poetry or writings on old age, the aging. The very thing we start doing the first day of birth; having said that, I hope now you enjoy the poem more.

Part One

Inside our minds we’ve built a door (many of us);
around it, we made a special frame…; there,
we hid old age…(hoping it never surfaces again):
not even a ghost could have enter it (be found);
here, one only can hear old riddles and sounds—
while playing out (the end part) of life’s game.

Every moment now, is reality… (now at) the
present end: yes, we’ve really entered old age;
thus, the old miner looks back and accepts it,
says: “I hoped for the best, yet somehow,
in some way, some dreams got scattered by the wind
(got away, that is, along the way of life).”

And now old age—invades him, it reaches out to touch
his hands (he doesn’t bend, but nonetheless, it touches
him): ‘…not much time left…’ he mumbles, waiting.

It’s all part of a show, you see, perhaps—
not a perfect one, for us (but the only one around)—;
and to it all, life has a theme, to teach: nothing lasts
forever, nothing at all, it all ends, so don’t build the
frame too tight—around the door, lest you die
unrepentant, thinking you have a little more time
left; life may not be so kind, nor time.

Hence, learn “To let go…let go, to simply let go,
and be ready to move on! Make peace with God!”

Part Two

Now the Old Miner is exiled from earth—vanished
in the night! ((Just like that.)(Deceased.)) It happens
that way you know, sudden, without notice.

New voices are heard; the toys he once had on earth
are gone: consequently, the exile has begun.
We have removed time from the equation…
all is new—the past, we so delicately cultivated
has changed, death we now have known,
and it moves on, and we with it!

Now, we are a billion miles away from what we grew to
know—; the old miner has learned quick: he must follow
the voices, there is a new agreement, for the sake of
harmony, in the universe, so he is told…; hence,
he now realizes, man was never
alone!...

No: 2095 (12-9-2007)

Spanish Version

El Anciano Minero—Exiliado

(Prólogo al Poema:) Raras veces hago introducciones a mis poemas, pero de alguna forma siento que debo hacer una por este. Talvez este poema es más filosófico; este no fue destinado para relacionarlo a los mineros en particular, sino en un sentido amplio, a la gente en general. Como me encuentro escribiendo mi libro “Las Poesías sobre los Mineros” adicioné a un minero dentro de este poema, que realmente no era parte de este poema al comienzo (en realidad, este no era parte de ningún libro para serte franco, sólo era un poema que vino a mi una tarde cuando estaba sentando en el sol, pensando, sólo pensando—pero también estaba trabajando durante este tiempo en mi libro ya mencionado, y pensando al mismo tiempo, que los mineros son personas como cualquier otra, como humanos nosotros tenemos ciertos rasgos, actitudes, pensamientos, puntos de vista y juicio, podemos también adicionar dudas y reparos sobre las cosas, la vida en general, la muerte en particular, vida después de la muerte si realmente podemos encontrar tranquilidad sobre esto. En todo caso, muchos de nosotros caemos en esta categoría—y por eso esto es dónde y porqué el poema fue creado. No para poner a los mineros dentro de una caja y decir: aquí él está, o acá ellos están. Más bien para decir, “Aquí hay una caja, en el que muchos de nosotros hemos caído dentro”. También encontré que en muchos de los escritos de hoy, en particular, poesías, ciertas clases de temas son tabú, y así encontramos una falta de poesías o escritos sobre la ancianidad, la vejez; que es la verdadera cosa que empezamos hacer desde el primer día de nacimiento. Habiendo dicho esto, espero que ahora tú disfrutes más este poema.

Parte Uno

Dentro de nuestras mentes construimos una puerta (muchos de nosotros);
alrededor de esta, hacemos un marco especial…; allí,
nosotros escondemos a la vejez… (esperando que esta nunca salga a la superficie de nuevo):
ni siquiera un fantasma podría haber entrado a esta (si es encontrado);
aquí, uno sólo puede oír viejos acertijos y sonidos—
mientras jugamos afuera (la parte final) del juego de la vida.

Cada momento ahora, es realidad… (ahora en) el
presente final: sí, realmente hemos entrado en la vejez;
así, el anciano minero mira atrás y acepta esto,
dice: “Esperaba lo mejor, aunque de alguna manera,
de alguna manera, algunos sueños quedaron dispersos en los vientos
(se fueron, a lo largo del camino)”

Y ahora la vejez—lo invade a él, esta lo alcanza para tocar
sus manos (él no se dobla, pero no obstante, esta lo toca):
“…no queda mucho tiempo…” él murmura, esperando.

Todo esto es parte de un espectáculo, que ves, talvez—
uno no perfecto para nosotros (pero el único alrededor) —;
y a todo esto, la vida tiene una premisa, para enseñar:
nada dura para siempre, absolutamente nada, todo termina,

por eso no construyas el marco muy ajustado—
alrededor de la puerta, en caso que
tú mueras sin remordimiento,
pensando que te queda un poquito más de tiempo,
la vida talvez no es del todo agradable, tampoco el tiempo.
¡Aprende “a dejarlo…dejarlo, para simplemente dejarlo, y estar listo para continuar!
¡Ten paz con Dios!”

Parte Dos

Ahora el anciano minero es exiliado de la tierra— ¡desaparecido en la noche!
((así de rápido) (Difunto)).
Esto sucede de esta forma tú sabes,
repentinamente, sin aviso.

Nuevas voces son oídas; los juguetes que una vez él tuvo en la tierra
no están: así el exilio ha empezado. Hemos eliminado
el tiempo de la ecuación…todo es nuevo—el pasado, que
nosotros finamente cultivamos ha cambiado, la muerte ahora
hemos conocido, y esta avanza, ¡y nosotros con esta!

Ahora, estamos a un billón de millas lejos de lo que llegamos
a conocer—; el anciano minero ha aprendido rápido:
él debe seguir las voces, hay un nuevo acuerdo,

por el amor a la armonía, en el universo, eso es lo que le dicen…; así,
él ahora se da cuenta, ¡el hombre nunca estuvo
sólo!...

# 2095 (9-Dic-2007)

Poetic Epigrams for February, 2008

2008-01-22T15:25:00.001-08:00

Plato and Aristotle (Haiku)

Two geniuses together
makes for two lit pieces
of dynamite

#2167 1-22-2008

Friendship Chosen

I don’t care to be everyone’s friend:
there is too much wickedness
in human nature
and I don’t have eight eyes
that circle my head…

In most cases, friendships
sink to the bottom of the sea
because they are too heavy
to carry (and it involves equality).

#2168 1-22-2008

Revolution (Haiku)

There is always a negative fraction
to every revolution,

even if it achieves some good

#2169 1-22-2008

Attractiveness (Haiku)

When we become molded
like the other, the
attractiveness leaves—;

be/ing
different is attractiveness

#2170 1-22-2008

Evil vs. Good
(A Prophetic Stance)

Where does evil fit in?
There are opposing energies here:
between Good and Evil!
Plato and Ginsberg, both looked at
its connection; in particular,
their duality’s fight for acceptance.
Socrates, claimed:
break the other’s definitions
(right or wrong):
you win.

#2168 1-21-2008

Happiness

In most cases
we are good because
we want to be happy

(happiness being a byproduct)

#2171 1-20-2008

Charm and Greed (Haiku)

It is easy to display charm not greed,
when you have freedom
from care.

#2172 1-20-2008)

Elements of Friendship

Friendship requires equality
duration, stability—but be
careful with gratitude, it throws
rocks in the way,
then it is based on kindness.

#2173 1-20-2008

Poetry is—an extension?

Poetry is an extension of psychology; it can involve meditation, to the point of calling to the mind, to ones consciousness, awareness, within the mind’s universe, the mind we will die with—calling to the mind’s eye, hope, a basic food for the human soul, beyond death.

#2174 1-19-2008

Evil vs. Good (a Prophetic Stance)

2008-01-22T14:25:00.001-08:00

Where does evil fit in?
There are opposing energies here:
between Good and Evil!
Plato and Ginsberg, both looked at
its connection; in particular,
their duality’s fight for acceptance.
Socrates, claimed:
break the other’s definitions
(right or wrong):
you win.

#2168 1-21-2008

Reading Poetry

2008-01-22T14:20:00.000-08:00

In Reading poetry, first read it slowly, give it your attention, like you do when you eat dinner, then read it slowly again a second time, with an open mind, third, read it again, this time, as you would read prose, it will now jump out at you.

Many poems are complex, and perhaps ambiguous, if they are too much for you, trash them (unless you want to suffer through them, then you are asking for pain, and may receive it).

Know the poet you are reading, his history will help you understand why he is writing as he is, his mind perhaps will come clearer to yours.

Get rid of your preconceptions (bias and so forth) as you read—enjoy the experience. If you like the poetry and not the poet, because of your prejudice, you’ve got an issue.

Understanding the Poet (in English and Spanish)

2008-01-22T14:19:00.000-08:00

—To understand some poetry, or poets, one must have experienced what the poet has—identical experiences; or you must be shaped like the poet—, the exceptions are from the old school of poetry—one shoe fits all (thus, understanding the theme, plot and insight of poetry becomes much easier); from the contemporary scene, you must have the same shoe size of the poet to understand where the poet is leading you, and in poetry the poet should have a destination for the reader—lest he doesn’t care (and he should).
—The poet survives perhaps because he or she is oblivious (or not connected so much) to the world, and all its compulsions (suicide is often on the other side of this coin, if not drugs and alcohol).
—Poetry has accomplished something if it causes one to mull over it…; stretching this a little further, there is (it seems) coming a day (not so far off in the future), when poets will not even need to know a thing about literature (most don’t today); yet poetry is (or should be) considered the highest form of literature.
—Most poets write about love and death—which perhaps are the two main ingredients (or themes) to poetry; some write on social issues, which make for bad poetry; but it is “Beauty” that shines above everything, and that is often, too often over looked in place of self-interest, or a combination of negative delirious confusing thoughts put into writing by a poet under the influence of some kind of chemical. One can get a high off the beauty that surrounds them.

Last words: we as poets should not forget, we influence people, young people in particular, and owe an obligation to (if not duty to), set a good example by the way we live and write.

Written in the Plaza de Arms, Huancayo, Peru, 10:00 AM, Wednesday, 9-19-2006

Versión en español

Un Comentario sobre Poesía por: Dennis L. Siluk

Los Poetas

( Hoy en día:)

—Para entender algo de poesía, o a los poetas, hay que haber experimentado lo que el poeta ha pasado—experiencias idénticas; o haber sido formado como poeta—, las excepciones son de la vieja escuela de poesía—de que un zapato encaja a todos (así, entendiendo el tema, el argumento y la perspicacia de poesía se hace mucho más fácil). En la escena contemporánea, debes tener el mismo número de zapato del poeta para entender dónde el poeta te conduce, y en la poesía el poeta debería tener una destinación para el lector—a no ser que él no se preocupe (pero él debería).

—El poeta sobrevive quizás porque él o ella están inconscientes (o no están unidos tanto) al mundo, y a todas sus compulsiones (el suicidio está a menudo al otro lado de esta moneda, o las droga y el alcohol).

—La poesía ha logrado algo si ésta causa que uno reflexione sobre ésta…; exagerando esto un poco diría que, habrá (parece) un día que vendrá (no muy lejos en el futuro), cuando los poetas no tendrán que conocer algo sobre literatura (la mayoría no lo sabe hoy); aunque la poesía es (o debería ser) considerada la forma más alta de literatura.

—La mayoría de los poetas escriben sobre amor y muerte—que quizás son los dos ingredientes (o temas) principales en la poesía; algunos escriben sobre cuestiones sociales, lo que hace que la poesía no sea buena; pero es "La Belleza" la que brilla sobre todo, y a menudo, o muchas veces, es ignorada a cambio de intereses propios, o por una combinación de pensamientos negativos delirantes confusos puestos en la escritura por un poeta bajo la influencia de una especie de sustancia química. Uno puede inspirarse en la belleza que a uno lo rodea.

Palabras Finales: nosotros como poetas no deberíamos olvidar, que nosotros influenciamos en la gente, en los jóvenes en particular, y tenemos una obligación con ellos (o un deber con ellos), demos un buen ejemplo por la forma en que vivimos y escribimos.

Escrito en Plaza de Armas de Huancayo, Perú, a las 10:00 AM, miércoles, 20-septiembre-2006.

Nota: Leído por Eduardo Cárdenas en Radio Universitaria (UNCP-Universidad Nacional del Centro del Perú) Huancayo, Perú.

Creating the Poet

2008-01-22T14:18:00.000-08:00

Advance: How does one, or how do you create a poet, or how does one become a poet? One must look at the roots of a poet first, just like anything in life worth its salt, you must look at how a poet was carved, out of stone or marble, it makes a difference. You see, all poets are not carved the same, yet they have some of the same qualities, one being, all good poets, melt.

Remember please, the premise, ‘The creation of a poet,’ most are inertly born to be, some are not, but find out the will is stronger than their birthright, and believe, and become.
The main object here is to simply reveal or illuminate the subject, and please remember this is my conception, others my have their own, and perhaps, they are more satisfying for them, than mine, I am not in completion with them, nor wish an argument.
In reviewing my short premise on the poet, I wish in part to look at the life of Plato, the great Greek, ancient philosopher, and perhaps his dear friend, and relative, Socrates. If you are asking why philosophers, and not poets, it is because (as I had said in the first paragraph) we are looking at the roots, the stone or marble.

—I have traveled the world over, perhaps been to over 60-countries: as did Plato in his day travel a lot (Plato to: Egypt, Judea, Italy, and Sicily). Plato was perhaps not born a poet, but in his own right became one to a certain degree. I on the other hand believe I was born one, since I have been writing poetry since the age of 12-years old.
Both of us knew, we had to gather up knowledge, he had to look for the truth of things, he found most things he learned were only half truths, I perhaps feel there is less than half in most truths. He sought out the prophets of Judea; I sought out, theological studies at a university for six months.
I at the age of 20-years old went to San Francisco, to seek out adventure, and the great karate men of that time, learned from them. Plato, had broad shoulders, and sought to be a good wrestler, and became one. He knew the art of fighting, as I did.
Plato was also a soldier, as I was, and as I had fought in a war, in Vietnam, I wrote poetry in Vietnam, as well. We both knew the discipline, the limits and the pains of war.
Plato studied a tinge of psychology and then onto philosophy, and to metaphysics (origin and structure of the universe); I took a different route; I studied a lot of psychology, a tinge of philosophy, and a bit of metaphysics, and perhaps added that to my parapsychology studies, and writings.

So you see we both were in the makings of our life as a poet, except he would take a turn, as I never did. But let’s look deeper into the structure of this thing called: making of the poet.
He had this idea, as did Socrates, to melt things down to its most comprehensive way; this perhaps was more on the philosophy side of his brain. I on the other hand, felt, to melt things down to its most simplistic organs. I think we both had the same idea, just a different mold (or style) to work with.

—There is an abyss for each and every poet, and he must dig down to it or simply find it and fall into it. Here is where knowledge is, and philosophy live, where education dwells, it is all exhibited here, and if there is no enthusiasm of poetry, he should seek something else, but it should melt here, the impressions, images, the science and art, it all belongs to him—in this environment, and this is his time to melt into it (it normally is called the university). Plato had found his in Athens, Italy, and Judea I do believe. I found mine in West Germany, Alabama, Minnesota, Texas; attending several universities.

And so you see, a poet, Plato was, but only in speculation, and a philosopher he really was in truth, but learned (like the poet) in many areas, and things, but seeking to make things melt in a comprehensive way. I on the other hand, cannot call myself a philosopher in its truest sense, and perhaps in its most comprehensive sense, I was simply a spectator of it, in my process of learning. A poet, yes, seeking out the impressions, images, effects of it all (life in general, and war, peace, the times, nature, the animals of the world, archeology, sociology, anthropology, and so forth), trying to put it all down in its most simplest approach.
Perhaps how we get to where we want to be is the same road (the poet and the philosopher must take), it just veers off a tinge along the way to the top of the mountain, but I think we all meet there, poet, philosopher, and that part we both have and seek, called metaphysics.

In Closing, let me simply say, I have not implied I hope, that you need to be like me or Plato, to be a poet. If you feel I did, it is your assumption, not my intention. Plato had money to do what he wanted. In the early part of my life I had no money, so I bought Will Durant’s books on Civilization, and read all eleven of them, chapter to chapter, and I bought a set of Encyclopedias, and did the same, subject to subject, all the way through from book one to book twenty-three. And when I had the chances in life, I grabbed them, at its throat, or tried to. Each person’s journey in becoming a poet is different.

The Soul of the Plant

2008-01-22T14:14:00.000-08:00

Soul of the Plant

Advance: you’ve most likely heard of people talking to plants, do you think they have a psychological issue? You’ve also—most likely—if you’ve watched plants, see physically they respond to heat, water, cold, the elements; if you watch them closer you will also see they have (moods), or better put, they are sensitive, and if you are sensitive, and a tinge, patient, and open minded, and observant you may come to the question, “How can this be?” Even some gardens grow better with certain people. I am no a gardener, but I am sensitive, and when I leave my garden I’ve learned not to allow anyone to touch it besides watering it. I may leave anywhere between a month to a year. When I get back from the trip, folks tell me the garden is dying, or wild looking, all sorts of things. I tell them, it will be fine in a few days, and it always is. My wife is a better gardener than I, but I do believe the garden grows because of the connection it has with me, its soul; now for the premise of the article.

The Soul: Plants, or flowers, or whatever flora life you want to select, have, like anything else in the universe, a quest in life, a purpose, a goal. Inside their soul they know this. Most of the soul within the plant, or flower is passive. It dies within its shell, leaving its residue there, but gives offspring, which in that category, it lives on, and it takes the inherited residue from its parent. ((We have here of course religion, psychology and philosophy mixed with metaphysic)(origin and structure of the Universe)) together, so be patient please with this article, if you think it is of no value, just press ‘eyes close’ don’t read if it may frustrate you; but I will try to be up-front in how I feel about this subject.)
The ant and moth have a purpose, even the stone, or rocks have a purpose. We are not little gods, lest you think you are, and above everything God has created: they maybe our gifts but not to be taken lightly. Anyhow, as I was about to say, within these plants, there is something eating within its roots, just like hemlock in certain plants. This substance, a form of God’s art, imitates reality, it can not reason like a human, but it can imitate: to a point of almost imprinting, blindly (or following blindly, or sensitively.)

Let me take this one step further, the word is called, the essence, the soul of the plant (organism or life form), it also can be called the nutritive (the nourishing part within the shell of the plant), this nutritive, soul, or essence, has reproductive power, as I have previous mentioned—a sensitive and locomotive power (in man it is the reason, and thought). A plant cannot exist without its soul, as neither can an animal nor man; it is the glue, which forms the shape. On the other hand, the soul has its own body, within its form or shape of the body around it.
So you see, when I return to the plants after a long period, it has already molded within its essence, sensitivity to me, and its reproductive power has planted the same, in the form of its residue into its children.

I shall take this even a step further, which I was not going to but perhaps it may help the reader. I have talked briefly about molding, and so let me go into it bit more. In comparison, I shall use man, he has for the most part, freedom of the will. Plants have what we call, association, they cannot will to be different than what they are, but in part, they can choose to live or die in their environment. And this molds the character for the next generation. Man can select, or pick his friends, books or amusements, even occupations, plants can’t, but they can form habits adapt, or chose to die, almost to a psychical point.

Well, this is my point of view, it is not necessarily others, but be that as it may, if it makes sense to you, then I have given you something that makes you happy, and thus, makes me happy. Let me point out one last thing here before I end this article. I had two trees in my garden, two Papaya trees in Lima, my father in law, brought them from the jungle to live here with us. One was a male the other female. They both grew from a foot tall, to twenty feet tall, and the female gave much fruit, when the female died (it lower torso got eaten up by bugs), perhaps a horrific trauma for the other tree, it slowly died. It could not, or would not, or did not want to, survive without the other; if it had a will, it willed itself to death, but I think what took place was it had no longer the sensitivity, or love of the other, my caring for it perhaps allowed it to live a while longer, but like my mother said before she died, “I’m ready, who wants to live like this.”