Showing posts with label three time Poet Laureate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label three time Poet Laureate. Show all posts

Thursday, March 20, 2008

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

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)

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.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Parts of the Dead Souls (in poetic prose)

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.

Friday, March 14, 2008

The Cadaverous Journey (To the Dead and the Dying)

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.

Multiple Sclerosis (Perhaps a Help)

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.

Saturday, February 16, 2008

Who are my Writers? (DLSiluk)

Who are my Writers?

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

Thursday, February 14, 2008

An Old Sheriff (a poem)

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

#2258 2-15-2008

Thursday, February 7, 2008

The Toe Poems

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

1

The Fly Toe Poem

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

#2230 (2-7-2008)


2

The Spider Toe Poem

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

#2231 (2-7-2008)








3

The Elephant Toe Poem


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

#2232 (2-7-2008)



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

Grieving on a Ship in the Galapagos (a poem)

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


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

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

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

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




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

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

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

“A Miner’s Son”
(Cerro de Pasco)

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

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

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

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

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

#2223 (2-6-2008)

Children of the Winter
(in Cerro de Pasco)

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


#2224 (2-6-2008)

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

Going--Going, Gone! (a poem)

Going—Going, Gone!

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

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

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

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

#2219 2-5-2008

Monday, February 4, 2008

So Called, Friends Listening (poetic prose)

So Called,
Friends listening


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

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

#2218 (2-4-2008)

Sunday, February 3, 2008

Comes Twilight and the Owls (Four-Poems)

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


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

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

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

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

#2214 2-3-2008

2) Comes Twilight and the Owls


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


#2215 2-3-2008



3) The Day for Dying

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


#2212/ 2-3-2008


4) Mother’s Saint Teresa

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

11/2007 (#2216)


5) Haiku for Peacekeeping

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

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

Saturday, February 2, 2008

Talking to Death & Old World Changing (Poetry)

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


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


Old World Changing

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

#2009 2-2-2008

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

[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.

Friday, February 1, 2008

Plane to Iraq (a poem)

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’)

The Fat Cats of Germany, Got Sassy

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.

Thursday, January 31, 2008

Abu Laith al-Libi (Poetic Epitaph)

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

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

The Seeds of the Eel People (Part III)

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)

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