Not Trying To Be the Next J.D. Salinger...Just a Voice of My Generation

Elbe River Sun Dawn Soul Twilight Wine of Love

2011-08-16T01:20:00.001-07:00

this photo was taken by my eternal love on a stunning summer afternoon near the end of the empire in Deutschland where my heart swam as we sailed to the sun and basked in our glows and drank ancient rivers' full of mead-sun-poetry!

this scene is a tree in my heart; this is where lovers confide to august imprecations their terrible hounds of love & squalor'd soul! this is where I swam in Deutschland imperative as an imaginary fascist or cloud or ocean current of heavy love.

or, where tours of the fatherland fall like lovers into my lap and I sing them all, but one I sing the most. Epiphany's host, and she rhymes and ridicules me and sends time over begging to be lashed to the yardarm and squelched...this is where day becomes night and we drown in the indigenous wines, the peopled slough of tears-made-dawns of the serried fawns.

I'll meet you there again, my love...

Modern Visions/Love and Chaos

2011-05-31T22:02:00.000-07:00

"Conditioned to ecstasy, the poet is like a gorgeous unknown bird mired in the ashes of thought. If he succeeds in freeing himself, it is to make a sacrificial flight to the sun. His dreams of a regenerate world are but the reverberations of his own fevered pulse beats. He imagines the world will follow him, but in the blue he finds himself alone. Alone but surrounded by his creations; sustained, therefore to meet the supreme sacrifice"

- Henry Miller

"A poet is not an apostle; he drives out devils only by the power of the devil."

- Søren Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling

I saw that heaven-light crowning the climbing desertroad leading to a gambler's Canaan...>>> "This, this is the way, fools, to an expensive classroom--a money-cleanse dawning in the dry and spurious night."

bike = freedom = a soul's certain ecstacy no one else knows...sweep pathways for signs of life or a frisson of earthlust delight, if one. the heartless infrastructure falls like Grendel on slo-mo, Goliath, Christ from Golgotha in pale capitulation, into the seminal soil of a garden of eternal spiritual blooms so beauteous the Sun weeps

a new kind of light...

Tender your rage with meaning for the age, and the New Way, says the descendent of Gallic swordsmen. "the hallucinating hermit" comes again, as bougainvillea leaves in a purple dance make a certain ballet of my window-view afternoon. nature at play and a surfeit of childlike expression...as you and I become one with Creation, and expand in a an illustrious caravan of world-sized love. This audacious whorl of action breeds new beings from the mud of anguished existences--existence as smooth as a summer lake's morning across mountains like stubborn years.

Delicate. Eyes. Painless. Live in the skies.

The wind blew the cat back in. Nature a living Swiss clock, and we are her devoted machinery, too. She wants me punished for my humanity, though my supplication, sometimes in dank northern woods, is a zenith of fealty engorged. With eyes like knife-wounds the child-seer did distract the hounds of hell awhile...what holy vagabounds gone unseen have been messiahs of the science age?

And here's a wine maven I speak to of "intentional serendipity" and a palate's vocabulary and of the sweet grape's offerings in a busy marketplace on Beltane itself as the Bel-fires summon me...on same day I speak to my poet friend of the Brentavious and the purity of the creative moment, and the poetic visionaries, of non-objectivity and bourgeois ignorance of the academic literati.

My cat is a certain musician, and musicians mimic a cat's forlorn cries with notes of

wailing electronic alchemy--

And will we ever see Lyra again?

Leo?

Cassiopaeia?

What treasures will this season's Bel-fire whirlwind unearth? Wind, which

carries the greater province of irreduceable human detritus, but to fall to an ocean's pit.

Ignorance. Perstilence.

Stablemates of this pure horror of existence.

Entire gardens waving at me--like the palo verde today who tossed his mane at my passage.

The wind right now whipping my herb-garden into animated semiotics of Persephone's

wish.

Unadulterated heavens.

Rotten fruit of this collective flesh, trashing its birthright, spoilng its jeweled home.

But a cornucopia of Zen magic saves us,

A glorious Cult of Truth,

This is my home and my province,

This the incising, rhetorical tooth.

(eye like a vagina,

moist with doubt for all things

eggs the spermatic spear of Truth

Onward, in its million-dimension crusade...)

This, my home and province,

A glorious Cult of Truth,

I've sucked its fulsome teats dry today,

And sacked the devils with no proof

I am million-breasted as my hills darken and sleep. The first light of dawn awakes me, and I am the day, made of every flower, speck of sand on beach or roaring river; I am the ocean's entirety, my depths sung by immense-tailed beings in these dark blue worlds, ringing with my felicitous vibrations. I am every debutante and mad slave to commerce; I am every shattered continent recovering from the billion frissons of this cosmic ballet--and I am the hot gun and the surprised murdered...and so are you.

Together are we one, writing this giant opera which incorporates the audience's arias, and all the spectres of the seas and mountains and icy cravasses. We are old empires dazed and shopping, deceiving, and we are old maids once believing, now hiding in windows, frozen in fear's ice palace, torn by its machinery. We are the austere, whistling wind in northern climes, the Sun our only friend, and we are sleeping happy drunk in a Belgian meadow. We are the orgy, cotillion, and alleyway celebration, and we are one and we are all now, but no invitation to the pow wow...

We are the vacation and the vexation, the shaman/artist's visions, calling up the TRILLION BRUSHSTROKES OF THIS SIDE OF ETERNITY...

...here, drink the plausive wine of forever's sweetest shadows!

[They drink for a season entire, quite possibly 1,000 years, and live happily in the Green Forest loosed of all

material conquest-sense or greed or fallacy...]

These rhythms of audacity, colored strange--mathematical pathways of spirits working till they collapse dead from ignorance, denoted by cheap burials & sorrow & circumstance not outriding the daily news.

O, what contrivance of illusive greed! What did we feed on?

Children going off to war, taught that God expects their complicit martyrdom, and that God, country, and family will celebrate their valor as they die for zero gain but for the demons of commerce and control. Souls recycled once again (and I can see them in flight along a silver ladder) to learn finally to trust their own voice & sovereignty. I people my hellish basins with these students of life badly in need of their cosmic lesson books.

Whirlwind Poem

Another decadent for your annals has his soul's eyes caught up in the storm

of Man's culmination, and prepares the sacraments of Transcendent elation.

Here in the heart of Aztlan and Navajo, where desert devils volatize the rabid

inhabitants of pedestrian progress like a mother chiding a lazy child; here, where

Progress, bastard child Enterprise, stagnates into stenches of canal-sewers and

the waste of disinterested peasants, breaking their bottles in vain; here, where the

thousandfold stew of impertinent existence erects a meaningless flag, ominously

extorting the peace of our senses, do the false seasons fold-in the plastic tents

of this sad epoch's gangly illusions...

...and I turn and worship a magnificent race from

faraway Leo, as their purrs have replaced

a strung up 'messiah'!

The next day we open on a long, deep canopy of blue.

Blue! A blue the hue of unattainability.

As we reap the mad harvest of our predecessors--innocent as some of us are--these cats mew

in supplication to their old masters,

from dynasties lost and golden, and their phantoms spy us even now! We walk out, hand in hand,

smiling into the furious vortex ignored by these denizens of waste. I return home a long time later

and pray to my feline maker to spare us the long famine to come, as we've had few thoughts

of our own hunger, as we've seen those many visions of the children of Kandahar,

New Orleans, and Darfur in our shared theater of empathy...

O Pluto and Isis, let us live!

In life unending, ever-dreaming in the shade & solace of old date palms,

adrift, maybe, upon the Nile, or Dordogne--any place the parallel illusion

will allow us passage;

I and my colony of feline lovers lead an army of

nomadic animals, slaves, scoundrels,

troubadors, and a race of lost men...

We sail way out beyond the Hesperidian gates,

to Hyperborea, and to fantastic realms of blue ice--

We ride the waves from New Babylon sunk, its flames finally

extinguished forever; and after 140 days we come to the New Eden

of consciousness and vitality restored! Delivered from the sad, intrepid whirlwind

Evermore.

Here, where the wine flows like the reluctant blood of old and new martyrs,

I drink the sacrifice of Jeanne d'Arc and a thousand others down! and take a hit off Bob Marley's

last spliff, after I carried him from the hospital killing ground to a Jamaican beach, and we lie and smile

and wave across the water to the new light falling; I've drunk down the blood-wine of the visionaries of

Obscurity & taste their bitter toil in the alchemy of proffered taste.

I sip slowly some nights, preserving each nanosecond of pleasure, feeding every winsome

vision, each quintessence of youthful propagation of their own eternal kingdoms of satiety.

And I make love with 100 salacious demigoddesses a day, as we sip the ancient grape within the

Walls of villas haunted and strange. With Beauty as our God, cradled in our hearts like a quaich,

catching earthblood dreams.

In this inscrutable paradise, that other multi-dimensional patter of our long romance,

O dynasty of melancholy, cosmic consummation! I recall, I do, those stars and aeons, my loves,

So much a part of me and Creation's canvas...where I paused with you in the cypress-shade

the vineyards stretching downward toward our soul's ocean...

And we shadowed that bright azure with suns of our own, sun-and-shadowed one, one with

Infinity and her many armies' triumphs and "sacrifices". Pro patria, communion wafer of ash & lava

& ignorance has awaited us & the undeserving denizens of Nature's rage-stage;

How she fumes, then blows! Our goddess, giver, mother, friend, Terra.

empire of soul/nectar of sleep

an overcore of slight madness;

in-fugued mind, a tapestry of sloughs

denote breakfasts of deceived serfs

and the dusting of the cosmic shelves

means one more book unread--

All is information & forgetting, for

there is no meaning here in this place--

So I will drink away the material waste

of this colossal mistake woven by TV tyrants

with hands like rakes.

with a bestial proclivity yawn

the biblical score is low, the tender heart is slow;

Midsummer eve is here, an iambic iris dots heaven's i's

Soulful Sigfried is just around the corner

Practicing his routine with a bowler hat and a wolverine.

"Your body deperately needs..." go the first words of a recent

medical piece. You don't know the half of it.

Here comes the Precipitous Hobnob of Missing Truth,

galloping down the stairs of his burned out galleon --

And here is his Bride of Swords unmasque-ing her long

schismatic realms, with a delicious smile of unfettered freedom

And here's the brutal Madman of mammon and his

warren of birds

Driving black jeeps from jungle to beaches strung with Undine's hair;

Accessing the negative dream to the tune of our trillions...

O happiest day!

that twitch is is, in this realm of cutthroat biz.

That witch is, is, too trifling to see and feel truth's big green

Teats. Matter-hammer forthwith in my backward glans, I see a

Boy become a man, fast in time-lapse light. Musty smells of

100-year old gymnasiums, where Maestro Weather sends his

garish children to cities boundless confused.

Enemy scars vexational-relational

tango, elimination of debt, fear, cowardice.

Come, let's pack the morbid mule, my love...And leave this wasted land

of walking, smiling corpses behind!

(Among the stars we reclined, O Stella Stardust regale us...)

dynopsis ouvroir mellancy dispack bundled swarm shawl underneath

Over and in between the dark land Sylvanos, our whole Empire of Soul

Adventure ours become one Now. This a new kind of hedge-maze for our day!

Lyzonic! A craze of apple-worshiping pesters apes

the non-historical westerns;

With the wind and many cities,

wrath of kin and kin of pith, #82 and 199 for starters,

scramble these, their have-to days, too bad.

We all learn the Big Song eventually.

From The Chet Baker School of Reconstitution-Orthodontics

A Response To Verlaine's "Somber Landscapes"

A Greenwich Village penthouse triangle of light on wall

heralds the iconic frisson of pink on a woman's shadow-hall

A forerunner of punk poetry, and what is it of hope?

Hope so frail it shed its body one million times, and haunts

As it piques out from its ivory drawing room?

What of devastated fishing families and gulfs and a planet's future?

What meaning, light falling in a New York penthouse in 1975?

What meaning, then, this spreading black stain of corporate need?

The cattle-fed and these feeble dawns, and this

profundity to be had in the most mundane of rooms,

becoming a shrine made of dust and blood and wine--

we hover in a gallery hall to gaze upon a daguerrotype

even as Tibets of all kinds are invaded again and again

By they whose blue lips dry up from ignorance,

as savants wait in sun-served rooms of unspoiled grace.

Like the mornings hereafter where I shine, following the night's

Candleglow, and my wine-soaked musings

of Syrah & Zinfandel, my friends, my sales,

My deep-red poems.

Like the fragile wind tossing the eucalyptus softly,

I am touched by this small uproar on a corner acre

Of a desperate planet, the shopping-cart rhapsodies

in my head at first light get their heart

As lost years' snows still melt.

In this cavernous and astonishing body called the universe

or Life, do the friendly, lovely maids come calling,

In a sweetly singing troupe

to revive me in my ivory tower.

As a hot mind crawls across a many-tower'd land;

And brings this high-hoisted love down like a torn flag.

The Map of Everything

The fruit eternal bade me here...

made of it, grown infernal,

the map of everything so clear--

boundless brutality, war without end

spawned by one cruel epoch of man's bent:

our recalcitrant rider, one brutal ape-man's stance;

and from these loins endless battles hence.

An almost libidinous lust for violence

drives low-lifes through dark centuries,

killing what they cannot be--seeing

death where is life

blood where water flows

a foe where there is a friend

darkness where shines this sun, where

Self-hatred for the soldier

promises death for everyone

(though the light-age with coronal laurels

for the sweet-smart is at hand)

6.30.10

you don't have me!

you "winners of hearts and minds"

a song foreign to your markets and commerce

calls me out from the great, loveless stain

to grind against the ignorant crusade

Now, in Tammuz are we stalks beside

the austere walk; here in the clutches of

Midsummer graces, we make the sun go up and down

and the blistering winds blow insane...

so I pour the silky maroon liquid into my

Glass goblet, and let this wine of strength

saturate my depths, again. I'll go sing to the birds,

let the wine drink me, roll my waves to the awesome sea;

pathway upon pathway

and punish all the jailers & set all prisoners free

as the impotent epoch wallows

in malignant effluence,

not proud,

not stirring a stone...

Ouroboros Imaginos

Happy birthday, Brutus, my friend of late

Whose Queen of Muses stands high, awaits

The happiest of happies hence, O Creator

Down my lover's rabbit-hole 'tis better;

But crave or drive or worship or flee

Drink down the summer wine's warm pedigree,

"The film noir queen steps down from the screen

and waters my orchids with her tears";

I build skyscrapers in imaginary heavens

swarmed by gardens warm and mad;

I hear heavy metal saints singing to their

Battalions, and I dream what I never had.

And here, here comes the oily tide!

And the irradiated glow of sick wormwood.

Our Chernobyl, our stupid cataclysm,

Our complacent stare at the colored tube,

And banal peasant chatter filling the air,

As fetid lives await the black seas,

Wrecking Nature's delicate symphony,

Au revoir, sanity!

Sayonara, fragilest Spring!

Kiss goodbye grasshopper-Summers,

as Satan seduces the world again.

But here are there dancers, poets, and friends,

and here is there wine enough, and (as yet) no end.

What comes around goes away,

With rough sweetness she came to play,

now disappeared without a trace!

And I'm stuck in a Purgatorio's train station

Strumming for the invisible guardians of fate.

What comes around always goes away

On the dark plank of uncertainties--

I see the angry storms mottle these

pseudo-tropical horizons, electric entities

prodding me till love leaps up into the

Firmament of a truer freedom's kingdom,

Soaring ineffably around the blue realms

Like an ancient mystic returned

To reclaim his singing futures, quite like

the Romans--and I mean the poets--and quite

like the moments I polish with words,

for your mindgallery seasons you'll carry with you

Throughout all your lives, in all the universes,

Though you die here and leap from the morass into the

Silver-lightning'd Infinity with a silken heart,

Riding a blue star of phantom grace.

Cryptos Imaginos

Raise the Titanic

Raise the mimetic

Skim the islands of lost Kosmos

Red skin of twin suns

Twisted glories and soft suits

& strange sands of gas-giant moons

Where you spend your birthdays in such sullen moods

Gloriously jeweled white ghost of saying, stopped & whelmed

By fabreges of lust. We imitate what's popular:

Gryphon-mold-muddled in the caverns of rough alien grace,

Heretics all golden now in their otherness.

Laws change with time and weather, Solstice runner stages,

Project what and where I want--Summer '67 if I want,

A big blue bird-woman to fly me to Shangri-La or Eden II--

Behind those eyes a virtuoso; behind the watchers a mummified

King of the Sun or Goddess beatific seducing the ethers...

Troubadours fill an ancient graveyard at night; one of them

Pulls out the ritualistic concoction, a set of wings for the mind

infused with gold dust--and plays a living melody on her guitar.

Vast midnights gone are here again in the self-same languid moment

Eternal, and in a cruel citadel whose children killed the Old Guard

To prepare the way, and to open the doorway to this troupe of musical

Explorers. And the daughters that sang with them, and sons who blew

Horns, and struck strings! They took the red-gold citadel for a season entire,

& shook the lands and stars with new songs! Evening fires & musical shores

followed simple days of warmth, turning to nights of erotic tapestry

Wined and full and lustrous with love. And a bard spoke, "On Universal wings

carried by breath of supernovas, like all of these worlds, do we come".

"We left our shadows in the false reign!" shouts another, "Here, where we

become our own gods and goddesses in the magic-seeing days & evenings

crucible for our bright alchemy"

Lofty symphonies, O children of tyranny beget, & in the shallows

of the timeless pool ride the cygnet to the Sun.

The swarming future perspective eats its own tail--the past--in the slow

consummation, an assimilation of those fast, dumb years become our

counsel and blackboard fountain.

A Twilight Fantastique 9/9/10

Thoughts like delicate music played on gossamer strings

Fly me to haunted celluloid halls, where we behold

What the goddess brings; where all of Life celebrates

in that Light of all Lights--and Heaven serenades us

With discreetly supple breasts full of sweet wine.

An elder thespian takes us further in;

Perhaps Thespius himself, and one of his younger

Daughters take the stage to enact the eventide play,

Though we have fallen away, to where the Crimson Chanteuse

Enchants us to drunkenness by a dark river;

Our spirits set free as hummingbirds or starlight quiver.

But it's here, where these sable devils run in and

Poison the pure forest waters; where our chanteuse nightly

bathes, sings, and beckons. They kidnap her away, though she smiles

All the time--they gruffly throw her down on a hillside;

But she laughs a shrill and deafening laugh, which scatters them,

Duly.

And the great star swells in the sky, and glows like

Night's own lover--Betelgeuse or Aldebaran? No, 'tis a new

Blue-white giant, cosmic soul-temple, an abstruse salvation

As the dark forest land, tressed in sylvan whispers where

The White Lady wanders, and where all sun-covered moments

Are as sweet as the mysterious widow's pie.

*******

And much later, after the snowstorm of light,

Once all the forest creatures had fallen to Morpheus' grasp

While listening to the sea, whispers of life began

The process of bringing Summer back to the sun-starved land.

It was here, in this swarming midnight hour, that life rivaled death,

at last, and the hell-hawks were driven out of the glens and vales,

And the wishing wells orgasmically fountained up with the potent

Spring water seminal, unassailed.

But soft...across numenous Sylvanos and into the village...

"Not that kind of painter," said the scruffy, savage man with

stained trousers and persistent cough. There was a look in his

Eyes like all the starving peasants in the world smiling. He took

a languid swig on a violet bottle of wine, perused the enthralled

denizens of the room, laughed a hearty Buddha laugh, then

smashed the doomed bottle in the corner.

"Nothing of your kind," said the bohemian figure, then

sauntering out onto the cobblestones, to his second-floor

retreat where he will posit new shapes, forms, ideas, colors,

perspicuities, revolts...

...and faraway, into the twilight fantastique, the brighter stars

played a new symphony for heaven and earth, as clouds

summoned up and swarmed a full moon bejeweled in the

Awesome morass of forever.

Where the harlequin wino stumbled and fell

Down the hidden wishing well;

And Picasso, kissed by Modigliani, thrust His

creative prowess into the moon goddess's chamber,

Counting a spell for all the children of endless war's Hell

now come to know first love.

A Stormtide Rapture in an Eschatological October of Dearest Dark 10/27/10

The Etymology of Lust

The watchmen of the temple

disgrace the last laughing prince

& spoil the innocence of a gullible Ophelia

with topaz eyes.

The virgin whore adorns the sad room,

and the pious killer infects the womb.

The ancient calendar that never was found

hides the sound of ecstatic wives all around!

The merciless choir then stalked the glen,

As ravenous animals acted like men,

with little difference, except for the hen.

The virgin whore, aloof orgiast

Of brainy intercourse, her love lost in the stream -

Brought upon the world a kind of new dream.

Washed, too, in the Poem of the Sea,

Strident barges racing by in a fit of glee.

And, still standing, green-limbed with a lifetime

Ahead, in the blue sunlight were we.

There are oceans I cannot promise you

And realms in me you cannot see.

And we all tangle with meanings, words, and

Self-ideas; but to me, you ARE the magnificence

of crashing azure seas, foaming within

One woman's soul and body...

...and I know far more than you let me know.

But you, me, the virgin whore, the lost calendar

And pious killer all dance in a synaesthesia of

Certain human graces, adding to the chorus

Of mad strangeness, as we take our places.

11212010mindsolvent:

this u cannot ancient musician astronaut,

of life in a newmind contend; but where other

heads bobbed & souls sang up in someone's

unlikely photodust of a century;

candy for historians,

wristology of curators & doctors allover

the magic artopolis/

this u say of a realm

mighty colors and a balm -

character windways transitions

astrolicity cusp-ish brazen change

needing a tart eye negative to realm-ish

deal with the avalanche of gluttonous souls

wandering waste-lust mad & I give a spectral eye

to artificially painted skies & hum "wellll" again, I,

in this blanched seafood waste of space doing the sales walk

what can a monster tell you,

all shit-evolved where mastery robotic

had swelled & coalesced & faded all in one

afternoon's tricky dissolve

specs are too peered, peeled away

if you never had a real thought -

caress of weeping streams

& you said blur of sounds as yr soul creeps,

stops, hides, roars/and

what can a monster tell you when it's you

& what of the nearest skies & cities lost

here's another day for your soul, soul for

your day. So I request a new machine, new words,

new means, new skies, here today as the full moon sky roared

& threw planes off course & mizzened its clouds like

unkempt mansions & where did pleasant discourse set itself afire?

O the lover who caved in jelly of my brain & eyes,

hard-rolled under same

godcloak daywind newsbomb Sunday

but I don't.

so ever again do,

molt of the eyeward pigeon's

coat of smell these ponds hold.

golden canteen I hold & ponder & envy,

whatever you can sell & assail to get-get

to flow on.

can stick u in my heart

as flowers in an old vase,

aching in a desert casement.

angling, O did, and a rush up of a

heaving heart & we the human running onward

& base & I no longer care of news only my own.

Sugary Prague In Orange Light 11/29/10

Sugary Prague in orange light draped

in gentle snowfall hides love but calls it out as well,

As the church spires still reach for heaven,

Finding dark chill, still echoing her defenestrations

and Kafka-gloom, but Sugary Prague finally falls,

And pillows our hardy feet, searching for love

amongst the cold stones & hot hearts & graffiti.

O Sugary Prague uneaten, eats loneliness,

its Cosmic Clock ticking out civilization in the Square, where

Sugary women split the darkness with bright green eyes

& find feasts & friends in the medieval town far freer than

the "world beacon" is; & where contented love looms

in this beauty's future, her labors not lost,

her soul in sugar tossed.

Love & Chaos 11/29-12/7/10

Canto I

How can the sun shine so, and freeze us still?

In my body there's an unearthly chill

& I think of a woman

and wonder why gargantuan love

must dwell alone...

Why the pink-bloomed tree is never touched once

by hands alike, & then I think

each cloud,

each tree,

each soul must go on alone,

drop leaves or rain or words as its destiny;

& there are children hungry, crying, abandoned somewhere,

& there is unique beauty stifled once again,

& there is ignorance & unfettered chaos reigning supreme

In the broken deserts of faith, and in the "powerful" minds.

And there are starry storms whose planets I would someday know,

When this darkness is conquered, & there is perfect love

I go to where she smiles & touches my cheek & I kiss her hand

& she makes her love and mine one.

But this garish symphony aplomb yielding, carrying me aways

across desert streams & years & robust mountains

painting masterpieces of godlust colorsent telegraphs to the

supremely aware...

Where she of the mountains and glades ate trees & colored

the skies & bathed in hidden streams rippling with cosmiclight

and fountaining the waterways; for her, love was an earthly

consummation of fiery flesh, swarming in the alive cosmos

w/ passions Titanic, swollen by supernovae, saying

Staruvpoem! Speak! Here are your jewels, for Eternity to reap!

Of their alchemized sorrow say, she of the snowy cities

(lusting for love & pleasure & warm nights)

Drinking the wines of Old Bohemia, filling her veins

with their blood--enough for a cosmopolitan brood--

where not often enough the sun-dappled brooks run

Underneath a shining arm of the galaxy,

where here she may smile...

Astral crossings of the dynastic wise,

when will my silvery soul meet your eyes?

In love & chaos evermore do we ride, or is there a reprieve

this time? Colloquial bane of disintegrated unions, who calls

love out, here is Nature's lone call and fearsome night! Let us grant

Ourselves the soulful revolt that gains the needed epochal quarry!

Cosmic appendage of love-ghosts making us aware,

Teach us to disbelieve and re-learn in these Dark Ages again;

& we will share such stories as to make the planets sing!

The Music of the Spheres all we hear, at last to remake love.

I'll press this flower in a book for her

I'll pour some tea and set a place for her

And think well of her, even though she may

Not think the same. Pink blooms on the tree,

even in winter & all this lifeshine in the chill

i wear in the blue-canopied air,

chopped by a shrill engine.

I press this dying bloom in a favorite book for her, for the aeons,

For love entire filling up time; this bloom I enfold is talisman to

rooted beings & feathered ones, & lonely lusting, haunted ones

As well! I stroke the lovestrings, where in this time, this life, this hour,

I'm more enamored of existence than ever.

Canto II

This kind of death, as the embers burn low,

and the sylphs dance above me in the blue heights,

executes the solidity of glee,

the palpable body and crying soul awaiting;

This kind of familiar torture sacks the golden promise

Of unspoiled gardens interminable -

This gold inflammable, this existential prism

Besmirched by trickster gods irrepressible,

though our great disc of fire rises again.

Certain, I, this labyrinth of petty pavement may

Yet hide some cosmic friends or comforts or signs.

Crown of wool and mouth-mad, the fumbling heart

& lost guitar strings of the coronation songs -

In these wombs I grow, delivered into heady streets

On magnanamous constitutions set adrift,

each lofty day I look,

And each black table of unsung night.

& somehow get the gold, like love that pours from her

Green eyes! Green gold in rough rivers in my soul;

Where Xanadus on sun-tinged clouds run by.

The listening heart, even, that beats out its own

True paeans to cruel trains & feminine stars.

But it seems these gods aren't enough

To heal the jagged schism torn by us.

So, rise we must into their places,

And write the unifying tractates,

Sing the death-killing songs,

And chant the starlight-spreading incantations.

Like the monk, burning in his sovereign fire,

Surely pondering the spiritual sort as he

Ceased Earthly reckoning. Supreme sacrifice,

Or useless, life-wasting gesture? The smell of life

Rendered ash must have horribly stricken the nostrils

Gathered on that tropic summer morning, somewhere

South of hell, somewhere in the cult of meaning.

And starmen and dragons bent, and music men inhaling

The perfumes of the muses, as lost as any, though found

as well - amongst the phantom stones of ancient demesne,

We march through an autumn fog. But take me to where

Virgin rivers flow and nurture green lands, and take me there

With your great, golden hands that spread peace and

Beauty rare! I feel a new rain gathering, to raise

New spirits of love to re-make life un-crazed.

The prancing sun on leafy lagoons says:

"Let us weave a tapestry of enlightened sojourns

in new lives, towns, lands, and ways through."

And when I lay down my last

And this arrow of time has fallen,

Your name in my heart so indelibly strong

Will somehow help me live on.

And though we have our different ways,

I'm glad to have been in you, as you've been in me,

In this, the bullseye of our destiny.

Canto III (Romanity Rise)

Infant entrance of my benign beliefs arrayed

Like Rhea's milk dotting stars against night's blackboard;

Where I catch stirrings of the ghosts of sacred songs,

Piped and strummed by 10,000 minstrels, with words

Written by the supreme bards of ancient light -

I wandered in Boetia, Caer Sidi, Phoenicia, and Crete,

On a flair from suns both ancient and fleet!

"Rest in rimrocked vales, my son, and consort with

an Empire of eidolons, the wise men will come for you.

But not the Bacchae this time - these tame ladies

wouldn't know rough revels from a shrew!"

I consult the Sidhe for my next fey lines,

And drink from my flask of crimson wine.

Looking out on the day, Winter Solstice has the

palm trees frozen in a miasma of grey.

Thick pine trees wait, their arms outstretched

With patient cones; Mother Nature is pregnant again,

resting, writing her Odes. A yellow carpet of leaves scatters

Desert ravens to search for scant seeds; but where the

Sigils are unkind, we'll need a new Taliesin to decipher

These myths: Here I am, to propitiate the Boetian yields

with a hymn to the golden eye above us!

And now we do as the Romans did, celebrating

the re-birth of the Sun; this morphed Saturnalia

A poor charade, though, for proper homage to Nature,

her elementals, and the stars...

Pan-ic, Babelic,

Romanity drafted in dreamscape epochs,

the rain-pregnant sky has its headache, too.

Haunting music espouses the emperor's queer demands

to train slaves for death.

& Rhea's milk falls like Pompeiian rain, as we fall -

like markets or music or hearts, in a scarred

Symposium of clouded oracles & abused doctrines...

Romanity now must rise, just as centurions rose

before the Sun for battle,

or slavedom itself under Spartacus did,

Just as Thebes rose and bled;

Where the blond grain leaps upward into Apollo's hands,

Where the North Wind blows in with its deathdreams

and sharp lesson of "elsewhere".

As the Demiurge flexes, and the Cult of the Bloody Rose

begins its masses in the craggy hills of Cybele,

and the coastal glades of Anglesey; in Judea, Persia,

and Avalon, too.

Romanity has another bloody fix to do!

With all my eyes watching you,

A hiss-tory is played out for heartless lions,

As I plant my seeds underneath a weeping sky,

My armor of rage blazing silver as I fly,

With all my eyes watching you,

Planet spinning, savages grinning, peace-

makers falling behind; Entire nations sleeping,

Disobeying life's highest law!

Dead flowers fall from the night's wound;

Years come 'round with blinding orbs impenetrable

& graces strange, blithe, chthonian, meet in

Zeus' garden, as a deep vault at Knossos

Holds a great world secret...

These grim pregnancies beg

Philippic prostrations; these deva-stations held crimson

bleed blue beauty by day's station, where awkward

Exchange left me pulling away - entitled to a possible

Flood & scuttled desert ride.

If caught in Cimmeria, O lost winds fashioning

Cryptic rises, lofty horizons long-shadow'd,

We would pack the horses & ride west

With a prayer to Isis

& 20 miles to the sea,

Saying farewell to Bloody Romanity!

Canto IV

Haute lens for unsure eyes, germ of turning histories,

Totem of token landscapes -

Visions and pied interludes whorl in my brain,

As the shadow-count of learning love

Hides its hard husk in the cloudy cove.

And among the pines and magnolia,

I spin bright wheels for ever-escaping soulity,

a golden-limbed bodhisattva of capricious trails,

Importuning strange faces with self-same smiles!

This world is so large & strange with its trillion

corridors & morphemes & calyxes, passivities,

Wra(I)ths & clouds--it numbs me with a galactic

Smorgasbord of meaning: Here am I hard-progressing,

Upon magnified seas, drawing my Mayflower on and on,

Where hallucinatory Dariuses and Grendels taunt me,

Where garlands of mysterious flags wave in spirited

Wonder from afar, coloring the Great Now with an elusive

Bounty.

Where my flesh like old fruit wavers, and I like

Skies possessed & jewelled let the

Spears of logic fly. Just as these embers of emotion burn,

And we these twain sexes endure,

To atone in deafening rooms blank of pinnacles,

Like lovers who fall into lotuses & never notice

They've fallen, but awake to perfumed dawns

Where summers pass on their joyful yield

In the ever-rejuvenating field of at least one ignored flower....

Pasts patina'd still, crying will, overing yet--

A glory in the word must rise now to reclaim a

Holy air. Here glow the godly arms perpetual,

like Siddartha's escaping soul and steed; still

Leaping from earthly jail, orient hearts and kimono

edges flutter & empires partly slain recompose

despotic dead-leaf vacancies, all the bystanders

In full wail.

The defining edge to these years dissolves as my

Prow delivers escape. This, my ritual as I've rendered it:

A few turns of the wheels like Beethoven-phrases of

Ecstatic transcendence, a few breaths of otherness,

the exercise of daily seeing I keep on the

mystic mantleplace, where the urged verses define the roads;

Where still a blond-haired boy in me cries out

from his vestiges drowning in wonder, untainted, a lover

Of these dreamlike, blood-painted skies.

Canto V - The Sickly Cinderella

The sickly Cinderella scrubs the hallways of Hell;

And where she's headed is easy to tell!

This sad woman is sick with the world,

A clockwork struggle builds her daily frown,

Her self-imposed servitude to broken lines frays,

And like a grizzled packmule, hear how she brays!

She wanders down the tracks, drinking

Sour-grape wine, bemoaning her childless

Days, though she's smothered her own child inside!

Watch as she assassinates Erotic love,

Reeling her umbilical cord in instead,

passing her hours in bitternesses red,

Those who've loved her intimately

Never able to do right in her eyes.

Who is this woman who points out all wrongs, excepting her own?

Who cleans out the raven's stoop, though disdains

The free flight of birds, whoever have flown?

Who hears only her own thoughts, as misguided

As they can be?

This Cinderella, sickly, can never truly know a man.

She's much too busy forming her mothering mind

For his estate her heart to find.

'Tis a scathing pity as well--for love layed her down

Gently, and was eminently in dark mornings hers

Softly raised to sweet insights; there was she with

Love's pulse innately. What can a woman be, if she cannot live for others?

Family, society, Nature, and the man who smiles on her so pure

Of heart and mind?

She heads for an Old Maid's and spinster's bed, sadly, instead.

But mothers and the childless alike may go mad!

So, teacher, servile woman of bitterest scorn,

you should brood awhile,

Cocooned in your mother's back room,

Where yet you may find even some dark smile,

Where crimson words bleed, all slashed with false swords;

There is no heaven for a guilty Cinderella

Which isn't prefaced by Hell's banal ambitions!

Woe, o worm of withered hearts once happy!

The pedant makes her lists--judges, scoffs, opines,

gluttons, defecates, dozes, sleeps the sourest sleep,

then awakens and does it all again, her anger fathoms deep!

O backbroken Cinderella, self-made Ophelia, how sickly you are!

You bear the weight of family, and sublimate all your

self-inflicted scars.

When will you emerge from your mother's womb, and shadow?

When will you let a man, your chosen one, show you a different

Type of labour and love?

For surely you've no doubt, lest you be naked-mad,

That a woman of such years can't behold herself glad, beneath

Those who'd better be serviced by her happiness?

That future family and home you talk of, in terms all your own,

Will ever-elude you in your self and love-defeating state!

O glorious tree of most vivacious leaf,

Don't leave love blinded by your grief!

The time to cut the fleshy cord and walk free

Guides you to the pleasant pastures of your destiny!

You'd do well to find some joy in the sun before too long;

Make your own palace - of wood, stone, and free song,

For time and your tethered thinking weigh you down

like sinker and line,

To the murky waters where no reason you'll find,

And where no happy sun can shine.

O precious flowering flame...what secret's in your name?

Only you can know, and until that day you are lamed.

Joelma 2/12/11

Why do we coax such finishing fire in our race for architectural glory?

A warm Sao Paulo day now long gone needs cool air and irony

To douse its fires of commerce

& water its heroic fields, fallow, with the blood of ordinary martyrs.

Would St. Paul lead us out to safety?

Where money changers in the citadel tower

Keep their trapped minions - a collateral expense of souls

Leaping away from unleashed heat, so easy climbing,

Devouring human finery in a flash

As it blackens a nave of our truth

Beneath the Southern Cross.

Joelma, that saw the blast of angry fire undo these lives,

Where bodies adjust to gravity's toll; heavy, heavy,

This lesson of elemental lust, grim, fanning its

Wings of fire! Resident Phoenix! What can we come to, those

Who've prayed to Jesus, solemn, and laughed and loved

In these days beauteous-tropic-soft?

This once again negates the idea of a Superman,

Racing in to save distressed mortals,

meek rescuing horde and horrified, astonished eyes;

Nor Hercules and a band of giants to lower us down

When we've overreached technology's bounds

& reside contentedly in safety's embrace, bosomed warm

As mothers - like those who wailed for sons who jumped!

And forevers unhanded the happier clan; fevers striped

with needless fire, hungry for love, survival -

As these fires die, too. Here, the siren's wail echoes through

History, into faded film archives admonishing, bleeding,

Choking, bleating out a helpless cry...

..."Beware, beware of fire!"

Incendio, in fire devouring souls,

O keeper close, where is Prometheus now? Do not the flowers

Bloom in the summer fields this year? Does not the blue tide

Wash our late sins away? Won't the stars shine their dim beams

Afar, from our black roof tonight? Restless light ever-made and seen,

Ever-making? What can turn a blue-morning-black to gold again

And put love in the afearing heart? Forever?

What child of wisdom, never to bear the flame of human folly again

Will look upon these cities?

Who will hoist these scarred souls to Heaven?

How many heroes to stand and watch powerless,

Pitying, doomed themselves? Joelma is Kali,

Melting the human into awe,

A fearsome take alarms the human ear for death.

Joelma, the world and her ghosts now rest.

2/16/11

Aquarius Suite '11

Looking at himself inside the movie, the poet-drunk

Beholds the smudged Hollywood tapestry: glamour

And myth and no sins barred, performer and producer alike.

Man's shabby display mirrors man's shabby display.

Contours of dysphoria drink the common swill down again,

perverse contract with lusterless gods. "Quiver, lady, and

I'll be damned."

- "Then let's make love on the ocean strand."

The baser dramas and the finer myths

Never joined on the same zenith.

Yin & Yang bearing fangs,

Misplace love's reason with the junk mail and slang.

She lost her blooms by December - that's why I'll always

Remember the way she moved in my soul. In the place out

Behind my dreams, even when haggard fools floated

In the once pristine air, feverish. O Brigid, where's our

poetry now? Will I always write these drama-vows, your

Special captive? Gross fission subterfuge constrains

The million wayward captains of boats estranged!

Does death dream of us?

Breath of your young summers may tell...

Dynastic, backward, gold-leaf deities

with their backs turned to us in sunsets strange,

from the otherworldly parapets,

Lizard-fish striking,

& bones marred; death sits, vacant season,

“Here's to your health,” another drunk's reason,

Let me drink in the full depths of this heady brew,

But bring me grace & comfort

When we're through.

May 18

Spring without death, O coming
into the radiant castle of unknown fantasy;
it's here I fall into the dazzling heather with you,
O lakes, O toils, O mysteries!
Clean, your soulness new,
climbing yesterdays' seasons - just a breath
& who you are I can't despoil or your
shipwrecks anymore w/ their bounties
Now...grief's high wall sends the wave
to carry us home.

Poolside

I pooled under it:
tanned as I,
feathered as a poolbird
or ancient hunter;
She's up on Frank Lloyd Wright
i await her call
to ferry her across Mordor, home
The light is her wanting;
est'qu vous-voudriez bois du vin, mademoiselle?
here, she calls to say her friend will drive -
and we talk of being together again
this week's end

The machine runs down...
What are we to do?
Wait for night and try & not be blue?
But I am
I'm medium cool
Just waiting for you
To join me at the pool.

5.21.11

Where the Gemini energy took hold, snake of eternal power

held in the teeth of these volatile twins

Who double existence's game, asking “Alright, where's your

secret self? Where and what are you today?” and authority

retracts, questioning itself; an astonishing morning of lost lusts

and ungovernable appetites cedes to the Rites of Spring

and a man's glowing need to wander eternally.

Woman of the twinned mind testing my waters out, to see

What I am. “I don't trust men,” she says the other night

In her feathered pink underwear, strutting, a sensual feast,

analytical, seductive, denying, re-arranging desire's chessboard,

calling me back (after we've shared Casanova's wine),

apparently, whenever...

5/22/11

In the inflection of probity,

in the election of fobs & liars,

in this ever-transmogrifying paradigm;

I cannot pander to what the ersatz epoch

demands! We need a visual-visceral catharsis

Where pathos marries beauty; where jackals have

replaced lions & delirium reason - does inking heal?

To what my inklings heel...the ferrous loam refracts a

touchless secret and wealth of our tenuous breadth.

Another local journey circles mediocrity's parking lot,

As Cochise did the pioneers of this colossal mishap,

entertaining these joyous agonies

no more.

5.30.11

Righteous stab -

life gets up and looks at me;

Pain is an expanding company,

Incorporated & taking over the omniverse;

but the smell of her hair

& pinkness so curiously redolent,

womanly-unique, sleeps in the upper quadrant

of beauty a bldg. away

What bounty & what longing today, this day

Of memory & forgetting & grim vacation.

6.5.10

opening doors to the dawn,

she escapes a little into a wan interlude;

The schloss hides a mote of their star-being;

A note of their opus multiplies as 1,000 songs!

Mercury, here, prances before the Sun, as she does;

her lover & Winifred's leaves are turning, too!

But why does she turn to the Moon when walking the certain road?

Gitti hides her Teutonic beauty like our laughter hides tears;

Where now, as all along, we fade with all the bright years.

6.6.10

To swim the spectral seas and recover thee, my ancient lover!

As the afternoon bird coos & earthrhythms heal softly;

I foresake empty toil and dream of life as a bird so lofty!

Car horn blares as my hairy imago stares from the

mantleplace of self-awareness & the jazz-movie rolls -

rhythms crowned holy, the sepulchral stage shedding note-ions

of truth. Such wild gyrations! I would be as chocolate is the

gourmand's proof, that spells being so, the plow that

blesses the cut worm on his earthen roof.

6.10.11

Choose an odd day of the floor-bed reading brilliance;

choose a rabbit; choose the choking audacity of life;

the new corpse with scattered hair and self-imposed stigmata

once again excoriates the idea of any 'benevolent' god.

Choose to forget. Choose life. Choose death. Make strides.

Read about the silent mountains. Do a blue-laser shuffle.

Read about the big lie; forge a novel belief system, because.

New car driveable less, as the juggled tasks & cost of gas coalesce;

Zeus' beard longer today; swan in the desert swamp stays;

cars at a light carry anonymous souls quietened in their ways.

Chosen stigmata prison-bars, cinema debunking the soul;

Strangeness of laughing flesh and silent stars; melodic un-dyings

returned, as I wheel and wheel endless through ambition's

specious pathways un-burned. Hump of her relevance fades,

As steely masks like satanic lightning fall;

like Hebraic monikers of statesmen herald the western fall.

Demonic oppression shrugs as the times spiral into mad chaos,

Logorrhea unlocks the unknown portals of doom;

What has happened to our promised land?

- Broken, like all the empires that ever bloom'd.

Errata ex Machina

The standard-bearer of forgotten love

Stands defiant in his golden gloves

& leaps into the winding river strange,

Emerging, later, a child deranged -

he dances on an excited flame

(the very one that bequeathed his name),

As a cloud in the shape of a gun

Shadows all that we've become

And shoots soft bullets all night into you;

I cry a false death and follow suit.

Privy to a crime of tears,

She undoes herself and forbids the years

Any intrusion. Exalted love that alchemizes

The soul, dies on its vines, strangles joy

In the loam. Death in Springtime!

Farewell love!

(opportunists in love, opportunists in hate,

Both pass through the cemetery gate!)

And life's great dark swindle carries on,

Plays Russian Roulette with our fates;

We carry on.

Death, inch by inch,

Solves the elusive riddle for us -

Leaves us stranded in morning's forest,

The unborn reaches of existence floored,

In years like cheetahs drawn by Horace.

********

Charming feeble tracks zoological

omnipresent nervous charge of life long

despoiled, I soliloquize to a Spring throng

a changeless bounty: perhaps, I too am the seasons,

planet, life, universe! A war-like state hoists a brutal,

incomprehensible flag; warns the world not to flinch

Or “we'll eviscerate you, too.” I recoil to a Naturalism

long overdue, missing out on all that relevant news...

*******

6.16.11

I've perfected lust on a shoestring,

elemental widows of fate!

Unceremoniously paraded & courted

between rolling treks outlandish -

I've perfected lust, at long last!

Her dainty intellect carrying innocence,

kindred astrology exotic, limn-strewn

through universes & neighborhoods familiar

& might the Yank & Limey join hands & eyes & hearts?

Love's theoretical palace in ashes draws

the last howling beasts to the hole.

6.20.11

Neruda, Gould, and my guitar

On a night of such playful nears and fars,

Where the feline graces step without toil,

With heat monsters kept at bay;

Dickian treatise bared, I softly stare back

At memory & its nanobytes of beauty!

Neruda, Gould, and my guitar -

Venus long divorced of Mars,

(though separate planets plunge onward solitary

through the space of God's love so black),

Again visited the ken of intellectual scalpel attacks -

I recoil to my terroir of sojourns joyous!

Tavern of games & books & high country girl-next-door

beams of innocent heart. I drink & keep drinking

from these new wells & their visionations,

careen through these outposts without a scream

Or paramour or ancient lakes' chateaux. Temporal cloisters,

the moments cascade like a tempest's tears;

Who with this blood saw what time-space did?

Who with their classical filigree or monographed life

Shone like a desert road? Hark, the herald angels fall -

Sent to spy on our errata; we call.

6.21.11

Solstice, and I hardly saw the sun;

was hardly out of doors at all; sat at my

Desk all day and all night, at home not venturing

Out, but opting to study Mahler & G. Gould, and how

paranoia & hypochondria wracked Gould, genius, and

tragedy & early death stalked Mahler – both dead at 50.

In both narratives of their lives is heard the word “untenable”.

Something incongruous and solitary about how they lived their

half-lives, but also something a bit pedantic in them.

Solstice, and hardly did I see the sun!

Silent night, opposed to the Yule, hoists up high-hoists up high

this back-broken mule.

6.26.11

Rites of the Holy Non-Sequitur

She sees a road & the dog death comes;

Love at school and some have tried.

A rare breed and the atom bomb.

A blue tree and the night is long.

Or not, the divided ice-cream bed -

Summers un-forgotten; a rocket to the stars.

Plebes in the grid. Before the empires bled.

Us, and the walls, and where we go.

She sees herself in the Great Divide.

Atom bomb and a sense of pride.

Rush, summer streams, and cars that smile;

Stuffed closets full; history, hate.

World's forests and highways of death.

Sounds numbing the purple towns' regrets.

Zephyrs of wasted time. A crumpled vow.

Perpetuity's vibration becoming Now.

Insanity. Mortal looks, breathtaking tapestry.

Unfettered commerce, animal wails.

Love “back there”, “in here”, future swarms.

He'd die for anyone, but would not say:

“A sickle for your wrinkled eyes.”

Blood of the holy virgin; nape of her untouched neck;

Slaves, holidays, revolts, marketplaces.

The gentle stream of her stare; meaning bleeding out, too.

“That empire never ended”; those days I walked with you.

A golden irony orbiting my heart as the talking screen

Walks me through history; As a tapestry of passions squawks

through my radar in the hideous night; and again, on these

Spectral trails, where a jackrabbit's heart has more true

Industry than this entire nation – I speak to the departed

and perfect my soliloquy. A ranger of deathless flights

of seeming; this nation which I've too long romanced,

I fix my soul's eyes now upon a future spent abroad,

recalling warily a time when I, under a heavy spell,

Loved her beating heart.

Visions Of The Blue Girl

2010-06-30T12:38:00.000-07:00

It was then when the hot river flowed and the revolutionary stances gelled that the young girl of 12 came to the big city school and learned of silent ostracism and hopeless humanity. Strange, even in a social climate of diversity, that she would be so repressed (in subtle, wordless gestures and posturing). Yes, her skin was a deep shade of sky blue, and she had these warm, glowing sapphire eyes that could at once entrance and unsettle. From where did the blue girl come? A pure mystery to the most of the school population, as well as those in the poor, modest neighborhood where she now made her home.

She became, gradually, through the fierce inner city weeks and growing symphony of her young existence, a sort of museum gallery item walking amongst them, those scoffing conformists sleepwalking through their lives...

Except for one.

It was another little girl who befriended her from the start, as the faces turned away and the winds blew rudely as whirlwind leaves prefaced bald eternity. She was a chubby little saint of a girl who too, went largely unnoticed. Isn't it funny how the denizens of sameness ignore the special givers amongst us? Is it simple jealousy? Are they programmed this way from the start? Oh, how the specially gifted suffer a special persecution by the hopelessly pedestrian!

It was the little girl Annie who almost grafted herself onto this strange and beautiful vision of human "otherness". They were both quite striking looking in their own ways: The Blue Girl with her pretty face, striking eyes, and indescribable "nakedness", and Annie with her blond hair and bubbly personality. Their families talked constantly of the war with the Ummims who were coming across the sea to blow up our buildings and oil wells and that we had to rise up against them. This was juxtaposed against a massive movement to overthrow the people who insisted war was the answer to the problem of "otherness" they had to vilify to justify their prejudice. The paranoia and upwelling of bigotry and anger was fierce now in this once tolerant country that accepted all the world's peoples.

It was in this atmosphere that the Blue Girl revealed her true self of multidimensional love, transcendence, artistry, and imprimatur of a new evolutionary step of the species. Annie learned her real name one day in October--Kalea--and that she was from a distant galaxy and was here to teach us love. Annie believed, and could not hold her pride and new belief--and told her mother and father, who at first dismissed it as the fantasy of a young girl. but somehow word eventually reached the school authorities (probably due to the persistence of "worship" of Kalea by their daughter), and harsh actions were taken.

How did it come to such humiliation, flogging, and excess of punishment--all for the crime of love by an innocent girl shedding light on a backward realm?

Unbeknownst to Kalea, there was a boy who loved her in secret, pretending to shun her with a large group of conformist brainwashed, as she suffered daily torments by a nazified school administration.

"Look at her! She thinks she is a new messiah! She's just a stupid little freak. Now, get back to your times tables and stop talking," the Hitler-like schoolmaster said, on the day The Blue Girl finally ran from the school, the city, and went far away to a secluded cove on the western sea coast. She prayed and meditated, with galaxian thoughts of love and kindness embracing the whole earth. She was missed, at last, and Annie and the boy who loved her cried heavy tears for her. All the others felt anvils of guilt chained around their necks.

She stayed 12 days in the place of the ocean cove, and on the 12th day sprouted golden gossamer wings that lifted her to the sky, where she flew nimbly across blood-red, sideways moons with a tear in her heart and a poem in her breast. Her hope for the species was high, as she had finally seen through. The next day, after she had swooped across the earth's skies entire, the war broke out--but it was not the intended "holy war" with the Ummims, but instead a final rising up of the Good Land's opposition to the fascists in power.

A violent, bloody TV news clip she watched from the skies with wet eyes and heavy heart passed after a time that was like a billion bloodthirsty jackals, leaving cities in rubble and a nation rent in dark pieces. Descending into the smoke and madness after the months of destruction of her adopted homeland, The Blue Girl visited the ruins of the big city and school where she'd stayed awhile, ashen body parts sticking out from under the great, smoking piles of rubble.

Wandering awhile in her grief, Kalea was brought by instinct to a building around the corner with not another soul to speak of. Entering its bombed-out doorway, she saw a crumpled figure in a dress making strange sounds against the far wall. Upon closer inspection, she saw it was Annie! A great wave lifted up inside of her like a song, as she attended to her broken but living friend!

"Oh Annie, arise! It is I, Kalea, your friend!"

And Annie slowly raised a head that stood on a blackened neck, with eyes like tunnels, to see her friend, who she assumed was a divine vision. Kalea raised her friend up, onto unsteady feet not yet ready for walking as the city smoldered around them.

"K-Kalea? Is that really you?" asked Annie as she sat back down, her leg smashed and swollen.

"Yes, it is I," replied the truly otherworldly vision of the bluest blue girl earth had ever seen. Her delicate gold wings framed her innocent visage like a 17th century, gilded carriage for a queen. She passed a hand slowly over Annie's leg, and then her entire body. Within minutes she was healed, rising up on a newly invigorated body, tears of joy in her eyes.

She lifted Annie up, once they were outside, to fly with her over the city, so she could see what her race had done to itself--even well into the 21st century. It was as barbaric as it ever had been, and together they soaked up the ineffable grief of it. At twilight they landed by a lake and slept in an abandoned home as a polished sable eye of darkness contrasted immensely with their inner light. Kalea gave her friend a great, glorious gift that night--the gift of immortal flight, as the two began a new stewardship on planet earth, in what was once a place called, "America".

Fraud a Way Of Life For Employment Security Dept. of Washington State

2010-04-21T22:13:00.000-07:00

By Chris J. Robideaux

Is it happening in your state?

The Washington State Dept. of Employment Security has now made it standard practice to retroactively deny and call back once-approved benefits payouts, subsequently exacting "refunds", plus interest--in the form of levies and liens accompanied by callous "order[s] to withhold and deliver funds" sent to individuals' banks. These "retroactive denials" of legitimate employment security claims can come many years after initial payouts, blindsiding people with due process-circumventing notices to banks which, in effect, freeze bank accounts as funds in the amounts of thousands of dollars are extracted like money from a safe in a train robbery. Often, there will be no accompanying language from the ESD along with their blatant abuses of power, which might answer questions like:

- Exactly how much do I still owe?
- How and why am I liable to payback my benefits in the first place?
- Which representative authorized/investigated this?
- What organization can I appeal to?

What this amounts to, folks, (in case you haven't guessed already) is flat-out, white collar fraud. And, should this ever happen to anyone of you, heaven forbid, good luck trying to get a straight answer from anyone. It's like inquiring with a hostile collections agency, only in the form of a bloated bureaucracy, or asking the nazis why they shot your best friend in the ghetto. I personally am going through this very same set of circumstances--the fact that I am also a freelance writer and journalist I am hoping will not only benefit myself, but all who read this and take caution. It seems the term "employment security" itself is misleading, meaningless itself and a kind of fraud. It seems that when economic times get tough, "pull back the wagons and plunder 'em for all their worth!" is the battle cry. There is no purported "security" in store for anyone who makes employment security benefit claims. These agencies show their true colors in the language they use in their discompassionate documents and communication methods. They treat your payout like an ad hoc loan, in fact, which can be called up at any time--though this fact is never made clear at establishment of claims time. In my case it was nearly 8 years after my initial claim that they broadsided me with a court order, which arrived the same day they stole everything out of my bank account.

When contacted for comment regarding this fraudulent, abusive practice, Sheryl Hutchinson, Media Relations Spokesperson, refused to talk, or answer any of my questions. In fact, when asked directly, "Does the Employment Security Department make it a regular practice to recall entire benefit payouts, plus interest?" she responded brusquely, "I'm not having this conversation." And this, my friends, illustrates the deep disconnection with reality going on at the Washington State ESD. The reason she won't talk about it, likely, is because it is true, and she fears the backlash their newfangled "recession policy" of backdoor, unanswerable fraud will have on those getting a giant screw-job. But, we've merely scratched the surface of the various "whys and wherefores" involved in ESD's nefarious, autocratic policies, which likely are designed to "rob Peter to pay Paul" - Paul being all the new millions who are now claiming unemployment benefits.

Huge questions arise, such as, "Didn't we just bailout all the banks, and aren't we paying more taxes than ever?" "With all the billions of dollars in their state coffers, why do they need to investigate and recall my legit payout?" "Is there any truth and justice inherent in any facet of our nation's governmental bodies?" "How long will we sit idly by, as these Behemoth, faceless Totalitarians dictate who gets robbed and who gets paid, unfairly?" Questions which gain more gravitas and meaning, as those "just following orders" make shady and flimsy responses, showing their culpability and complicity with an absolutely flawed financial and governmental system. How can a system such as ours stand? Is my $4,200 going to support some other guy, who in ten years will have to pay that back, plus 1% interest per month? The terrifying numbers and circumstance don't scare me into complicity--they spur me into action. I won't rest until I see justice in my homeland.

Who's with me?

Potions in Flower

2010-03-19T13:53:00.000-07:00

Potions of jazz & wine (galloping down the stairs
like a horse I reach for),
smatterings of belief & sunrises--
some bold summation
of golden-headed rejuvenation
Kept in herb, flower or wine
or jazz-song eclectified
where this soul-of-mine flies,
Is cauterized;
This soul intractable, looting the ethers
For its prize--
I am consoled w/ this odd panacea,
Rough magic's alphabet song,
But come to my Sanctum Sanctorum
my cosmic brothers and sisters,
And I'll make potions for you all night long!

As the peripheral throb of day wields its
Wounded palette like a freecircus come-on,
Like frozen fire,
Like idiot existences,
Like a libidinous lover drowning in her sheets!
(angels in the loops of my letters & ears & reasons & fires)
I cannot erase my conscience from these cave walls--
sleeping peasants wake devils of mass deception
& when will imperious flowers bloom forth from your shoulder
Like preternatural rainbow-wings?
Where will new colors dawn?
Will we belove new Goddesses in cash-and-carry nights
in defunct castles and airy mansions
propped up to sleep miners
who trade simple pleasures for gold?

Finally,
Sleep is the opiate of sleep,
And the Great Movie shall we watch...and keep.

Abolition of Thanatopaeia

2009-07-30T14:26:00.000-07:00

Did we care for that un-world at all, at all?
Now plebes, go rush out, try on the coats left in these halls.

i

It was completely unexpected by any of us the day when it finally came, and the evil of our world had finally vacated forever. Just another ordinary day - but for the fact that the world economy was quietly in meltdown - a day in which mothers dropped kids off at school, politicians quietly passed new laws and shuffled down hollow halls, and fish swam placidly in the seas as they always had; and unbeknownst to most as they walked out that day, the world was a radically changed place.

Where the fools had been dispatched from legislature and banks and board rooms, ordinary people now found themselves taking over. News stations now reverted to feel good pieces and stories on miracles and people recovering their lives, but also about the crafts that had been seen that week in the skies. Much palaver was being batted around about the end of the world, of course, but there was a loud irony in this, in that as people were busy screaming Apocalypse, a certain quietude had commenced to settle over the earth like mosquito netting for evil and negativity itself.

I say “that world” because to know the world prior to the “New Enlightenment” as some were calling it then, and that newly enlightened place and its now unburdened and un-fearful people was to truly know day from night. Just imagine it! All wealth returned and re-distributed equitably amongst all the earth’s population. New wealth discovered in great hideaway vaults, new energies and methods of producing energy, leading to quantum leaps in technology and human capacity for (authentic) power.

This was all akin to a person who had been driving through a desert in a go-cart at 3 horsepower suddenly discovering a “lightship” and being able to get in and go to Mars in mere seconds.

And so it was that I, Magnus Xavier, executed a malingering traipse in the daisies of my nemesis.

OOOOOooooyyooyoo,,, the day was shivering golden heyday of itself brightening my eyes.
Hawks dove and planes climbed in the hot, dry, bright blue sky.

Edge of serrated light, our plight, so blue. He said to you. Then, on some other May day...

Pools of Pleistocene logic engulfed me like a cosmos >
(then in me so may they crystalline make new all)
in spaced car slots a dram of earth below, silent hearts
for which we’re paid in abstracts;

Enleavening edge of forever-somedays large, seduced by the moon
and we never heard
one breath of their wings on the air, no
as aimlessness stood sentinel, drunk as presidents

Seamlessly, I connected all my nights and all my days and all my thoughts and all my ways. I then conciliated the central power of the eternal hills and valleys & earthcore that waved green to my endangered lays. All moments eternal; all lifetimes, all stars, all aeons, in one afternoon.

And this, this was in the new world. Our new home, as evil’s last lashings failed and their song of death drowned itself on greed.

The unwashed ghosts of hate’s final hissings were sucked over the hills, into caves, pulled into hollows, or annihilated forever. New Maypoles stood up, new friends made, who would have only been neighbors in slavery.

ii

It was all like a bent knife stabbing at the sun. Hordes and hordes of armored men and shoppers and tassled debutantes sickening and sidling through cactusland and rainfall spent like Monday dreams.

I dove past canyons and galaxies and estuaries dotted with sparks, flora, and deep shadows. I dodged the red-headed sparrow and caressed the owl. I, with my woman, rolled, carousing desert suburbia with dream-hopes bulging like embryos beneath our eyes. We knew the entre size. Struggle to make true and have truth. Molded from fleshy stardust we trolled the aisles lazy suburbanites sleepwalked too.

And my dream. My dream. Climbing up so many slick rungs on the hundred storey bridge to meet friends. Running through megacities of the future with every pleasure and many unknown at our feet, in our mouths, sleeping beside us. What ample tides of youth to better these lines?

My personal Tunguska helps me reel in sunstorms and paroxysms of joy.

I walked, then, through a crease in the night, which became bright though I was born from the confusing dream (a pocket in the veil of sleep I took like a poisonless drug).

Up was I in the pink of health as the streets sang and strange animals entered my courtyard. Definite leaves of saturated glee couldn’t shake hands with me. I cried your name in song silently inside my heart which is a house, a home, I furnish with skies of you above.

Churlish they spoke, creeping like vines, those ghouls, zombies, fools. I want to re-enter your fleshy church N O W.

What about rehab from the world poison? A ranch in New Mexico.

AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

hhhhhhhhhhhhhh
hhhhhhhhhhhh

GGGGGGGGGGOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOODDDDDDDDDD

&

MMMMMMMMMMMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Breath to the body’s many canals stupefies the trying mind. Wind in the tunnels. What had happened?

We weren’t ready for freedom.

June

thrumming through entries, the slatted window goes light-dark all the time. In this high room, a home small & a floor lonelier than the loneliest souls in hell, flighty words are wardrobes of faith.

Hopis say, “We are the ones we’ve been waiting for”

and dawns slide in like thieves; the principle of reversal succeeds. Steams of springs streaming, alarms of ascension dicing the interference, wiles of waves eminent striking. These all filling psychic space like water filling a Titanic ship hold.

She sank, but sinks on.

Stupefied caresses squall.

ARONUS, shores of Arizona. Ah, those Days of Forever, nude on the beach with fervor.

Arrow me a centurion’s centuries, timeless with Saturnalia & cloves & groves & virgins high on love.

July

temple poses floor afternoon heaps of sunshine, love re-arranged. Outer oven thrust of summer making haze of the soul as music flies. O myriad fish climbing from mystery rivers of ocean gorge depth, teeth trying survival but with human skimmers hooking, we warn ourselves the choir breeding un-love extinctions chronic disabled.

It was the time to do something.

So we did.

I wouldn’t spit on love, I would not. Though it spit on me, and the ozone twilight sent me on, on, on. Lost to ourselves like a planet in some corner of the universe. Blue evenings turn purple, then black like a gargantuan bruise. And in that horrible space, my hunger. A forever hunger not easily slaked, not ever. The heat worsening. Small heroic disasters. Finger other selves. Brush off cacophany, eardrums burst, thank neighbors. Still trees. Burning palms. Pacing like a tiger who wants fresh meat.

We were doing something, dammit. I of this race, and they of theirs and we ALL want the sames. Names differ, but pools, fences, indifference, shops cater to human weaknesses. Laws stop up mankind. These aren’t the felonies. Someone celebrates and drives home. Is caught like an animal (worse) and thrown in-cage to await the judgement. Proof of crime inherent absent. Authorities’ sinister grin, roads mad with anger, emotional contortionists, rubblemakers bellow for war.

But ion this day entrafficate many pangs of the oscillating duality. Much madness does this cause. Though my woman, just minutes ago, called from north, quite north; a port land on a new country’s western terminal asking, saying, buying, helloing, goodbye. To the forests and fields with you, my dear.

iii

I am so lonely. My tigerfangs want blood. Blood rivers like words pouring, so I commence. Flowing afternoons, here and lost so fast, no wisdom’s left - even to these trees.

I am become anything, all, anyone. I am belief itself. I am the thought of Belgium, Greenland, India. I drove once upon a summer through Flemish wheat; I carried my lot on Alpine borders and saw portentious storms brood as my boyhood thoughts brawled. With her curved notions. Outsized by currencies and rights. What’s given, gotten, strained, the portion we suffer...stricken entities figure roads and pensions are due, and these cattle-castles must. Roll, roll, roll. A fly hits the pane and we adjourn to dinner.

I am all kindled with lust as the bulging stomachs roar for more and circus animals die.

Rigged so deeply with politics and gangs overhead, the delirious win a surreptitious whirlwind.

The roar and the ache grow like a Baltic storm, and by slight degrees I feel the urge to make come-ons to the pantry, her flesh absent in the hotnorth vacation scenes. Tired of the world’s coldness, I thought to redoubt in the desert awhile and met such unforeseen love! She calendars my pangs so gently. I’d slain the ogre in her story. Cinderella put gold leaf on my walls. Cinderella so languid, brought me tears. Our continents dream future springs, and blooms to make a woman’s heart burst. I row my boat way out in the Bering Sea. I am deathless and mighty with dreams. I assault the false caretaker who kills. I am an avenging angel of ignorance and greed. I ferry the goddesses in training across impossible seas. We ravage dreaming itself; concord heaves its telling waves.

Tele-magnetic are the arias of the Sun that wake my heart near noon, so life’s a boon. So soft scurry the stars across my mantleplaces, I smarten in the imaginary marketplaces, with mansions spread world-over. The chalices full again, my friends smile. Miles end with gifts for every hour. The lakes still hold all that which cannot go.

Softest portions push, and leafy streets are lined with souls. In Amsterdam, pausing was not much. Much too few, those microns where we touch! In the tulip house! The mute canals would say what? Tourists’ votes for love. Ghosts, near. Endeared am I, the bearded shores, naked with sand and feet, North Sea breezes, howling gales, apparently, Rotterdam back to, the lowlands and their keepers, cool solstice, and June with her swarms.

1663

Words, or years? Dutch zenith.

Finger other selves and fears.

The Enemy Within, By Marcus Tullius Cicero

2009-06-28T17:40:00.000-07:00

In times like ours, we must keep the very wise words of Marcus Tullius Cicero close at hand:

"A nation can survive its fools, and even the ambitious. But it cannot survive treason from within. An enemy at the gates is less formidable, for he is known and carries his banner openly. But the traitor moves amongst those within the gate freely, his sly whispers rustling through all the alleys, heard in the very halls of government itself. For the traitor appears not a traitor; he speaks in accents familiar to his victims, and he wears their face and their arguments, he appeals to the baseness that lies deep in the hearts of all men. He rots the soul of a nation, he works secretly and unknown in the night to undermine the pillars of the city, he infects the body politic so that it can no longer resist. A murder is less to fear."

Earth is Solar Powered and So Too Must We Be

2009-06-04T16:06:00.000-07:00

The question of solar power presents the grandest slice of obviousness the entire world has ever seen.

The fact that ALL cities that receive at least 40-50% sunny days DO NOT utilize solar cells on most buildings is an outrage to all those not smoking fat cigars in the oil baron drawing room.

I live in Phoenix, Arizona, a city which receives among the highest sunny days of any city anywhere in the world (300+ days/year). To look around this 500 square mile (around 2,000 sq. miles metro area) desert megalopolis and see a few solar cells here and a few there really hurts my head. I can't see it. It's a no-brainer. This SOLAR CITY (they should re-name it, but Phoenix is pretty good, too) should have solar panels on:

1) Poles on all 4 corners of ALL major intersections
2) All city and county buildings
3) All homes, offering tax breaks and subsidies to those who use them
4) All vehicles, beginning with city utility vehicles, buses, etc.
5) Hats, dumpsters, signs, other objects (I'm kidding, but you get the point)

We could then generate power for not only Phoenix, but most all of central AZ (Maricopa and Pinal county). Free, year-round. Doesn't that make the robber barons shake in their boots? Good. It's time they got with it and stopped ripping off the world to purvey their dinosaur blood, and actually maybe finance clean energy.

A Brief History of Solar Energy

Ancient Greeks and Romans saw great benefit in what we now refer to as passive solar design—the use of architecture to make use of the sun’s capacity to light and heat indoor spaces (there's an idea!). The Greek philosopher Socrates wrote, “In houses that look toward the south, the sun penetrates the portico in winter.” Romans advanced the art by covering south facing building openings with glass or mica to hold in the heat of the winter sun. Through calculated use of the sun’s energy, Greeks and Romans offset the need to burn wood that was often in short supply.

Auguste Mouchout, inventor of the first active solar motor, questioned the widespread belief that the fossil fuels powering the Industrial Revolution in the 19th century would never run out. “Eventually industry will no longer find in Europe the resources to satisfy its prodigious expansion. Coal will undoubtedly be used up. What will industry do then?” Mouchout asked prophetically.

Indeed.

In 1861, Mouchout developed a steam engine powered entirely by the sun. But its high costs coupled with the falling price of English coal doomed his invention to becoming a footnote in energy history.

Nevertheless, solar energy continued to intrigue and attract European scientists through the 19th century. Scientists developed large cone-shaped collectors that could boil ammonia to perform work like locomotion and refrigeration. France and England briefly hoped that solar energy could power their growing operations in the sunny colonies of Africa and East Asia.

In the United States, Swedish-born John Ericsson led efforts to harness solar power. He designed the “parabolic trough collector,” a technology which functions more than a hundred years later on the same basic design. Ericsson is best known for having conceived the USS Monitor, the armored ship integral to the U.S. Civil War.

Solar power could boast few major gains through the first half of the 20th century, though interest in a solar-powered civilization never completely disappeared. In fact, Albert Einstein was awarded the 1921 Nobel Prize in physics for his research on the photoelectric effect—a phenomenon central to the generation of electricity through solar cells.

Some 50 years prior, William Grylls Adams had discovered that when light was shined upon selenium, the material shed electrons, thereby creating electricity.

In 1953, Bell Laboratories (now AT&T labs) scientists Gerald Pearson, Daryl Chapin and Calvin Fuller developed the first silicon solar cell capable of generating a measurable electric current. The New York Times reported the discovery as “the beginning of a new era, leading eventually to the realization of harnessing the almost limitless energy of the sun for the uses of civilization.”

In 1956, solar photovoltaic (PV) cells were far from economically practical. Electricity from solar cells ran about $300 per watt. (For comparison, current market rates for a watt of solar PV hover around $5.) The “Space Race” of the 1950s and 60s gave modest opportunity for progress in solar, as satellites and crafts used solar paneling for electricity.

It was not until October 17, 1973 that solar leapt to prominence in energy research. The Arab Oil Embargo demonstrated the degree to which the Western economy depended upon a cheap and reliable flow of oil. As oil prices nearly doubled over night, leaders became desperate to find a means of reducing this dependence. In addition to increasing automobile fuel economy standards and diversifying energy sources, the U.S. government invested heavily in the solar electric cell that Bell Laboratories had produced with such promise in 1953.

The hope in the 1970s was that through massive investment in subsidies and research, solar photovoltaic costs could drop precipitously and eventually become competitive with fossil fuels.

By the 1990s, the reality was that costs of solar energy had dropped as predicted, but costs of fossil fuels had also dropped—solar was competing with a falling baseline.

However, huge PV market growth in Japan and Germany from the 1990s to the present has reenergized the solar industry. In 2002 Japan installed 25,000 solar rooftops. Such large PV orders are creating economies of scale, thus steadily lowering costs. The PV market is currently growing at a blistering 30 percent per year, with the promise of continually decreasing costs. Meanwhile, solar thermal water heating is an increasingly cost-effective means of lowering gas and electricity demand.

As you can see, technologies have changed and improved for decades. Still, the basics of solar thermal and photovoltaics have remained the same. From ancient Greek homes built to face the warm winter sun to advanced thin-film photovoltaics, which generate electricity from the sun, humans have used the sun’s rays to meet their energy needs. This makes sense, given that the sun showers the earth every hour with enough energy to meet world demand for a year. And the best part: this energy is pollution-free, inexhaustible and accessible to many, though not near enough.

Ideas: Give up driving at least one day a week. Keep your A/C a few degrees warmer than "chilling". Outfit your home with viable photovoltaic cells. Drive a hybrid or electric car. Think "non-fossil fuel usage".

Check out Power 4 Home for more info on going solar.

Heavy Metal Toxicity and Chelation Therapy Insights

2009-04-14T11:43:00.000-07:00

Heavy Metal Toxicity

Heavy metal pollution can arise from many sources, but most commonly arises from the purification of metals, e.g., the smelting of copper and the preparation of nuclear fuels. Electroplating is the primary source of chromium and cadmium. Through precipitation of their compounds or by ion exchange into soils and muds, heavy metal pollutants can localize and lay dormant. Unlike organic pollutants, heavy metals do not decay and thus pose a different kind of challenge for remediation. Currently, plants or microorganisms are tentatively used to remove some heavy metals such as mercury - which is found rampantly in large predator fish and damages the central nervous system (CNS).

The best way to remove these toxifying elements is a program involving chelation therapy, a diet which includes loads of fresh, raw foods, and a vitamin and mineral supplement. Awaken Nutrition's patented formula of chelating peptides vigorously binds to and removes heavy metals such as lead, mercury, lead and arsenic permanently from the body. Experts have weighed in on this product's effectiveness, and we think it's time you discovered the new life that awaits you! Awaken your new health and wellness today by ridding your body of dangerous substances holding you back from true vitality.

When you hear the term "mercury toxicity", it actually refers to an elevated level of methylmercury in the body. Mercury becomes methylmercury when it mixes with bacteria in the ocean, or freshwater. These bacteria are then consumed by other organisms, which are then consumed by fish, and the methylmercury then moves up the food chain, bioaccumulating exponentially. Large predator fish such as swordfish and albacore tuna contain the highest levels of methylmercury. Hence, regular consumption of these top-dwelling feeders greatly increases the body's mercury levels.

Mercury damages the central nervous system (CNS), and studies show that mercury in the CNS can have pronounced negative psychological, neurological and immunological consequences. Symptoms can include:

Depression Personality changes and irritability Insomnia Persistant headaches Memory loss Weakness Blurred vision Slowed mental response Unsteady gait Tremors Arrhythmias and cardiomyopathies

What is chelation therapy?

Chelation is a chemical term named from the Greek word chele, meaning "claw" or "claw-like." In chelation therapy, an organic chemical bonds with metals in the bloodstream and digs them out of the system. This therapy is standard treatment for heavy metal poisoning, such as lead poisoning, and the management of iron overload following repeated blood transfusions.

This process of chelation actually removes unwanted metals from the bloodstream. In fact, chelation therapy is the only way to treat lead poisoning. But lead is not the only metal cleansed from the body through chelation. A chelation agent will also bind with most metals, mineral deposits, calcium-based plaques and other chemical toxins. Because of its positive impact on the bloodstream, chelation therapy has proven to benefit a number of medical conditions, including atherosclerosis and arteriosclerosis.

Chelation is a well-known method of heavy metal and toxin removal in which a special chemical compound called a chelate - such as dimercaptosuccinic acid (DMSA), dimercaptopropane sulfonate (DMPS), or ethylene diaminetetraacetic acid (EDTA) - is given, usually intravenously. The chelate finds and forms a single attachment to the toxin with one reversible ionic bond. With that bond intact, the toxin is grabbed onto, pulled off the cell and carried from the body. However, the toxin is not neutralized during this process and is potentially able to attach to other cells on its way out.

Mercury poisoning

Mercury poisoning is an especially salient issue for mothers, whose fetuses and developing infants can suffer from negative effects on attention span, language, visual-spatial skills, memory and coordination. Behavioral problems, frequent illness, and vision problems follow in early childhood development if methylmercury toxicity goes unaddressed.

Actor Jeremy Piven recently garnered attention for having had to leave the set of the Broadway play Speed the Plow, due to severe mercury toxicity. This incident also focused the spotlight on the consumption - or, over-consumption, rather - of sushi. Piven had been indulging in at least two meals a day of the popular dish, which, unbeknownst to many, contains very high amounts of methylmercury.

If you suspect or know that you are mercury-toxic, then, among other things, have mercury dental amalgam fillings removed at once. Find out if you're city or location has any possible heavy metal contamination. Research what's in your city's water supply. Filter your water as much as possible. Are you eating fresh, raw foods on a daily basis? Shop at a farmer's market at least once a month, for fruits and veggies that aren't tainted by pesticides. Commit to a detoxification program that includes the Awaken Nutrition patented, proven oral chelation spray, liver and colon cleanse supplements, and a strong vitamin and mineral complex as well. Also, drink plenty of water and get at least 30 minutes of exercise in per day.

Awaken Nutrition is a company devoted to the idea of a neurologically and physiologically well-balanced individual. Their thorough research and development, and dedication to providing the very best nutritional supplements possible for those who are experiencing chronic toxicity and need immediate treatment is garnering praise from doctors as well as users of their products! Why not experience health, wellness and true vitality with Awaken Nutrition and their oral chelation spray today!

This easy-to-use oral chelation spray works for anyone with heavy metal toxicity - most of us - and is also formulated to help neutralize the symptoms of autism and the autistic spectrum of disorders.

Visit Awaken Nutrition today, and get away from mercury and heavy metal toxicity and on the road to vitality and overall wellness!

http://www.AwakenNutrition.com

http://www.AwakenTest.com

See the True Evil and Horrors Perpetrated by Terrorist State of Israel!

2009-02-24T12:15:00.000-08:00

Here’s one more glimpse behind the media wall of whitewash and kid-gloving of what the worst terrorist state on earth - Israel - is doing to the people WHOSE LAND IT OCCUPIES AND HAS SINCE 1948. These victims of the Israeli war machine are truly innocent -women and children, mostly - and the images are graphic. Are you prepared for the truth? prepared to put pressure on your own government (I’m speaking to Americans and Israelis) to stop this destruction and bring the TRUE terrorists to justice? And don’t give me any crap about “the Palestinians started it” or “they deserve it”, okay? Their nation - Palestine - was obliterated after the newly created nation of Israel stole its land and country and now routinely persecutes, maims and kills those who don’t walk lock-step with the fascist, separatist, wicked, evil Israeli plan. Shut off your TV and Fox news and all the propaganda and see real truth - if you can handle it. And check out the whole www.pakalert.wordpress.com website for the truth.

Truth about Israel

Sutra Mask Ecstasy

2008-10-25T17:02:00.000-07:00

Postulator of marimba'd islands, putator of crepuscular lands,
striped withal that zebras make of Serengeti grass,
Giraffed and birded bluely, slaked and spotted
With these lustful visions,
Pertaining to ruptured planets' frissons,

Capacitor untimely, but with cadence of time,
Jeroboams unloaded of ancient brine,
Last chapters rendered first told the crime -
Happy songs ending the Curse we climb

Shadow the crow, sing death a song,
Forget all you know, elongating
The sepulchre where life belongs.

Sarong of Goddess blown gently in golden dusk,
Stenciled with a thousand centuries' journeys' cups,
Full of feeling on spice-hewn evenings, we of new myths
Fall! Blue treasure, how adored are you, how we call!
warm reluctance of summers staying, braised, lost
Treasure-trove of years stung backward, veiled
No more in the travesty's lucre.

Inglorious, round days of pain
Stirring me awake with imagined glares -
Of stabbing sun and rakish mews,
Pets that turn soft sleep to rue.
Irascible wanderings, imprisoned, harboring
tough truth with tiny jaws clenched.
Your Persian eyes find us a ziggurat of perfection,
Signifying sore lands with bright tears!

Two Europe Poems and Thoughts on America

2008-07-16T11:24:00.000-07:00

Parisian Madrigal

How can I sweat so in this coolness?
The demure, sagacious air
swims brightly
Through my brain, as the world invents sidewalks
I must hulk along to get my piece in the sweaty coolness
I saunter, my paramour bouncing at my arm giddily
As we wing it through old Europa to find a cause or sensation
or freeing little morsel of fun along the grand Metro of this
LIFE. Paris, she is a divine lady, and old whore of knowing,
Sensualities, hanging up every painting she can to
Validate genteel living.
The price of chocolat chaud is a sin, however
But she cares not, & her boulevards reek of Spring’s dusty blooms
Redolent as a subway tube full of bitter joviality, business,
History and innuendos of all stripes.

Does she know Rimbaud sleeps beneath the gravel
of Charleville now, and that I can hear his sardonic chortle
as I imagine him pondering this crashing, speed-drunk world?
“Merde!” he still yells, and the walkways are full of it, in his
Native town, and - what a burlesque exhibit they’ve made of him,
though fitting it may be. The pretty river Meuse for a birth or
An escape....such sleeping sidewalks full of shit need liberation
Or hard rains to wash away the learned apathy.
O cauldron of forgetting, you cannot burn this one away....His maps are
Forever true.
Ahh....

Down in Amsterdam

(Dutch roads only. Thronged, it was.
Salacious despair, though nautical leaves sodden the portholes
of gawky strollers with tragic falls.
I kept a few in my pocket-of-minds, clearing the dykes.
We Holland drew across and tried with long smells.
Very hardy were the feet of the town & her johns. Cobblestoned
but unconditioned, enjoying the rock n’ roll smoke of sedate
fearless love. Hello, mate. A look & a beer & maybe more.
Bright tulips in the whitewashed Monday house of clouds ignore.)

Why pay? Walk. Amstel and across, and down. Unfavored, who
Shouted the best & youngest vacation in the public square or its
Vestiges? Did an immigrant stare pull sales? Wondered.
Wind sweeps the lowlands’ coves & levees like an unseen lover -
And so we dream. Of tulips and ice creams & breakfasts in
Europa’s leafy heaven. Anne Frank would want it this way.
The whores and druggies? No.

July 15, 2008

From somewhere high over America...

Usa in her death throes;
Secured herself into her cage, and the attendants sneer.
Usa is a blind, half-deaf maniac
Watered the peasants, and un-watered
Safe, secure, life, liberty,
Now a sad cartoon only.
Walking through Usa in her death throes,
A country I had once known,
Though now no bird trills, even where a liberty bell
In this town of freedom’s birth
May have sung.

O perilous catarrh of bumbling, nonsensical
slaves;
And more piling in, and the tough-badged
officials who leer at liberty
And fire the death-ray check machines,
What is there for it? For this?
We are - mark it well - are our own worst enemy.
The turbaned arch-fiend never tripled the
Bureaucracy, then called it, this destruction
of the good country,
“Mission Accomplished”.

To Usa in her heavy death throes I sing,
“Why?”

My Life/Fable-Fugue

2008-05-08T13:29:00.000-07:00

Short story - My life

Each year is a word. Each word is a century. Each sound a milleneum, as disorder pounds the blood into our ears.

Boy music school outside sun wandering first love lake. The story gives and the story takes. Un-performing adolescent judged negative by the negators; jailed, I fled and walked among the gators. Heavy planes burned the sunset, artless lives hung art and hid away. I was listening and watching like a scientist. Taking notes on their duplicitous ways.

Then, love ripped my heart in half. I split. All old love dissolves and becomes part of the sun again. Gone, I went to the sea and lay down beside her.

Fable-Fugue

The Lost Boys just in from their island,
Have picked up Cinderella from the ball,
And echoing in the forests of Manhattan
Are the cries of burning gall, melodious,
Shaking our bitten souls. And here comes
Lady Godiva, naked as the day is high,
In love with Heathcliff and Lord Byron,
But who will get her hand, and why?
The Duchess of Windsor spills her tea
Out on the tiles, as the wolf sits and smiles,

And packs of roaming crusaders look the
Gorgon in the eye! And Andromeda saunters
Down Main Street, an Okie has her spied -
All these souls and then some, swarming
The markets and the zoos, throwing down
Cards and tea leaves, to get a beat on me and you.
Come, join the great experiment, Grendel’s
Gone for good they say. Don’t worry about
Admission, you don’t have to pay.
But bring your coins for the boatman
When at the river you’ve lost your way.
He’ll get you to Valhalla, or where Mother Mary
Lays.

Whatever you believe, life and death what you
Create. So, sing a song to the sun tomorrow and
Today! Make love, make life, make money, make
Time. Make yourself from molded clay,
all is yours and mine…