Abbreviated History of Colonialism

It's only a dream, a burp in subconscious digestion.
A crystal sphere hold within it the universal sign for love.
The sphere and the heart sign rotate in opposite directions.
It's only a dream, so don't complicate it.

There are 365 curves down to the beach,
where the natives go to sun. Ages ago,
great balls of stones of unknown craftsmen
washed ashore on these very beaches.

This was before the arrival of seafarers,
whose spears discharged fire and thunder,
stunning the loin cloth people into submission
for over 10 generations.

The present inhabitants,
the blends and bends of cultures,
travel down to the beach in antiquated buses,
reminiscent of Mad Max vehicles.

Gran Hotel

Down in the Plaza of Culture,
beneath my third floor hotel room till Monday
flows the energy of city chaos.

Tooting horns,
wailing sirens
the midnight silly.

The parrots fly down from the hills at daybreak,
and take squawk over city central.
The street vendors chant the numbers they are selling.

Lovers peck on park benches oblivious of pedestrian traffic,
which confirms that the notion of romance
is nothing more than the corny foreplay.

Insistent I have always been to mate only
with intellectual equals, which explains why I am single,
awaiting Prince Neanderthal.

Jack of Spades

Before the popularization of the internet,
flights of fantasy were the exclusive domain
of great inventors, Disney cartoon characters,
despots and saints.

Web is now everybody's portal to infinite possibilities
Our collective intelligence is the god of all spiders,
Now is the time to make contagious
our fondest hallucinations.

Queen of Clubs

No worries about shelter or subsistence.
Is this heaven or socialism?

And yet my soul craves for something more.
Monday to Sunday, I find no fool to entertain me for long.

Gulag the entertainers!
Cry The Beloved Country? Bet your jollies, not this time!

Cold Turkey

Silence reaches depths
silence enters realms
idle mouthing has blocked for years

Be emptied says an inner voice
The ear responds, Mapovia dear,
get off the medication.

In The Flicker

I rise to her, Queen that she was, Marlene Dietrich, she of the legs,
nicotine muse whose angel light could blink a city,
as she did, Berlin to Hollywood.

Lola Lola of gaslight blues, who fired up my nocturnal Siberias;
her silver voice, a drone for sure, flew from out of the wings
of darkness.

In seance, I ask the Goddess what was her favorite movie.
Perhaps, Rancho Notorius. What my dismay, the one I thought,
she hardly can remember.

This proves the point: We girls, be we young or be we old,
swan neck dames or weathered babushkas,
nature has endowed us thespians.

The roles play,
we alone can rate them,
duds or killers.

The same with suitors who pursued us true,
might run a distant second to the scamps
who left us standing at the altar.

Post 911

Whispered I, a Goy,
to one of prominent side locks.
(he looked at me suspiciously,
might have been my turban):

Sir, you are obviously an Ultra Orthodox Son of Moses
therefore, familiar with biblical Hebrew.
There are two verses I often repeat in the lingo
but am unsure as to their proper pronunciation.
Would you please give a listen and fine tune me, please?

He did and the pronunciation has improved.
I would not approach an Ultra Orthodox in this manner
anywhere but in an airport, where it may be preassumed
passengers have been adequately searched for weapons.

Try It

Should I be bothered because for no good reason
my brother is pissed with me?

What could I have said, what could I have done,
that was not pure vintage me?

I'll not plead innocence
I'll not ask forgiveness for mishaps of which I'm ignorant.

If I'm grumpy,
senior citizenry has its privileges, has it perks.

I have a solution to erasing any bad blood
between my brother and I. Fold up the matter 13 times.

Bind it good and tight,
weigh it down with concrete boots,

drop it in an imagined bottomless sea,
from which no unearthly power can trawl it back up.

That simple?
That easy, try it!

Heart, Mind and Spirit

Religion and Science have this in common;
they are coy about asking difficult questions.

Do I consider myself scientifically minded? For sure!
I begin with the premise, God is all.

Do I consider myself religious as well? Indeed I am,
in need of no rituals, no special location, no special affiliation

to love Creator, heart,mind and soul.
Difficult questions, they're always there.

Slow Motion Slide

Wind stirs,
leaves rustle,a petal tumbles
a circular flight of pigeons settles

The old man's pulse taps cadence.
Gravity beckons. Time trips him.
Again, he's back on his feet.

Merry-go-Chase

Age makes reasonable
today's radical youths
will be tomorrow's passive retirees.

Subsequent generations fly to the rescue
to right the wrongs we didn't.
They, too, are entitled to screw things up
some more.

Paces

Give me poems with flesh on their bones
though lighter fare sometimes suffices
like that of visions floating stiffly,
of white lipstick and makeup thickly.

Please, don't make them to Stephen Kingish
impaled bloody on old Maine steeples.
Please poem me instead in a gentle speak,

not a Poe of Tell Tale Hearts,
nor cries me of weather vanes spinning contrary
to nor-easterners turning keel up fishermen husbands.

Don't haunt me nights with the ghostly fair Leonora
drowned in frothy sea, her lockets tossed
ever before she saw the bringer bring
the crimson carnations of her menstrual cycle.

Halfway to Chinatown

The 7 foot transvestite could have played center for the Lakers,
of waist and thighs slender, of buttocks strong as an ox.

I wished the critter had remained in dream a genuine Amazon.
cause if in that narrow vent of night, feverish desires are not fulfilled
what provokes night after night sleep walker's indigestion?

Ilya

You might wonder why his lips are permanently pursed
---is right term for lips pushed forward as if to whistle?
It happened on a midnight drive from Suffolk to Pongo
when for the trip's duration he whistled "Dixie,"
a ploy he used to mitigate what nearly happened,
when in him surged the urge to bloody mayhem Nuda,

faithful bride of 20 years.

For no apparent reason,Nuda freaks out every now and then
and cursing gushes awful. Poor Ilya Andreiavich, what for him to do?
To slam a woman is not civil; to slam one as crazy as Nuda is wicket.
To get away from the temptation, Ilya does the haul to Pungo by the sea,
listening to radio, intermittently whistling "Dixie,
stopping at Stop and Go to re-stock beer,

and buying ticket that may win a million, maybe home to somewhere far.

Arriving at Pongo, Ilya goes barefooted onto the strand to share the sand
neath spiraling stars with homeless strangers coughing, groaning in the dark.
The sound of morning breakers awaken him in the grip of a mystery embrace.
Fortunately, for Ilya and Nuda, this tryst (unlike that of another time)
is but a middle age illusion amongst hermit crabs, huddled bodies,
ambitions abandoned and a washed in so much flotsam.

So back to Suffolk in the F-150 with dual exhausts.

How different it would have been,
were Nuda still playing viola
with string quartet in Mother Russia
and Ilya Andreiavich were still teaching calculus
to disinterested youths, future skinheads?
Tomorrow will be another year for the couple in self exile.

As for tonight, they watch in abject silence, The David Letterman.

She Flashes SOS

She walks the floor
flashlight in hand
seeking evidence
she's not sleepwalking

She flashes SOSs
from the bedroom window,
Nuda, the fruitcake
Ilya married

The Party Crasher

I am no hugger of men,
but when wind unexpectedly lifts my hair,
I welcome a masculine shoulder for support.
It's why I took your arm to cross the street

Thanks for the invitation to visit the mountain behind your house.
Some other time, perhaps. I must travel down to Chile, in the morn.
Before I do, I have a few things to tell you.
Let your guests go home, first.

Playing Chicken on A Country Road

Crack the shell,
a dash of cold sweat
downs the egg in one gulp.

Meals should be chewed 32 times per bite
but an egg's an egg, and there ain't much chewing there.

Hormonal slurp was the mix I saw
a case of piss-poor timing,
when neither Roy nor I chickened out

against a fool's I-double-dare-you.

Torque

The hollow in sound
absorbs the sounds without

It's the metaphorical black hole
for the poems that shall never unwritten.

Get Well Card to America

What a word, what a super duper concept!
Without delay, let's info commercial it!

S is for satisfaction
U for you all
C equals cash...and credit (of course!)
C for compute and compete your ass off
E is for enterprise, enticing and enveloping
S equals seduction
S is for your soul's salvation

Hurry up, America, let's get it on,
the world is waiting to exhale.

Bunker Proof

How you handle a crisis unveils your meddle.
Our nerves are shot from the steady bombardment.
We barely shut our eyes and when we do it's in a blink.

Lance Corporal Helmut Peters has had enough.
He defects to the other side waving his draws,
the coward's flag of truce. He'll see his.

Who would have guessed Die Meistersinger
would be played by a band of roving Mongolians
jumping around like apes.

The Russians are at the gate. The hour is now
to suicide or have our body juices ravaged
by lesser men.

Who knew it would end this way
after such an auspicious, non Jewish beginning?
Who knew, not I.

Preparing The Canvas

What shall be the canvas
for this midnight whispered mantra?

I'll hum it color,
textured thick to slim.

The scales river.
My mantra sings.

Like dawn finds worm,
dawn finds me,

no deeper dug
than when I began.

Vladimir

I met famous person two times, weeks apart, same year.
The first was decoy lookalike.
The second (real deal) did not look to me
like plastered billboard poster.

In first meeting, nothing consequential followed.
After second chance encounter, secret police came knocking.
They questioned me and Grandma what little girl was doing
so close to famous leader.

We sobbed we did not plan on Lenin being present
when Grandma sent Natasha for head of cabbage.
Comrades, what 9 year old has anything to say
about such errands, except to run to attic?

From Bottom Up

A piece of what?

A piece of planetarium artifact,
a memory telescopic in, a whiz, a moment,
a fractured comet, it could have hit a grazing goat,

it could have vaporized a planet.

What Shall Be This Mantra

Respect the memory of the big cat killed
Its turn had come not yours

Green the glaze of forest shakes
their canopies that shade the ground

Green the taste of living strong
sun and water bring to sound

Walk the steps of breath
inlaid trailing awakenings

Wishbone

Took to wet me finger
palms of hand to paint your torso
over night

in scissors cut,
stretched canvas
squeezed tube to blow the cap

airplane to us
explain to us
the physics of a kite

In Furrows

The flood of light is morning,
the leakage bring night
each riptides the other
upon the briefest kiss.

Neither dominates complete
in heaven sent,
male and female
traits.

Chamber Pursuits

Slow ingestion
smooth digestion
observation assembles tongue

blood pressure rising
delivers the message
sex on the elevator straightaway

Prozac

The ability to sustain focus and concentration
is the genie genius in your lamp.

Creative process (like posting poetry)
is salvation.

Get rid of the shrink,
get rid of the pills

get rid of the lover
who's giving you a complex

Frankenstein onThe Cutting Table

I'm prepared to say, "get on with it" to Father Time,
that mad German physician.

I'm prepared to see the world transition,
the which of which that in me hollers "murder."

Prepared am I to bid farewell
to memories evil and sentimental.

For the fish fry,
I am ready.

Buddha Floats Over A Lamp Post

Do not shun your skin.
See how naturally it ages.
like over the mountains comes the weather.

In acknowledged impermanence,
the heart purrs like a kitten,
the mind finds calm's first acorns.

Peeved?

I am not annoyed by what is beyond my range to fix;
officials who cater to lobbyist whores, and nationalism
--- the fine excuse for waging wars to secure more oil.

You want to follow lemmings?
Join a cult rich in pretensions
which forbids you to question the boss.

If I really, really wanted to be peeved, I'd look to
cell phone motorists driving retarded, and shopping delays
caused by junk coupons to save a dime, or buyers who can not add.

Be grateful for these.
Should push comes to shove,
they'll be the easiest to push off the cliff.

Satin Lady

Do you know how beautiful you are?
The way you dress is that your habit?

I dread you catch me staring,
you think me stalker.

Not for lust, but for beauty,
I shed these tears in private.

I Forgot I Brought A Camera

We went to feast our pupils on yon holiday fireworks
I thought them a foretaste of tentative immortality
colored stars in exploding, expanding spheres
whilst outside in, orgasmically contracting

Jester

I live in a cozy village,
whose cartoon citizens I cherish.
I do not... I shall not laugh at them in derision.

They keep me howling.
Laughter is good medicine.
Laugh hardy if you're still breathing.

This morning, the redhead Orangutan
steps out of his cottage, wearing the face
of Marilyn Monroe on his green pajama bottoms.

He gawks at the sky.
He pauses to scratch. Sure enough,
Three months of balmy weather remain.

Go twitter and tell.

Dysfunctional You, Dysfunctional Me

Crape myrtles in flower, white, violet and pink ---
cicadas rubbing their feet in summer's pledge of allegiance
to the flag and empire for which they stand (till it freezes.)

Paradise lost, the Gulf covered with oil.
At least, it's birth control for the mosquitoes.

Blame it on the misfit couple
who conceived us; she voluptuous,
he an ape,

both duped by a fallen angel,
a player of harp, worm of a snake,
plainly no good, absolutely evil.

Crown Our Caverns

Days like this are heaven sent.
I read in them childhood promises.

Love's prayer is heard,
the blessing fast approaches.

Sky beam down,
forest spirits speak.

Crown our caverns
with melting ice, waterfalls.

To All The Iron Crosses

We were shooting the breeze as guys tend to do,
when a disruptive silence intruded
that put us on edge.

Then Jim Boy entered into our midst,
and looking grim and disheveled,
announced the bad news,

that in a dusty action on a dusty plain,
by the remains of a decaying village,
Jim Boy had been blown up.

In combat (hand to hand or at sniper range)
You can be maimed more times than you're slain.
So let's rejoice for what's left survival.

Williams (who's good with words) said it right:
It's not becoming of veterans to cry like raw recruits.
Unending wakes dishonor the fallen.

Let us march forward, then, in the soldiers ballad,
the glory, gory mix of camaraderie, medals and ribbon
and spent munitions.

Her Tenuous Hold on Life

Because I'm still semi attached,
I'll describe her as I remember her;
physically an underdeveloped 16 year old,
hairdo in the imagined style of Joan The Warrior,

a face only France could produce every hundred years.

As regards affection, Cybil was fatal.
Were she to find in you some curiosity,
it would be but a passing fancy.
Her indulgences were not for gain,

not for kicks nor sadistic satisfaction.

What's a wick for, if not to light then to smother?
Her potter's wheel spun asexual,
and still she sculptured sensual.
Her dripping hands, her tapered fingers,

her foot persistently pushed the pedal,

the clay submitted willingly.
And me? I never was.
Cybil gave
and Cybil took.