Ode to South America's Pacific Coast, more precisely, the Galapagos Islands, where true passion lives. Little man, deem yourself a moral coward next to the Galapagos iguanas.
In the Galapagos, the iguanas do the unimaginable. Slip and slide, they descend volcanic slopes, defying cremation from instant burps, defying crashing avalanches all about, putting their reptilian hides at risk.
That little man, is true devotion to species, 'cause that's what the iguanas are doing, going down to lay eggs in a lava warmed incubator. Take note little women --- quick to get pregnant, quick to abort. How far do you go for your unborn?
That's Survival 101 as taught the iguanas by Evolution. In the meanwhile, a bevy of terrorists in the Upper Bronx a bomb in a briefcase, nuke New York City, a first since Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Suddenly, Iraq has reached us.
Few are the luxuries that equal plumbing Marvelous is the technology which brings us CNN; the warm assurance that a humongous tsunami in distant Sumatra can never reach our Jersey Shore.
Few are the innovations that rival television, virtual banquet for dormant brain cells. You like clowns? We got them of every hue. You want preachers? They abound.
You feel horny? We got shakers of the mammary humping flag poles As for me, I prefer a tamer fare. So, I turns me on to a western coast South America drama:
A growth emerged from trodden path, and so as not to dismember it under foot or by rotating mower blade, I moved it closer to the inner fence.
And there it stood and there it grew, and there I saw it bloom one day, as I walked down to the shed, again, to retrieve yet another tool.
I paused to ask the plant her name She said to me, "My name is Brides, for I am virgins, and all my petals are perfumed."
It's been a time since I, the gardener, walked thereabouts, and from my nap of earth of now, I wonder if said encounter ever happen, or was it just a wishful thinking?
Resonance, mates, let us seek; to still winds that need be stilling; to tell and see a misplaced mountain relocate.
Like a child, that rope in hand, skips in cadence, and twirling loops (quick time or slow) she commands --- to prove what? That her powers are pure happenstance?
God forbid, I dare tempt (or test) such weighty matters. Instead, spirit filled, faith filled submit me I to: Life, Way and Truth.
Riveters shooting steel where normal humans dare not tread construction workers on high beam stunts we owe much to Joe Hardhat
Clanging iron, the next step up skyscrapers rising taller by the hour we owe much to engineers we owe much to hands that work
This city my city, New York City is layered in geological and human doings The island of Manhattan was carved by glaciers, and neath our streets we have the world of cables
Our first tenants were Redmen Then, came Dutch and English after When I speak Bronx, you can't tell if I'm Jew or Irish
JFK (the President) said, "Ich bin ein Berliner." Make no mistake about it, Abigail is a New Yorker born and bred where the estuary in two divides; Hudson River to the West, Harlem River to the east.
At the southern tip, the land-grip of Twin Towers, flashing codes of world commerce and then, one day...destruction Burn in hell Mohammed Ata.
It was New Year Eve, 1978 The last movie posted on the marquee would be, John Travolta and Olivia Newton John's, "Grease." The audience numbered five lonely hearts No popcorn in hand, no popcorn in mouth... nothing better to do on an Ole Year's night.
The concessionaire stand had already been crated Television had sealed the movie house's demise a generation earlier There was a time, you could make out all afternoon in its balcony Two full length movies, newsreels, cartoons...and vaudeville
In the weeks and months and years post closure, the boarded up theater took on the appearance of a crypt Till one good day, an investor had an idea. Remove the planks from its doors and exits, fumigate the joint from top to bottom, dress it in blood red velvet rechristen it, "The Little House of Horrors."
Two blocks from the ocean off Atlantic Avenue where hired part time workers play ghouls and goblins Halloween, 52 weeks a year.
we crossed the heavy seas on dingy the waves towered...you were pregnant we're both in fear of capsizing, at the next slap to broadside us.
the sharks circle we put on brave faces for sake of crew and passengers
decades later, a bed is detached from emergency wall nurse pushes you prostrate through emergency surgery doors intravenous bags sway overhead. overhead the florescent slip like blurred memories of omen fish
says the nurse, "time to say goodbyes." we kiss as christians should. are we scared? not on a dime. am tearing streaming brokenhearted, though
we put on brave faces for sake of crew you and i are, we're finally one, beyond fear at last. courage is trick of mind over panic a skill picked up along the way
Grace, however, is absence of fear. Grace is gift from God
I should have seen you coming Instead, I soaked in the unseasonably warm weather. I did not see the momentary frown over Hatteras I took no note of its passing darkness It was my periodic escape from Charlotte to the siren call of Kill Devil Hill
Started the nor'easter with drizzle into the weekend increased to deluge wind and lightning contending transformers popping down the blustery coast goodbye to late night television's friendly ghosts so long to internet chatter and virtual love.
The upside to inclemency of weather is the sharing of skin under layer of blankets of spouses who have long forgotten how much can be erected from a casual touch in utter blackness.
Ain't this romantic, candle lit hallways and toilets... Our silent glances measuring each others responses to the spill off from the lake (like the shadow of death) inching itself up our the driveway. A triple "NO," the Goddess Electric is far more desirable.
I found my heart in desert country In place desired neath spiraling heavens, we became acquainted again.
Like spiraling arms of dancing, giant squid, like liquid sing of courting whales, the desert country by sea once covered, I found the place upon a cliff.
I bare my soul, Professor Norbis, you, Knight Errant, of The 1001 Arabian nights. In Tucson, you help me unload the station wagon. Far from the markets of Istanbul, here in desert country, I have the space to give to you anew.
To rid myself, at last, of excess carried from as far away as Casablanca. Before then, Haifa. Before, then, God knows where the wanderings of a Sephardi
I, the anglicized Yasmin, the proper speaking Abigail, bares the soul. Friendship to the O. Norbis. The trunk, its contents to the Salvation Army.
Russell Strokes was having a bad year the Wednesday he looked out the window of his third floor, Amsterdam Avenue apartment,
and caught sight of Peter Lu on the street below. Peter Lu, Owner and Manager of Quik 4 U Laundry and Dry Cleaning.
Through the glass pane, Strokes shouted: "Hey you stinking, goddamn Chink, you're putting too much starch in my underwears."
In the company of wife and children, Mr. Lu conveniently ignored the insult. Furthermore, he recognized the voice as that of a regular pain in customer relations.
Strokes kept on ranting, when suddenly Lu felt an arm three stories' length, lock onto his right shoulder blade.
Alright, already, stick and stones may break my bones. Words shall never harm me, but don't dream of ever threatening my family.
Lu was about to apply a Shogun thumb to the aggressor's thorax, which would have been severely disabling, especially, to one so filled with smoke and trash.
What occurred next was as unexpected as it was unsightly. Stokes mysteriously fell out the window of his third floor Amsterdam apartment,
and on impact, his skull separated terribly into yolk and severed pieces. Such is the fate of violence unwelcome and unjustified.
Never saw a sky I didn't wanna stroke. Never saw a moon I wouldn't wanna lick, or in the absence of licking, never saw a moon I wouldn't wanna kick... lovingly, of course, wanna kick.
I'm admittedly a pushover for pretty, a hapless romantic, hopelessly outdated. What to do, oh what to do...
Surrender to the moment, sucker. for it, too, shall past as it is written.
I have a question, does love thy neighbor as thyself apply to neighbors who are in the midst of ethnic cleansing?
Raping our sisters our daughters and mothers butchering every male they can find?
I'm a purist, so I say Yes, love they neighbor does apply even in such dire circumstances.
Therefore, I pray send us tons of ammo and high powered rifles, that we may exorcise these demons who have taken possession of our poor and otherwise lovable neighbors.
Smoke climbs the rafters through the industrial skeletons and out leaky, homestead roofs. Fog hugs the ridges where memory buries contrition, and bells peel hollow truths.
A whistle's blow ends the night shift. Friday lapses into Saturday. Another Sunday happens. Preacher Man clears his throat. We all join in on cue.
The croaky ones, and little ones, the chronic coughing ones and those flat tonal deaf. Amazing Grace Appalachian style
Be not deceived, you are the center of the universe, at least the center of your own. Everything you know or will ever know connects through you-know-who. You, of course. Who else!
You are the center, triangular and imponderable, the peg hole in your square. You are, you r, u really arrr.
---But what about love? What about love? Before you knew the term existed you perceived its charge and discharge ---Ain't that a bit cynical? Let me tell you something:
I'm an atheist, We atheists are scientific minded. You can't prove, we just don't buy. Especially, we don't believe in you-know-who.
Learn from the lioness who does not chase will nilly gazelles all over Africa, but waits instead the wobbly cow to down and fillet it pretty
I know a cat in Weehawken with a knack for timing Wall Street. I ses to him; How do you do it? He replies; I've incurred many a screw-up.
And with that, he does not say another word After three minutes of vacuum between us, I break the ice; So what are you saying, Earl? He whispers as if betraying secrets of state: "It takes a lot of soul searching to get it right."
Esteem the cool shade and place of quiet study the privacy of our secret dwelling where intruders do not enter the hidden sanctuary of introspection the high ground of our gossip
Learn from the spider Learn from focused labor Learn from the monitoring of movement
Learn from the cat of when she crouches, seems to me from granite fashioned.
With a sub zero blast out of Minneapolis, the new Ice Age commences, which is why Channel 5 hired me to keep you stitched to your sofas while you await the prime time sit com
I am the forecaster of mercurial weather the kiss of which is presently icing the whole of Honduras
We're coming at you, live with Super Dobbler radar. Better put on your wet suit. There's a hurricane blowing in from Missouri.
My train arrives on time during the month of January In February, however, it's five cars short --- wouldn't you know it. In March, the same. Grin and uck it. Five cars short in the height of July, will make for sweaty claustrophobia, then.
In April, the train leaves homeward bound, 5 cars short, a fat momma sitting snugly by my window, A whopper and ten pounds of french fries on her lap, Twelve more years of this before I retire at 69. And that's a mighty "if"--- if I don't push till I'm 87.
Five cars short repeats in May Cottonwoods late in blooming It's getting hotter by the mile Two more stops and it'll be 2012 Yep, you got that right, I am tripping!
Eleven more years to go, and back to Tennessee, mint juleps and hanging out with the boys You're right --- I ought to quit right now while there's still time
I've been riding buses and trains since I was knee high to my mother on many an errands with her once under the elevated line through the Bowery where on every street congregated alcoholics, stumbling dizzily in the sorry state of zombie, bolts of sunlight flashing their movements from the trusses overhead.
How many poets were among them, their grievances moon shine distilled and bottled? On Third Avenue when I was 10, on the way to be fitted for a first Communion suit.
Later, much later I'd cross the Pampas, west to east, south to north, hauled by restlessness and smokey locomotives up the backbone of the Andes to the lunar landscape of Potosi.
The planet seems to me to be a massive railroad terminal, billions of people milling about, eyes some blue, eyes some night eyes of shattered mirrors, eyes of criminals and their victims
Am I still a hobo passenger, or have I been promoted to porter?
I fancy poetry, really I do... its rear view detachment to trauma and/or other emergencies
But show me a guy who can contrive a haiku while fleeing for his life from a machete-wielding crowd, that's the guy I'd wanna emulate.
Show me a bloke who can sonnetize an iceberg's luminous geometry as the Titanic slides through currents to its grave, that's a romantic zealot to envy.
It would be the last big shootout between settlers and Redskins on that desolate stretch of the Great Plains. A cattle baron by the name of Hawkins decides it's high time to end the tenancy of the aborigines. Clashes of culture and commercial interests have peaked The standing peace treaty needs revisiting.
On the last Thursday of November, 50 of the Baron's cowpokes ride thunderously towards a Sioux encampment, descending upon it like a brush fire. In less than an hour the eviction is complete. Not a tepee stands erect. Some of the victims die huddled. Mrs. Hawkins, family and friends watch from a distance.
Unbeknown to the adults, the kids had separated to view the day's events from a bit closer, and there in the heat of battle are massacred themselves. Mrs. Hawkins shall see the rest of her life in an insane asylum where she dies at the age of 52, as loony as the day she entered.
Jack Hawkins personally shoots the men responsible for the mishap, then turns the revolver on himself. His eyes had been deceived, mistaking the fruit of his loins for Indian kids. It was he who gave the order:
Kill every last one of them, including their dogs, and painted ponies.
Suddenly, I'm surrounded by bikers by the dozens on snorting, growling Harley Davidsons. Helmeted, bearded and smelly looking they have expression of angry Vikings.
Are we all headed to the same convention, Queer Americans for Peace?
In passing me, their horned leader gives me the finger; the following slogan emblazoned on his jacket: BLAME IT ON GOD.COM
Jews, Italians, Puerto Ricans The Dots --- how I call the Hindu people The Slanted Eye ones --- how I call the Oriental people the Nubians ---how I call the darkest pigment people
The people from Eng-land and Ire-land and Hol-land all the peoples, we are the people the E Pluribus Unum
How dare they intrude upon my solitude to sell me vials of oil and sticks of incense these peddlers on the subway while bound am I to my apartment cavern I read the Confessions of Saint Augustine
And here we are the bunch of us brought by force or pushed from every island continent clowns and felons and captains of industry bankers and pirates and pedophiles
We talk business and late night trash If we love, we'll love you to death if we don't, we'll smart bomb you to pieces
The dragonfly is aptly named, a dragon in every respect, whose romance with damsel kind more than turbulent is often fatal, a fulfillment that freak men sometimes seek.
Coffee mug in hand I am about to counsel a co-worker who suspects his wife is horning him
In Ancient Spain, adulterous women were buried alive between two walls. In Ancient Israel and certain Muslim countries, even today, they are stoned to death.
Just then, you'd never guess what happens next, the remains of a plane exits an elevator clear through the other side.
I am attentive to turning in an honest day's performance I am hygienic in my bathroom rituals I do my Russian best to speak grammatically I am adverse to using foul language Ecologically, I am a Mother Teresa.
In the coziness of sub zero weather, up close to the radiator, on the wait for the news at 7, the networks make me thankful I ain't in Cambodia, Cuba or Slowvakia. I have modern comforts, I have Paris Hilton candy for my eyeballs.
Watching men in a cage beat themselves bloody, I deal with my personal demons vicariously. I then am sanctified by the likes of Jimmy Swaggart. Why not you only live once!
I have a hankering for pornography? Cable (believe me) has a hugh selection at bargain prices. Bored by the above, I switch to educational TV, to discover Jim Jones documentary.
Jim Jones is one wild and crazy preacher who convicts his parishioners into accepting that mass suicide is preferable to being duped by Babylon. Say I, why not play Babylon instead of letting Babylon play you. Heck, you only die once.
I believe that if Jim Jonestown had had the internet; had the parishioners been Facebook subscribers; had they've been enthusiastic tweeters instead of stupidly listening to the preacher, the collective suicide would not have transpired,
and I wouldn't be sitting here on my big, fat couch potato watching this wacky documentary on Jim Jonestown. Time to change stations. and sink my teeth into some real drama, the likes of Alfred Hitchcock Presents.
Just a few lines from abroad, Mathilde, to let you that I arrived safely.
First impressions: A quaint place is this republic though sultry and distinctly backwards --- probably a factor of climate.
The natives will probably need to meet an Ice Age for them to cool down, and be launched into the 22nd century. Were it not for ice, Europe may not have expanded.
In Africa's water holes, neath blue tinged skies of tenderloin, dragons lurk submerged to snatch distracted beasts at drink's last binge of thirst.
In these evaporating pools abides, alongside the famished crocodiles, a normally peaceful herbivore, the absolutely Hippopotamus who would no more go carnivore than could a python be convinced to sing the lead role of Aida..
Crocks know to keep hippos at a distance, for the latter's weight and size outranks the crock's own nasty disposition; which is to say, if you're size xxx and some one's wild idea of a banquet, you better have fearsome jaws. Take it from yours truly, who herself is like a hippo.
To whom I whisper against the pillow, who I wrestle to come to terms, pray forgive me for what I'm about to do.
Tried I have but I know not how much longer can be restrained in this strait jacket of my own volition worn so I won't go wrong again .
I wonder, you victims past, present and future, if criminals like me can can ever be rehabilitated. Granted, this is a fairy tale.
Pretty please, society, give me a break, a break of the neck, a lethal injection or a kindly lobotomy under heavy sedation. I'm simply a desperate guy leaning not as heavy as I could on a little Red Riding Gal.
Thus spake Wolf after the home invasion of Grandma's cottage.
