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.