Thursday, October 29, 2009

Collapsing The System
By Glenn Beck:,2933,570151,00.html

It would be a nightmare come true, but the argument seems to be rational. What is the White House doing to America?


Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Two haiku:

looking out my kitchen window

first real snow today
and first real cold this autumn
bearded white mountain



burn on my fingers
consequence of impatientce
this hunger within

Vivere disce, cogita mori

What power in the fallen leaf
Or in the piney tomb
What faith makes up the stone’s belief?
Or echo shriveled womb

The empty sky with waning moon
Reflecting the sun’s burn
The echo in the now cold room
His presence and her yearn

This spider’s web of tattered silk
And wasted ear of corn
The aged breast that bears no milk
That wind that shakes the morn

A shrunken skull and grinning mask
With scythe and bony palm
The harvest thresh his final task
That death applied as balm

Where’s the escape from this bleak place
The path we all must trod
If I alone fill this small space
Who plays the part of God?

If man is made to suffer this
If all we are is here
Why bother thoughts for these we’ll miss
Why anything held dear?

There’s power in the fallen leaf
And power in the tomb
The stone believes the stone’s belief
The resurrective womb

Believe for sake of your belief!
The soul is made to live
and binding Gilead balm relief
Is Christ’s alone to give

So carry on though veil of tears!
walk fields of bittersweet
Past roaring vales and quiet fears
To loved ones you will meet!

This here is not all we will be
Nor all that we will feel!
There is another plane to life
One ultimate and real

Bear up the pack of stones so sued
Bind up your thorny side
These God himself did give to you
Chin up, march on with pride!

There is no death in fallen leaf
Nor climax in the tomb
God's faith is what the stone believes
That craftsman of the womb


Thursday, October 22, 2009

"I want to know God's thoughts; the rest are details."
-Albert Einstein

autumn again
and myriad manifestations surround me
the falling leaves outside
and spilling indoors
the harvest orange and yellow and red
these colors spoken in bottled fruit

what change
maturing ellipse through each day
the year strolling on in whispering steps
our earth 'round the sun
warming and cooling, orange and blue
the swing of gravity to the poles

patient canvas
each blade as delicate as placental vellum
the wind ever the artist
and each new beginning bud
from delicate opening to wind dried dropping
the masterwork of the skies

warm sweaters
by whatever etymology or nomenclature
turtleneck or aran, jumper or jersey
these thick woolly knittings speak of autumn
across thick hirsute lips
their blurred speech the mumbling of centuries

autumn again
and all these languages the season speaks
are laid out as evenly as the Rosetta stone
from 'glyphs to Egyptian to Greek
the soft translation of an artisan
colors construed on every medium

8:27 pm

Monday, October 19, 2009

Blair and Leroux

If fairy tales can bring a thought
to teach us all of stench and rot
perhaps those words so penned by men
can wash away the stains of sin
the reddened flag, the crupper winch
will only keep you in it's pinch
it will not lead you to the green
those rolling pastures that you've seen
read on and listen to my tale
of freedom and the great yard sale.

'To Socialism!' the toast
so roaring on
and reverb carried
by crowded throng
the porcine hoof
the blunted snout
rewriting truth
and blotting out

'To Progress!' the call
rolling roughly now
they rape the land
and eat the chow
the furrowed head
considering change
the tweaking cord
the coat of mange

'For Motherland!' the command
so evenly barked
once gathering song
now whippingly snarked
that double chin
and sagging brow
its glutton's sin
who owns us now

'Mutual Ownership!' the goad
and jabbing thrust
to broken side
and shattered trust
those whited fields
and promised wheat
these never came
nor eaten meat

'All Enslaved!' the truth
thus never told
instead of sharing
that communal gold
a leaf rubbed here
and pasted there
the thinnest smudge
to beguile their care

'Hickory Smoked!' the catch
and when so done
so worked to death
under beating sun
the butchers block!
the throat thus slashed
slave blood runs down
at last so cashed

'For Freedom!' the call
that truth so rare
allow the failure
each individual care
own bootstraps straining
upon this soil
for each to achieve
alone they toil

And books of thoughts so fairy-like
begin to take the shape of shrike
their beady eyes, their sharpened beaks
till all we give are weakened shrieks
rise up you fools and tell them no
we'll not have social communes grow
stay free and live, keep free as you die
this all is nothing if you'll not try
be true, be proud, be at liberty now
or you'll be bleeding, that fresh stuck sow.


Tuesday, October 13, 2009


twenty-four hours awake
well, twenty-three if that nap in the car counts
thunder and lightning waking me
struck moments of childlike terror and counting
one one thousand, two one thousand, three
yesterday I walked in the morning
today I'll sleep instead;
no liquid light pouring down
that gold is hid by clouds
blue and gray and blue
my gold instead the light of a burning bulb
sixties hood, sixties range,
in this, my old apartment.
twenty four hours awake
well, twenty-three if that nap in the car counts
dreams and illusions speaking to me
percussed moments of lucidity in the madness
one one thousand, two one thousand, three


Wednesday, October 07, 2009

I am wondering why we are buying oil from the middle east when we have Alaska and a place like this:

Doesn't it smell fishy that this report is 18 months old and all we hear is so many rants about global warming?

Why not unstopper some of those well caps and help the damn recession by lowering the cost of gas?

Not to mention that we are sending billions of dollars to the middle east.

Share your thoughts...


Tuesday, October 06, 2009

Read the commentary by Chris Rock, brilliant!


Oh the convulted financial webs we have woven for this country. I believe a great growing pain will have to visit us before we can pull our heads out of our collective arses.

Pray for us folks, God is still listening.


Sunday, October 04, 2009

The Bell and Gorecki

Reprisal; I struggle to find one tonight
and emptied out of my selfishness, feel pity
only pity. and a smear of self-loathing
brush strokes across this canvas
a million points and strokes,
twenty five years of this thorn!

I wish my malaise were outward
instead of this inward
that I had leprosy, and decaying,
would walk amongst you all with a bell
welded 'round my neck
A chanson of elegy 'unclean, unclean!'

The Son of Man descended below all
am I greater than He? Nay, never! Nay~
yet this stone of years,
this great miller's masonry
these comminutes wear at my soul.
Paul too, had a hidden thorn

One that God only knew
The woman with an issue of blood
the Bible is rife with example
and life is rife~
I've not lost a limb to landmine
nor been gassed in a chamber

Or my little ones torn away.
Why then this pain at these pains?
Boo! I would shoo the demon I feel lurking
had I any compulsory power
his flitting shadows which darken my light
darken my glass.

When will I see face to face?
what day my sadness transmogrified?
If Christ unwrapped the shroud
rolled back the stone
and stood
then so should I, at least try to emulate

Despite the fact that he knows every tomfoolery of mine
every wound implicitly,
He's felt each muttered curse, each selfish sneak,
the ill stench from the midden pile of my life
full in his nose when he faced the garden,
the lash, the thorn, the cross.

How could He bear it?
He bore it without reprisal.
Speaking nothing, except for others
'Mother, behold thy son' and 'Father forgive them'
How I would have worn my voice away in curses at those Centurions!
railing out in my anger that they could not defeat me

That I would be dead but awaiting in Elysium
with a gladius in hand to administer their second death!
Christ changed all that, took all the ills
the bloodletting, the whoredoms, the deceit
He took it all
bore a weight greater than that atlas could ever tire of

shouldering these finite squabblings from finite menin His infinity;
these pains counted down to the mite~
and changing the brush strokes, ever so subtly
turning the sin He bought and knew to His bones,
into a masterpiece

That leper's bell thrown unneeded to the dust!
That hem for my issue of blood to be healed!
Those forceps for this thorn to be pulled!
This roof thus opened, and I let down into His midst!
Those demons commanded to swine and the sea! and
This garden to plant a mustard seed.