At the request of nemo49, here is a villanelle that theoretically also provides some impressions of New Orleans. Although I have to admit, feeling rather Tom Waitsy at the moment, the picture I've chosen to put in the Viewmaster for this one is a bit on the sadistic side. But then again, Nawlins does have that contingent. Ya know, vampires and all. With bondo fangs and everything. Giving tours. Pointing out witches ... and strippers.

The air is thick with history, with years of sweat and toil.
Old ghosts play hide and seek in sheets that show more recent use;
The wiser tourists avoid alleys and shun Bourbon's roil.

Old men of different colors sit on their front steps and broil,
and stare across at one another, hearts filled with abuse;
the air is thick with history, with years of sweat and toil.

Some drunken fools careen along the street, in beads and foil
and pay five dollars to discover "where they got their shoes".
The wiser tourists avoid alleys and shun Bourbon's roil.

For two weeks in the spring, pre-Lent, the tense peace turns turmoil,
and you don't want to see OPP for the weekend, that's old news;
the air is thick with history, with years of sweat and toil.

If you look closely, underneath the surface, a slow boil
festers even in the minds of drunken revelers at Krewes.
The wiser tourists avoid alleys and shun Bourbon's roil.

So come to spend your money here; we'll throw our beads at you
and like as not you'll end up poorer but show no scar or bruise.
The air is thick with history, with years of sweat and toil.
The wiser tourists avoid alleys and shun Bourbon's roil.

29 JUN 2004

Take a slow breath.
Don't hold it long; let it go.
See, there is more air.

Take a good, long look;
Don't scan the scene too quickly.
See, there is so much.

Take a deep swallow.
Don't rush it; chew the liquid.
See how full you get.

Take a pause; listen.
Don't mind all the surface noise.
See, you can do it.

Now give it all back.
Of course you have to keep some;
so you've changed the world.

Take a short lesson:
Each moment is a treasure;
gold can't buy one back.

Breathe, look, drink, listen.
Become part of the whole world.
See --- you can't help it.

29 JUN 2004

Freedom of speech doesn't do any good
If no one has time to stop and listen;
Not that anyone actually could
Listen, with their mouths also open.

So I will stop talking, at least for a while,
and let everyone else have their say;
I will listen to the same things repeated
by countless others, who each think
they are repeating something for the first time
or that no one else has ever heard it.

And the quotations from third sources
(like reading the Bible and believing its happening to you)
will continue; with interpretations regurgitated
verbatim again and again.

But there is no point in me talking.
All I can describe is my own path;
I cannot begin to talk about yours.

And that's what you want, isn't it?
An atlas that shows where you could be going,
but doesn't make you describe where you are.
Where YOU are.
Not where your philosophy is at present,
or your political agenda,
or the lack or abundance of your education,
or the number of newsfeeds you can consume each day.

You can keep that frame of reference
for someone who wants to be hung on a wall.

It ain't me babe.

28 JUN 2004

We sit in circles, crop circles, like silver-clad heroes at Arthur's table, dark knights of the soul of verse, our words colliding in the jousts of wit and criticism. Is it the flame that draws us moths to it, and so we dance in the flickering candlelight, hoping to stay entranced and yet remain un-scorched? Like ashes on the forehead can remind us of our lone and bitter days, days when we thought "if I could only be accepted, if they would only listen" and so drank ourselves silly in the inconsequentiality of the moment, we titter, stumble, laugh and tumble against the cold, hard steel of our truths, our realities.

And in the end, we want of wealth, of fame, of power, of "don't I know you from somewhere" and "weren't you with...last seasons" and "oh, I thought your last...was simply marvelous" and so on and so forth and furthermore and insofar and even if it mattered, even just one smattering of an insignificant jot of ink that spilled on blotting paper or stained the index finger rather than died its immortal death on the crucifix of watermarks and typesetters' thorns - yes, even if that could save our tortured souls from waking in a world we could not evade with our descriptions, make light of in our comedic stances, would we want to pass it by, relinquish our hold on that which makes us realize how much we need to simply create, to form, to place under our power that experience of living, of dying, of falling down drunk in an alley watching our world crumble in half empty tea cups?

Written, it seems so concrete, so decisive and bold - yet it is the journal of a hallucination, created in our minds and carried out on the gurney of the flesh into the streets we barely recognize, and the stones in the pavement do not glint or glitter as we remember them, nor so brightly as they can.

An in our drunken haze we drop our curtsies and highballs half-full of the contraband elixir we consider our inspiration - and we ask for it by name in the password prose of prayer: give me three or four rounds of Dark (and often cloudy and thick swirling dark it is), and then a couple of clear and crystal Brights for the road, the road I must trod down in inebriated, lucid celebration of my inhibited yearnings. I want, I announce to the "wicked and expedient stones," the world of my choice, of my creation: a world where one can morally possess a mind and venture to speak it, a world where social conventions are gatherings of gregarious and yet not sheep-like folk who know not only which fork to use with the salad, but which one to take at the bend in the road that leads to funny or witty, separating dull chortles from mirthful laughter.

Laughter, yes, and tears that come from excess - these are the signs by which we will be known; and they shall sing our praises while they curse us, hound us for mementos while they scour the tabloids for our inadequacies, and read until the wee hours of morning each drop of saccharine and strychnine we draw from our veins with the prick of a vengeful pen.

1995

What is the point at which the conscience burns
and thus consumes the mind with thoughts to act,
that in its darkest recess for truth yearns
to separate illusions from the facts?

And the externals that provide the fuel,
that pile the planks under the stakes we seek
upon which to transfix ourselves as fools ---
how much do we require before we speak?

These embers that now scorch the gathered crowd,
how long before their heat is burnt to ash
and we, again, will curse the cold in loud
vehement wailing in the last light's flash?

How many will bewail both fire and dark
that dare disturb their dulled complacency
while others see engulfed in the first spark
the basic tenets of democracy?

And this conflagration we now build
to smoke some evil hornets from their nests ---
at what point will its appetite be filled?
Once it's begun, the bonfire knows no rest

'til it devours all things within its touch,
its raging tempest void of care or sense;
and then, too soon is gone without so much
as a faint flicker of experience.

Unless the fire outside is taken in
and used to fuel a greater flame inside,
the burning of externals is just din
that drowns out reasoning in fratricide.

So watch that flame with care that you ignite ---
with caution, choose your victims for the pyre;
and know that he who claims his match most right
is likely both mistaken, and a liar.

25 JUN 2005

Not that the incredulous person doesn't believe in anything. It's just that he doesn't believe in everything. Or he believes in one thing at a time. He believes a second thing only if it somehow follows from the first thing. He is nearsighted and methodical, avoiding wide horizons. If two things don't fit, but you believe both of them, thinking that somewhere, hidden, there must be a third thing that connects them, that's credulity.

Incredulity doesn't kill curiosity; it encourages it. Though distrustful of logical chains of ideas, I loved the polyphony of ideas. As long as you don't believe in them, the collision of two ideas --- both false --- can create a pleasing interval, a kind of diabolus in Musica. I had no respect for some ideas people were willing to stake their lives on, but two or three ideas that I did not respect might still make a nice melody. Or have a goot beat, and if it was jazz, all the better.

-- Umberto Eco, from Foucault's Pendulum

If I could in one word describe my road,
without digression through its tangent routes
or cataloging each and every node
that might be seen were I to map it out,

a single thing that clearly would detail
both how the trail and I got to this place,
despite the odds predicting I would fail
or in the search for truth, fall on my face,

then naming it would be of little use.
For if in a small segment of a line
the infinite whole world can be contained,

we may as well collect words as refuse
and think our days in study, wasted time,
a sentence where just empty space remains.

24 JUN 2004

Speaking hypothetically [which might mean communicating virtually by forcing directed bursts of recently inhaled oxygen-nitrogen-miscellaneous ethereal non-visible compounds to rise from within the air sac viscera through the windpipe and past a discerning set of vocal chords (say, a G-major-minor-7 flat 5) under the epiglottis and over the taste buds the river and somewhere behind grandmother's house oh what big teeth you have and then out into the void where someone is waiting patiently -- and here's the first occurrence of doctor-patient confidentiality, isn't it? Doesn't it seem like being someone's patient shouldn't mean waiting for 45 minutes for an 80 second consultation? -- and fortunately, you've got an attention span of more than 4/1000ths of a second or you never would remember what you wanted to say before you launched into it per the preceding description], which might be to orally transmit similitudes or other such drivel (and as Isaiah once said, "I have used the little suckers!"), please turn and spit. Thank you.

The Twenty Percentists represented (do they sign their correspondence "Periodontically Yours"?), the proverbial four out of five -- and using the word proverbial here does not refer to the fact that Solomon, although long in the tooth towards the end of his reign, was probably not working with a full set of choppers -- would like you to rinse, please? Incidentally, if you'll pardon the tongue-in-cheek (a little drill-side humor) do four out of five of the leading figures on the Caspian Sea and the Crimea -- where Tartar control was at one time a little on the drastic side -- feel that the ever-loving Constantinatives went a little overboard (and of course, that's where they got the fish that had the taste that prompted the sauce that the Tartars built!). And on that same wavelength (a little fisherman's' humor, and as Charlie Mingus said, the shoes of the fisherman's wife are some jive ass slippers) why eat fish that doesn't taste fishy? Isn't that like saying you want a tomato that tastes like an apple, or "Let's have a misteak and Vidalia not-onion?" That's all fine and dandy if you're one of those that thinks that whiting tastes like haddock tastes like code tastes like scrod tastes like talapia and it's all so much better drowned in a cream sauce, but why eat fish at all? Why not put a little salt and a few bones in some tofu? Anyway...

My relatives, with little regard for the medicinal benefits of scotch, get gin-give-itis around the holidays. Here all this time I thought they were talking about Tartan Control - and that suits me fine, because there are just too many Scotsmen and not enough single malt for my liking. Throw the Highlanders (including Sean Connery and Christopher Lambert) overboard and pour me a shot of Laphroaig or Glenfiddich. Four out of five Gaelic practitioners of the orthodontic arts recommend Tartan Control Plaid Remover. And while we're talking about dentists, please remember that the Listerine will never get into your mouth if you're sitting in front of your mirror like the Quiet Man and that little bottle is swinging across the treetops yodeling like Johnny Weismuller. Oh, those crazy Scotsmen. Our Father, who art intoxicated, hollow J & B thy brand. Perhaps the fifth (not of scotch, this time, but of those irrepressible dentists) doesn't work with patients who chew gum -- then again, if all the world were bread and cheese and all the sea were ink and they told their friends and so on and so on how would we ever find time for sweet chewy nasty unwholesome foods that without which there might be little need for the man in white smock who sounds like a golfer ("You've got a hole in one on the back nine there, my friend," or "Nurse, I'd like the putter, please," or whatever it is they say). Is there a little stamp that goes on the Doctor of Dental Science certificate that indicates membership in the Four Out of Five Club? Do associate members get discount rates on green fees, or just on those neat sharp pointy instruments the use of which inevitably brings the remark, "That didn't hurt a bit, did it?"

Speaking hypothetically (which in addition to being next to impossible with all this stuff in my mouth), turn and spit (I almost forgot, that's better). It's the next best thing to being there and take it or leave it, it's all we've got, because my dentist (who happens to be one of the four looking for a fifth on the isle of Islay where they make Laphroaig in copper kettle and age it for ten years and that's why it tastes like heather and peat moss and shag tobacco and has a little quaint mist about it but still doesn't explain why it has to cost at least thirty-five dollars a bottle) is out of town fishing. I hope he's got a bottle of Tartar sauce with him, because I tripped on the Col Gate and have Crest fallen and I can't get upper bicuspid. Somebody left their Trident on the lawn and I've got a lump on my jawbone that feels like a sermon from the Molar Majority. Feels like I've just Neptuned in and caught the end of Poseidon's Misadventures (edited for television).

Gives a whole new meaning to brushing up your MacBeth.

1995

Inside the small box
That is our experience
There is nothing new:

The folded edges
Let in small amounts of light
To read old news by.

But the lid is loose ---
A gentle push opens it;
Look, there is a sky!

If you throw your weight
against the side, you can tilt
the whole world open.

Just another box
That may look like open space
But has edges, too.

ome spend their lifetimes
Thinking the box protects them;
they worship cardboard.

What lingers outside
is violent, wild and risky:
It is fully alive.

Without much warning
it may devour your small box;
why die that slowly?

Life is not easy;
Anyone who denies this
is selling something.

Look! Your box and mine
Share a common boundary.
Let's leave together.

Introduction to a Poem Requested by a Dear Friend. Please note: dear friend is somewhat of an ambiguous phrase, which should not be misconstrued to mean that I have anything against any deer, elk, moose, springbok, or other non-horse, leaping, running, jumping herbivore - which is like a vegetarian except more boring in conversation - because I like woodland and veldt-dwelling creatures of that sort because they never try to talk to you when you're on the phone with someone else).

Anyway, here goes: It's a never-ending story, a pit without a toppus or a bottomus, a continuous saga, or at least a tale that seems to be sagging ever closer and closer to the ground: it's the ending of the end-all, the creme de la creme of something that was once was soft and pliable and oh so very pleasant to the touch, smell and sight but now has hardened into a plastispasmodic dessert tray offering that shows signs of oxidation, sugar viscosity breakdown and overall loss of morphologicality and appeal. What is it? Or rather, what was it, what could it have possible been, from whence did it come and will it return at end of day to close our eyes and minds to deprive us of the burden of imaginative recompense? I don't know.

I'm milking this one for all it's worth: I feel it's my udder responsibility. What I have attempted to attempt here is an introduction, a prologue, a pre-initialization segue, an opening monologue, to set the stage, give you the background, or sort of give you the "in last week's episode" synopsis of what you might have missed if you had been out having some sort of a mid-life crisis experiment consciousness awakening mind-bending good old fashioned get up and go something going on last week and between the sound bite politics and other mindless trivia that have been sandwiched in between your neurons and synapses in the intervening time period instead of paying strict attention to the events, actions, and their separating moments of extreme boredom (don't you just love those peaks and valleys?).

She said that she was longing for the life that she once had
The changes they were coming fast, and some of them were bad
Said she could not believe it
Maybe she was going mad

And I saw just what was happening
And I wasn't much surprised
That the laughter was now missing from her eyes
No, it was not much surprise I felt at all
More like autumn blues when leaves begin to fall

She said she wanted happiness and things as they had been
For life had started laughing and the joke was quite obscene
I shook my head and tried to say
I know just what you mean

For I saw the road she'd taken
And I wasn't much surprised
That the laughter was now missing from her eyes
No, it was not much surprise I felt just then
More like longing for the wisps of might have been

She spoke of that long trip she made somewhere into the East
And the times she spent in turmoil wrestling her inner beasts
And of all the men that failed her: businessmen, and clowns and priests
And I wasn't much surprised, not in the least

She said she wanted more to life than memories that fade
For going through the motions seemed like such a sad charade
Said she felt like an old record
That was scratched and overplayed

And I noticed what was happening
And wasn't much surprised
That the happiness was missing from her eyes
No, it was not much surprise I felt at all
These things happen when your past decides to call.

1988

Concerning K. I cannot say it came as much surprise
There always was a kind of fuzz that lingered in her eyes
And anyway, the games you play get serious enough
Without the threat of psychopathy breaking all your stuff

Concerning E. it seems to me our ages were all wrong
We didn't grow up with the same books or sing the same songs
And furthermore, her mom got sore that I was more secure
Than her strange fundamentalist preacher man could endure

Concerning M., I won't condemn the daydreams of the past
But it was never meant to be, and never meant to last
And in end, I won't pretend that dream died slow and hard
But there was no room for me then or now on her dance card

Concerning V. I won't deceive you, that was a mistake
She wanted oatmeal safety and I gave her nut and flake
And when it stopped and she just dropped me, it was for the best
There wasn't any way I could have sat through the whole test

Concerning J. I went away before something could gel
But we were shooting in the dark, as far as I could tell
And so to speak, as different freaks our paths would never meet
Except at the rain-soaked crosswalk of some Seattle street

Concerning G., and M., and R., and maybe J., and C.
There were some magic moments, but they're all now history
In retrospect, if I neglect to mention you by name
It's not that you are unimportant; just say I'm to blame

Concerning S., now, more or less, there is so much to say
I wouldn't trade what I have lost for what I have today
And truth be told, now getting old seems less a cross to bear
Because a life worth living is a life you want to share

21 JUN 2004

Ultimatums are absurd,
like "I will not write one more word
until those reading clap and say,
'Bravo!' and 'Watch the genius play!'"

The Sufis had it right, I think:
"Don't name wells from which you won't drink";
and yet, to stand aloof and proud
from rabble, sometimes, is allowed

When lines of poesy and wit
Are cast aside, in praise of shit
the gauntlet's thrown, the challenge made.
Now, let mere pundits be afraid!

The bards of old were greatly feared,
but their kind have all disappeared
and in their place are only found
experiments in time and sound

The erudite, vanity press?
Who reads that stuff, and more or less
who gives a damn for words these days
that speak the truth, when lies are praised?

The torture of the gentle soul
who speaks against such mind control
and casts their nets for bigger fish
and writes exactly as they wish

Is to live in a dull gray place
Where art is schlock and soon defaced
Where schools are meant to churn out rows
of mindless robots too well-clothed

And Music? Who can bear the tune
That blares out Sunday afternoon
Lambasting resting ears with tripe,
vulgarity and guttersnipe

Too loud, the world seeks truth in vain
for it hides behind windowpanes
a throbbing headache from the noise.
It waits for men, and finds, just boys

Who dabble with a word or two
But think of drink and fight and screw
Without the faintest sense of shame
That they know not their father's names

And yet, this sad, misgotten lot
Who claim a God that knows them not
Will look at me with great distain
As I stand out and smell the rain

Oh, wash this street, and filthy town
destroy its streets, and bear them down
along the river to the sea;
It cannot come too soon for me!

And ultimatums? I refuse
to leave this place, to cede, or lose
until my words, like slow, cruel time
sink in and waken just one mind.

21 JUN 2004

The stripling lad born weak at Beltane's fire
now stands, and draws his measure proud and tall;
he takes the throne with passion and desire,
and bids the fading shadows to withdraw.

Upon this longest day, he reigns supreme,
the heat of manhood coursing through his veins,
and watches o'er the fields now lush and green,
the forests in full leaf, and grassy plains.

May love be warm, and all your dreams be bright
that find you on this new Midsummer's night

And yet, in this, his hour, when darkness wanes,
as earth draws close in embrace with the sun,
the balance shifts in cycle yet again
and starts once more toward aphelion.

How fleeting, this brave moment of control,
when day's bright visions chase the dreams of dark;
it fuels the flames that feed the growing whole
and then is gone, just ash where once was spark.

May all the wrongs of winter be put right
good tidings to you this Midsummer's night

Stay now, and watch through the few darkened hours;
for in these sunlight times, the veils are weak,
and grant to bards deserving of such powers
a touch of sacred madness, so to speak.

And keep your eyes alert for those who waltz
between the shadows from the faery lands;
they seek to lure the fool, and play him false
who thinks the world can be held in his hands.

Remember that the king, too, now in court,
has but a moment's glory, then must die.
So join with him in summer's happy sport ---
a dream of joyous play for you and I.

May we remain forever in the light
that grows its strongest at Midsummer's night

18 JUN 2004

Thanks to a thread over at Have Your Say Today.

The question: should guns be banned?

My answer is, and I dedicate it to Charlton Heston, Tom Selleck and Arnold Swartzenegger - each who may use it as they see fit:

No. Banning guns violates the Bill of Rights guarantee of the right to bear arms.

We should instead ban the manufacturer, sale, distribution and use of ammunition. There is no constitutional right to LOAD those arms.

That way, both sides can be happy. You get to tote a gun around, decorate a rack (either in your house or your truck), wave it at parades, but you can only hurt anything with it by swinging it at arms' (it and yours) length --- a distance that puts the target both in perspective, and within range of a suitable defense or counterattack - which would serve you right for waving that thing in their face to begin with.

Don't outlaw guns. Outlaw the bullets.

Peace out.

Here's a thought I had in response to a recent post on the KerryNewOrleans group at Yahoo:

> anyone have a monthly meeting or something?
>
> I moved here last year, I now it is Hot here until election day, but we
> are gonna do a rally or something, right?
>
> Who wants to go to the Quarter w/ me and explain Bush to tourists?
>

While I admire your enthusiasm, this plan of action sounds to me a bit like Jehovah's Witnesses canvassing neighborhoods they don't live in. Why start with tourists? Starting with your own neighbors, and even your own family might be time better spent, or getting residents of Orleans Parish nominally interested in the issues (although a historically Democratic zone, voter turnout is abyssmally low - people don't make the effort to get to the polls if there is any kind of deterrent, even a slight drizzle). That kind of confrontation requires a lot more fortitude than attempting to convert people you don't know, though.

What exactly are you hoping to explain, by the way? The problem, or the solution?

As for rallies, they are great for building team morale and making a show of support, but the problem is not with the people who attend rallies (on either side), because at least those people are INVOLVED. The problem is with people who really don't give a damn one way or the other, or like the candidate they ultimately choose for reasons they assume are right because no one has ever asked them, in person, to think about them.

Remember, if you fight by bashing your enemy, you're not making a difference. You're endorsing their tactics; and the medium IS the message.

What a field day for the heat / A thousand people in the streets / Singing songs, and a-carryin' signs / Most just say, "Hooray for our side"

-- Steven Stills, from For What It's Worth

Cheers,

John

It's not about learning to draw a clearer picture of the ruins
It's not about taking a sledge hammer to the ivied hallowed halls
It's not about the trash you can talk about those who disagree
It's not about undercovering where lies are passed as truth
It's not about reporting the faux paus and misdirections
It's not about informing others where they've gone astray
It's not about conversion by a sword called something else
It's not about the polls that show your side is in the lead
It's not about great solidarity and getting numbers
It's not about the old news that the corporations run it
It's not about watching the old order wither and die
It's not about spelling out in clever words the problem
It's not about discovering some esoteric They
It's not about dropping the bombshell in the new Enquirer
It's not about retaking Washington without a battle
It's not about some new magic pill, prescription or placebo
It's not about returning to some halycon of light
It's not about appealing to the undecided middle
It's not about pretending to undo decades of hatred
It's not about protecting and preserving ways of life
It's not about convincing yourself that your cause is justified
It's not about selecting from the lesser of two evils

It's not about the problem.
It's about the solution.

Everyone can talk for days about how fucked the world is.
Who is willing to admit that changing that world
Means changing yourself,

Not your employer,
Not your neighbor,
Not your family,
Not your Congressman,
Not your President,
Not your religion.

Not just that. But at least that.

I will blaspheme to instruct
if those still listening can hear:
the pretense of this world is fucked
beyond repair; that much is clear.

I will replay classic moments
in a whirl of light and sound;
relive near death's self-wrought torment
in my history's chains, bound.

I will speak in words, in whispers
of potential still untapped
while you burn away to blisters
where our skins' touch overlaps.

I will surrender to my vision
and in sonic sculpture rend
epiphanies to indecision
blank postcards I've yet to send

I will build a church to reason
in the metaphor of lies
so that thinking is not treason
and its lack, no alibi

I will lose myself in speaking
out against the endless wind
while the freaks go right on freaking
mindless of the world they're in

I will curse the world's foundation
built upon the backs of slaves
and in worship of sensation
find my own soul, free and brave.

17 JUN 2004

WHAT: Patti Smith and Her Band
WHEN: Tuesday, June 15, 2004
WHERE: House of Blues, New Orleans

OK, so the impetus to see Patti Smith came about with relatively no warning, little advance notice. I was minding my own business, returning home from dropping my daughter off at summer Driving School, and listening to WWOZ which is one of the benefits of living in New Orleans (although you can now access this listener-supported station anywhere in the world, thanks to the Internet) - a jazz and heritage Music station that plays the Music of its own geographic location (as opposed, I guess, to college radio stations that depending on where you live, may or may not have much local original Music to support).

It was the tail-end of the first afternoon show, and I caught part of an interview in progress. The voice of the person being interviewed and what she was saying I immediately recognized as Patti Smith. Well, it wouldn't have been hard to guess. There are, unfortunately, too few women in Music who are willing to pontificate on the philosophical and political implications of corporate America and its ultimate affect on the viability and substance of rock and roll. There aren't very many men who talk that way, either. Maybe Lou Reed. To make a long story somewhat shorter, one of the things that Patti was passionately describing was that rock and roll belongs to the people, not to the corporations, and it's about time we took it back. She wondered about the marketing of pop stars as punk icons, and also compared the corporate control of the major airwaves to a government administration that had not been elected. OK, so she and I agree politically on a great number of things.

It was not hard to convince stardances and her best friend of 25 years (whose birthday we needed something for, anyway), who came of age during the late 70s and like me knew who Patti Smith WAS, that it was essential that we attend the show.

Cut to the bar, prior to the show. The bartender (a young woman probably in her mid-20s) asked us (because, I guess, we looked like we would know), "There's Patti Smith and Patty Smythe. Are they the same?" This is, mind you, a bartender at the House of Blues.

Short Explanation: Patty Smythe, 80s. Patti Smith, 70s. Patti Smith not married to John McEnroe. Patty Smythe probably doesn't know Lou Reed. Patti Smith came first. Patti Smith would probably never duet with Don Henley. And so on. Of course, we knew enough to set her and the barbacks straight on the issues. LOL.

The stage room at the House of Blues is a great size to see a three to five piece band. You can get close enough (in fact, without too much trouble you can kiss the stage) to see everything clearly, to make eye contact. But there is enough back area by the bar to get some air, and the balcony affords a view of the throng from the safety of some distance. The House of Blues itself is at times, however, a bit creepy. There's a preoccupation with death; a lot of RIPs, tombstone-like relief lighting, combination kitsch-revival sloganeering, and the underlying presence of religion gone awry. The combination of voodoo and hoodoo, but both given a Hollywood veneer, ya know. But the way they have it set up, you enter down an "alley" and step down into the club.

I can liken the show itself to a religious service, particularly given the intro provided by walking through the HOB to the stage room. Prior to the first number (there was no opening act), there was a pretty constant mid-level hum of chatter, laughter, meet-and-greet conversation. In the pre-curtain minutes, you could see that there were distinct crowd clusters in the audience:

First, the folks that had been Patti Smith fans since Patti Smith became Patti Smith. The older set, the ones who were former punks, now grown up along with Patti. These were of both sexes, and could be distinguished by the fact that they, unlike most of the rest of the audience, actually were dancing. These you could associate with the people at church who are there to hear the sermon and apply it directly, at that moment, to their lives.

Second, the folks that had been converted to their current politico-social framework as a result of Patti Smith. This is not the same as the first group, in that the first group ALREADY were converted when they encountered Patti Smith. They worshipped, so to speak, Patti's gods; whereas the Patti converts worship Patti. Of course, these can be easily identified by the intense expressions on their faces as they strain to hear every single word that drips, drawls, screams, croons, or whispers from Patti's mouth. These people DO NOT dance. They are seemingly non-affected by the medium in which the message is delivered, and show concern only the for the message (which is, of course, only half the message, and some would argue the less important half). These you could associate with the front row pew sitters who follow along in their highlighter-stained Bibles, know exactly when to shout "Amen" and somehow every week fail to appreciate that the sermon provides direct insight into the condition of their souls, and not just the poor folk back in the rear of the church.

Third, the folks that understand that to be considered alternative, one must be seen at a Patti Smith concert. I will not comment on this lot. These are the people who go to church to get a date.

Fourth, the significant others of the second and third groups. These are the people that end up as the dates or life partners of "religious" church attendees, who find the attitude of constant self-righteousness a little over the top, but basically are too busy or cowardly to make much of a stink about it. Besides, they enjoy the barbeque pork picnics and other social aspects, so long as they don't turn into crusades to convert the surrounding picnic areas.

Fifth, those folks obviously not interested in whether Patti Smith or Patty Smythe were playing, as long as they were allowed to enter the club and party at the House of Blues, drinking copious amounts of alchocol, seeing and being seen. These are the people who attend church simply for the free food and drink. Doesn't matter what's on the table, or what kind of sermon they have to sit through to get it.

Sufficed to say, the best time was really to be had by group one; of which, our party of three was a member. It was obvious that these crowd cells would gravitate towards each other.

I'm tired of writing this already, and the show hasn't even started yet. LOL. More later.

Religions are formed every day
Each meant to last, each fades away
To be of use, each offers some
Instruction on the life to come

The best address in simple ways
a set of questions we all raise:

Why we reach, where to look
What to grasp, how to hold,
and when to let go.

It is the answers to these questions
that provide the clues to
who we are.

I was raised on tales of princes, kings and dragon's hordes;
the books they filled engulfed my world with sights
that to this day affect me deeply. I can hear the swords
(both those of plastic from my youth, and others forged of steel)
that came to clash against their foes each night,
caring more for the price worth paying than what they could afford.
King Arthur, the Green Knight, Quixote, seemed alive and real.

I think that each young man envisions serving some great king
whose cause is noble, pure and just, and worth our life itself.
We seek out those champions, imagining them different from ourselves,
yet sensing that the circumstance of birth, and station can
reveal the king to be a pauper, or make knight of common man.

We claim our independence, fiercely, so quick to deny
such foolish fancies, the great need that does not die inside
but with the years grows stronger, and makes us resort to lies
like "'that dream world exists no more" or "we've advanced beyond
the childlike wish for guidance from some other's regal hand."

But it still remains, that longing; and the lucky ones may find
that all that separates us from that goal is our own grown-up minds.

I wonder, thinking on the legends woven in my past
exactly when, say, Arthur, knew how his die had been cast
and sloughed away his peasant's garb, and found a sword at hand;
how long did he lay wondering, at night, dream-tossed and damned
to live a life that was not his, a pretense biding time
before the dreams that filled his head solidified in flesh?

I've often looked in mirrors, noting something in my eyes;
a smoke from a far distant fire that waits, unseen, disguised,
at other times, when I bewail the state of my affairs.
I wonder, who is it, exactly, who looks back from there.

The truth behind these tales is plain:
for those who think of themselves as kings
from birth, are not the regents who
live on in legends, past their deaths.

'Tis only those who say, "not me"
and would deny their fates,
who step beyond their possibilities,
that are remembered, great.

For chivalry gives no great honor
measured out in gold;
It teaches when to let go,
what to grasp, and how to hold.

15 JUN 2004

Despite what you may read in books, no revolution brews
in noisy bars or quiet cafes among agreeing friends
who decide the status quo is flawed, and pay their dues
producing pamphlets that describe the means to reach some end.

It is not action by committee, out to change the face
of the illusions that surround the minds of men and states;
these mere revolts exist in unreal time and space
and merely shift the larger portion to a different plate.

To truly change the world requires that in a single mind
the thought of reaching past the known burns with undying fire,
and in that place where none imagine who or what they'll find
to dare to step, with one's one feet, into a quagmire

that wretches the security from culture's safety net,
believing that the best has never happened yet.

It is not revolution to in any way believe
that those who are your enemies exist to bar your path;
and only would-be rebels are by this pretense deceived,
led to some senseless slaughter, while seeming opponents laugh.

15 JUN 2004

When one looks out past
the breaking waves at ocean's end
those across the sea

seem much less remote
connected by this expanse
of constant movement.

Away from the sea
In a great endless valley,
peering at the edge

of the horizon
where the sky and land connect
the mountains rise

dark blue and somber;
they separate more clearly
expanse on both sides.

Yet the more finite
space of the wide sprawling plain
is not the desert

hugeness of the sea,
it does not shift and not shift
change without changing

it just dries to dust
and then turns again to green
is lost in deep snow

and each spring flowers;
the ocean's chameleon
greens, grays, blacks and blues

breed deeper hungers,
suckle darker fears and dreams
and know their own gods.

religions are born
of the deserts and the seas ---
seeking to fathom

the underlying
pulse that moves without travel
swallows with no trace.

14 JUN 2004

Presented for your consideration, two parts of an otherwise normal weekend, filled with taxiing teenage daughters, reading online journals, laundry, pondering work (yes, I am a closet workaholic), sleep (a necessity after the grueling workweek of endless conference calls and quality assurance "light" reading of things like Software Management Plans and 500-line Gantt charts), cooking, light cleaning and grocery shopping.

The first part was a trip to The Spider's Web bar a few short blocks from my house. The occasion was the birthday of an online friend of mine, bigrob, who I had previously never met. It was a great time, although truth be told I should not be drinking in public (LOL). It was loud, the jukebox featured a great variety of Music, and the bartender, Amber was terrific. The conversation ranged from Music (Rob's roommate is a songwriter as am I, and Rob and he are both Musicians) to literature and politics. I even played some pool after an abstinence from that sport for almost a decade. I woke the next morning feeling old, hung over and somewhat anachronistic, however. So much of my life has been spent in bars discussing, playing and evaluating Music. I was not accompanied by stardances, my wonderful mate, on this occasion. To be honest, I have to say that probably the volume alone made this place, although kitschy cool in its way, not really that much my scene. That, and the preponderance of single people on average 10 to 15 years younger. An interesting adventure, nonetheless, and probably one that I would repeat. But I felt like I had to work really hard to do something --- although I couldn't exactly tell you what that was.

The second part, however, on its surface seems much more mundane. Our new neighbor (of about four months) invited Star and I over for wine and barbeque in his newly organized and re-gardened backyard. He is 59, and has traveled a great deal and recently moved back down to New Orleans from Vermont to teach. There was no Music. The conversation was quiet, although animated and lively, and incorporated travel, family, ancestry, hippy remembrances and other topics of intellectual bent. The wine was excellent. The food was exquisite. One realizes, after hosting many a party, that the key element to being at home in another person's house is whether or not they are an able chef. That, and being comfortable finding and using the bathroom. I think both Star, I and our neighbor agreed that the evening was the most enjoyable we each had spent in a great while. It's nice to simply converse with others, as equals, without the pressures of proving oneself. It is refreshing and relaxing. I woke the next morning feeling peaceful, intelligent and part of a community. I appreciated Star for the same reasons that I have always appreciated her --- her life experience, humor, intelligence, insight, passion and creativity. And I felt appreciated in the same way.

Perhaps I'm just getting old. Star and I are going to see Patti Smith tomorrow night at the House of Blues here in New Orleans. That we both know who Patti Smith is (and have known, for a long, long time) is important. Because we are not just hippies. We are both old punks. Hell, I'm even an old Goth (I remember where I was when Bauhaus broke up). I think now, however, we realize that at least Musically, and probably in many other ways, that volume is not a substitute for or expression of power.

Or something like that.

Truth be told, my high school years were difficult ones. Having been transplanted from a remote rural environment in northwestern Ohio to the sunny clime of southern California just in time to start high school, I found it difficult to adapt, in many ways, to the Members Only jacket, Izod shirt, Sperry Top-sider wearing preppy environment that was Republican Torrance, California in the early 1980s. Add to this mix the fact that I was really coming into my own as a Musician and poet, that my engineer father very vocally expressed his disappointment in my non-fascination with mathematics courses, and along that road the somehow simultaneous introduction of both Black Sabbath and the Sex Pistols to my worldview's soundtrack (OK, a little behind the hip schedule of the world, but bear in mind that there were limited resources on radio and record on the farm), and you may begin to see the potential for strife.

Quite frankly, I didn't particularly care for most of my reality --- but a catalog of the ways in which I experimented to alter that reality is not the point here.

My father, perhaps sensing a wandering on my part, and desiring that I prepare to assume a role of some kind in society, laid upon me the burden of absorbing a great number of books from his personal library. I suppose I should be thankful for this, at least on the surface, benificent gesture. As a result, I was brought into the great continuum of self-righteous empowerment that ranges from Dale Carnegie to Norman Vincent Peale and now extends out to Tony Robbins. One of the things my father did during my early teens was to become a distributor for one of these Amways of Advancement, the Success Motivation Institute of Waco, Texas. They boasted such titles (provided, on series of cassettes and volumes of binders beautifully packaged in leather cases) as "Blueprint for Success" and "The Dynamics of Personal Leadership." Additional volumes of varying levels of import included "How to Win Friends and Influence People", "The Power of Positive Thinking", "Think and Grow Rich", "The Sale Begins When the Customer Says No" and so on.

I participated in this process willingly enough. I prepared "Plans of Action" (POAs) and memorized all kinds of affirmations. "If you are not making the kind of progress you are capable of making, or feel you should be making, it is simply because your goals are not clearly defined (Paul J. Meyer, SMI)". "Crystallize your Thinking". I say memorize, but it would be false of me to assert that at least in some minor way, these platitudes were not internalized to some degree. I am who I am today, optimistic about the possibility of being, in no small part thanks to this indoctrination.

But somewhere along that same continuum, these teachings failed me. Because their primary focus was ultimately on defining success as a function of money. That's the lesson, I think, that my father was trying to impart --- that if you make enough money, you can basically do whatever you want. My father was raised on Horatio Alger and other rags-to-riches stories, and high schooled in Liberty Township, Ohio, the same place where Norman Vincent Peale cut his journalistic teeth at the Republican Courier. A careful reading of Alger, however, will demonstrate something quite different from the "pick yourself up by your bootstraps, earn your way, opportunities are created" kind of jingo for capitalism that they are imagined to be. The fact is that almost every one of Alger's rags-to-riches heroes ends up rich through inheritance, sheer luck or magnanimous gesture. There's little or no proof that hard work will EVER get you these things, at least provided by Horatio.

The point of this exploration is that it always seemed to me that the motivations of these self-help gurus were questionable. Dale Carnegie, for example, suggests that when entering the office of an important man, to scan the locale and create a mental catalog of that man's interests --- fishing, his family, the Cape house, and so on --- not as a means for developing a connection with that executive as a human being, but merely as a tool by which to exploit that man's inclination to slim his wallet and fatten your own. Very Sun Tzu, it must be admitted.

And the bottom line is that actually achieving a higher standard of living, as defined by annual income, stock portfolio performance and neighborhood property values, never seemed to actually make anyone that I knew personally any happier, nicer or cooler to hang out with. They had more money, 'tis true, but the reality of it was they weren't going to spend it on me. And to keep it, nurture it, turn it into more of the same, it was unlikely they were going to spend it on themselves, either. Now, you may disagree with me here, but to value the accumulated item higher than the act of accumulation seemed to be the point of these self-empowerment programs; and the reality was that most people never actually achieved more than the accumulating act. It was "the pursuit of happiness," and not its capture. Of course, that is a defining American principle. And that brings me to the real point of this diatribe.

Ringo Starr's perception of the Beatles may be useful here. "For a time, we thought we were the best band in the world; and as a result, we were."

That's really the message of all these self-help programs, isn't it? To enforce the notion of mental focus. As you believe a thing to be, so it becomes. As above, so below. So mote it be. And they say this country is based on Christian principles. Bah. I've never heard anything so pagan in all my life. Life is what you make it. Not as it is handed to you (on whatever manufacture platter you imagine). You become what you pursue. Where your heart is, your treasure likewise can be found. Now I sound like Ronald Reagan, except that I realize that the real Gipper is not external, but is yourself. Win one for yourself. Now I sound like the Dalai Lama. Seek the guru inside yourself.

So why imagine it as a world in which you have to be rich to be free? Why imagine it populated with people who think just like you? Why imagine it absent of strife (a necessary component for growth)? Why imagine that it has to be a supermodel, a Ferrari, a big house on the lake?

Why not set your sights a little higher, Horatio? Why not imagine a world where people are not judged by the content of their wallets, but the content of their hearts? Forget art for art's sake. How about life for life's sake?

More to follow.

In one of his early 70s comedy routines, Flip Wilson imagined a conversation between Christopher Columbus and Queen Isabella of Spain (and I paraphrase, as the album Cowboys and Colored People is long out of print and my vinyl is lost to the ravages of time):

Queen: Well, what's in America, Chris? What are you going to find there?
Columbus: Ray Charles.
Queen: Ray Charles is in America?
Columbus: Damn right, woman. Where do you think all those records come from?
Queen (excited): Chris gonna find Ray Charles, Chris gonna find Ray Charles!

At this point, Queen Isabella promptly handed Chris a check, which he took down to the local Army-Navy store, obtained three used ships, four cases of rum and a couple of rashers of beef jerky. The rest, as they say, is history.

Humorous as this interpretation may be, it highlights a very important point: Ray Charles was America. And a lot more, as well. Never mind the fact that without Ray Charles, it's probable that Van Morrison would still be an unknown skiffle player; or that Joe Cocker might never have been inspired to damage himself in service to a song. Never mind that legions of artists, stretching back in time from Elvis and Aretha (herself touted as the female Ray Charles early in her career) to Stevie Wonder, would not have had a figurative leg to stand on without him.

The fact is that Ray Charles represents the ideal of America, as expressed in Music. That ideal is that what makes us different, what gives us strength of character, is how we are able to use what is formative in our lives to create a personal interpretation of our reality that illustrates not so much who we are, but what we are capable of.

Ray Charles, although blind, saw something more clearly than others who retained the ability to "see". It is apparent to me in the large body of work he did as a solo artist, but comes absolutely into focus when you examine the duets he performed with other people: Joe Cocker, George Jones, Willie Nelson and so many others were touched by the "Genius" of Ray Charles, and learned, I think, one important lesson: that Music really is the universal language, and it doesn't matter what anyone says about which genre you should limit yourself to or what type of Music is "appropriate" for you to perform. What is essential to living life to its fullest, to experiencing, not only the depths of sadness, but the elevated heights of joy, is not so much picking the song. The song itself is secondary in this process (although the song, to be truly universal, has to have certain basic qualities).

What is essential, sang Ray Charles in a lesson to us all, is to sing with your whole being, to find yourself by embracing not the preconceived notions of what a song has been, but what it could be. Where it could go; and by extension, where we as human beings can go if we dare to venture outside the safe, accepted boxes in which society so desires to put each of us.

Ray Charles singing "America the Beautiful" is a revelation about America. Because it poignantly illustrates not only the absolute love of what America is supposed to stand for, but the heart-wrenching sadness of how far from that goal we are at present. Ray Charles knew that America was not, in practice, about brotherhood. But it SHOULD be. It COULD be.

Ray Charles almost single handedly changed American Music, taking from its isolationist parts and creating a homogenous, harmonious and soulful whole. He created "American" Music from southern gospel, northern Appalachian, western swing, eastern cool and midwest and Delta blues.

American Music. The Music of not white, black, rich, poor, ignorant, educated, simple, or complicated.

The tragedy is that with his loss, we may forget how to sing it.

Ray never ratted out a friend
because they leaned far left;
the communists had great songs too:
from all, Ray learned, and wept.

A silent moment, now, we share
now that his voice is stilled;
and promise, though some would forget
that song, we never will.

11 JUN 2004

bacchanal a riotus or drunken festivity

When the self-righteous trip and fall
upon their own hypocrisy
lovers of truth, in bacchanal,
must not rejoice too mightily

backbite to speak spitefully or nastily about someone who is not present

If you would backbite at your foes
Beware those wearing a friend's clothes
For the toothmarks you make in vain
May cause the biter loss and pain

badinage playful banter

In badinage, two friends may seem
to play at odds, to stranger's eyes;
and often, that foreign esteem,
will read such things as tricks and lies.

bagatelle a trifle

The world is not a bagetelle
A worthless thing we buy and sell;
indeed, its whole is beyond price
and must not yield to avarice.

bathos a ludicrously abrupt shift from an elevated to a commonplace style; insincere or overly sentimental pathos

Hark! The lofty purpose seeks
conveyance in the grandest terms,
yet far too frequently, it speaks
in seeming bathos, just to worms.

bedizen to adorn or dress gaudily

To those who would bedizen truth
and seek to change how it is taken:
know this, once upon the tooth
its flavor cannot be mistaken.

belletrist a writer of literature regarded for its artistic rather than informative value

If you would be a belletrist,
take heed and shape your art
in a great vacuum, sealed and safe
where no ideas start.

benthos the bottom of a sea or lake; the organisms living there

The benthos in the calm, smooth sand
will often fail to understand
the turmoil up amidst the waves
and standing still, think themselves brave.

billingsgate foul, abusive language

The simple man will heap his foes
with endless billingsgate,
not reckonizing that the trowel
he uses seals his own sad fate.

bowdlerize to expurgate (a book) prudishly

Some seek to safely bowdlerize
the Constitution's promise;
they say, 'tis safe to "modernize" ---
to gut, would be more honest.

Unofficially from 1919, and officially since 1931, The Star Spangled Banner has been the national anthem of the United States. Prior to that time, My Country, 'Tis of Thee written by Samuel Francis Smith, sung to the tune of God Save the King was the official national anthem. It presents quite a different perspective on our national scene, particularly if you consider the minor changes I have made to this text, as follows.

My country, 'tis of thee,
sweet land of liberty
that now I sing.

Land where my fathers died
(fathers you now deride,
and from each mountainside
dull freedom's ring)

My native country, thee,
land once noble and free,
Thy dream I share.
I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills;
Those who this spirit kill,
Let them beware.

Let Music swell the breeze,
And ring from all the trees
Sweet freedom's song.
Let concerned tongues awake;
Let all that dream partake;
Let rocks their silence break,
The sound prolong.

Our nation's goal, 'tis this,
setting aside hubris,
we strive to sing.
Once more may this land glow
and by proof, make it so ---
against each perceived foe
we pledge this thing.

My country, lost to view
What has become of you,
Can you stand tall?
Drop all your false pretense,
learn from experience
Make your ideals self-evident
to one and all.

10 JUN 2004

Pondering John Kerry's use of Langston Hughes to convey a message of sorts, I thought I would write a poem focusing on what I think Kerry's message should be.

America, your shadow casts a lengthy darkness where
it should serve as a lamp to guide the blind;
and those enemies you imagine beyond your hallowed gates,
fermenting with opportunities to express their angst
and shake you from your complacent sleep,
why do you seek to destroy them, wishing them dead?
Does not a worthless and weak opponent serve
to weaken your own resolve and reduce your own strength
while encouraging the illusion that you are omnipotent?

Wouldn't the best defense against the Red Menace,
rather than castrating the Left Wing,
been to strengthen democracy,
live up to your stated ideals,
proving by example the fallacy of your evil foes claims?
Surely, America, you are more than empty words
backed by full missle tubes, aimed at any dissenting voices.

Do you believe in equality? In the sanctity of free speech?
Wouldn't the best course be to act
as if your sacred principles were the truth?

America, your hypocrisy is that you don't believe in yourself;
and yet, your jingo jangle rings across the globe,
your corporations seek to spread your gospel
laced with the poison of underlying greed.

There is a better way to defeat your enemies.
Make them no longer your enemies.

To fight the war of proof,
using weapons that defeat your message,
underhanded dealings,
covert operations,
torture,
corporate pandering,
strong-arm tactics,
and ulterior motives,
is to lose your self,
and without that, America,
you are just another fascist regime
that supports self-righteousness
because it entertains your illusions of profit,
at least while they are expedient.

America, yours is not a national campaign ---
it is a return to the high ground that is required,
and that elevated place knows no borders
but shares its light
rather than casting a shadow.

09 JUN 2004

I don't want to say anything about Ronald Reagan. I have kept my mouth shut for two days now on the subject. But amidst the feeding frenzy on both the left and right that still is going on (the left to destroy the mythos by rediscovering history, and the right to destroy history by rediscovering the mythos), I feel it necessary to interject a little something.

First: Ronald Reagan was a man I appreciated as an actor only slightly more cardboard than Rock Hudson, whose prediliction for sentimentalism turned my stomach. As an actor, he lacked the physical charm of Burt Lancaster, the inner struggle of Gary Cooper, the sense of irony of Gregory Peck, the intelligence of Cary Grant, and the heroic flaws of John Wayne. And yet, he tried to emulate each one of their personas at one time or another.

Second: The Reagan I knew as a politician was an old man. Older than my father. And as a result, a man of a different time. The great tragedy of the Reagan years, in my opinion, is that we as a nation in the 1980s felt it necessary to rely upon someone who was so obviously out-of-step and out-of-touch with the realities of life in the 1980s. For some sad, crazy reason, our national nostalgia wanted to forget the seventies (and by extension, the sixties) and return to Ozzie and Harriet land. Well, this was the man to get us there, McCarthy witchhunts and all. We (well, actually my parents generation) asked for it, and he delivered. The fact that what we asked for wasn't really what we as a country needed was not necessarily Reagan's fault --- he was simply reading the script that the majority of the audience he could see beyond the footlights wanted him to read. That's unfortunately how democracy works ... as George Carlin once pointed out, the sad fact is that our elected leaders and representatives really are the best that we can do. They embody what is both best and worst in each of us. And in the "greed is good" generation of the 1980s, that worst turned out to be pretty bad, while the good seemed sentimental and trite. That describes the 80s, doesn't it?

Third: Anyone who says that Ronald Reagan, regardless of what he may have done as "leader" of our democracy, deserved a 10 year battle with Alzheimer's, is an asshole. Fuck you for even thinking that. And my deepest condolences go out to Nancy and the kids, both for having to live through the twilight hell and having to live through the circus now, and for the great hole in their lives once filled by a large, charismatic, sometimes humorous and often opinionated individual who is now gone, regardless of how you think he played his roles.

Fourth: On a personal note, the affect Reagan had on my life in the 1980s is observable by two simple facts. That during his Presidency, I was required to register with Selective Service. It was my impression at the time that he was responsible for that; and that I would likely be required to participate militarily at some near term juncture in the jungles of south and/or central America fighting to maintain some fascist-friendly ally of the American industrialists to whom the Republican party owed allegiance. And second, my first opportunity to participate in the government of this county, through the process of voting once I turned 18, was an opportunity to cast a vote against Reagan. I did so.

Fifth: Ronald Reagan was just a man. Nothing more, nothing less. Not a great villain, not a saint. If you're sitting around either reading endless blog stories about him, or writing them, you survived both his time in power (which was, actually, pretty brief and more than a decade ago) and are likely to survive his legacy. Not so for Bonzo the Chimp, who died first.

So once again I've started reading, for pleasure, the dictionary. On an on-going basis, I'll post ten words I discover (or rediscover) from each section that appeal to me, along with my interpretation of their "poetic" significance". Here are the A's:

aeropause the atmospheric elevation above which aircraft cannot fly In a poetic context, this could apply to Icarus or human efforts in general.

aphasia loss of the ability to speak or understand speech Besides its medical connotations, aphasia has poetic implications as well, particularly when looked at from the reverse side: perhaps it is a loss of the ability to speak or understand a language which no longer has purpose, or to communicate in such a way that is beyond language itself.

aphelion the point on a planetary orbit farthest from the sun Ah, the ramifications of this one are many: humankind's distance from its spiritual origin(s), the darkest point in a personal history, that point at which epiphanies are discovered that lead to a return to the light.

apocrypha writings of questionable authenticity Perhaps documents indicating the presence of weapons of mass destruction in the hands of our once-allies and now conveniently enemies?

appurtenance something that belongs with or to another more important thing; an accessory The quality exuberated by George W. Bush in the presence of Dick Cheney?

arabesque an intricate design of innerwoven leaves, flowers, and geometric forms The warp and woof of the carpet of life.

arrogate to claim, take or assume for onself without right Arrogant self delegation; an assumption of powers beyond one's comprehension; judgment of another's way of life.

atheneum a library a beautiful word; the temple of Athena to signify a place to pay homage to knowledge.

augur a soothsayer or seer; to predict, especially from signs Of course, it all depends on who put up the signs, and in what language they are given.

auriferous containing gold, or gold-bearing To assume one's path is auriferous is to seek within the lining within the grayest cloud for a mere glimmer of precious metal.

Having just seen the new Harry Potter film, I was contemplating the underlying message I find in JK Rowling's work. No, it's not some dark Satanic point that seeks to overthrow the basic power structure of the Christo-centric universe. Not exactly, anyway. In my opinion, the most important lesson to be learned from Harry Potter is this: there are people in this world who see magic, and those who don't. Much like there are people that imagine the world is becoming a hell-hole, and those who imagine it can become a paradise. It doesn't matter, really, from whence you feel that the magic, or power, emanates. What does matter is your motivation for harnessing it. Next to that, is your interest in how it affects other people. Or something like that.

Among the views with which to judge this life
are found just variations of a pair:
the one, that looks upon the world as filled with strife
and seeks for naught beyond its veiled despair,

with tired and jaded judgments placing blame
on circumstance and temporary might;
for those who look in this way, life's a game
that designates the one who wins as right.

And sadly, with this vision they proceed
to deem imagination foolishness;
Upon the world they let their bitterness exceed
their hope, and thus, destroy real happiness.

Some unseen, greater prize in vain they seek
to line the coffers of their empty hearts;
and without joy, at length, they deign to speak
of where one's duty ends, and knowledge starts.

The other view sees the same time and place,
but seeks beyond the surface of the world
and to its mad illusions gives no chase
preferring the whole oyster to the pearl.

Where others see mere folly and lost wealth
attending those who linger on the path,
concerned with more than benefit to self,
they look upon the flower's bloom, and laugh.

In each small thing, a sense of grand design
and purpose is observed by eyes like these;
and in the commonplace, they seek and find
beneath the surface, subtle energies

that form the substance of all that exists;
yet this discovery breeds no sense of pride,
nor puts their name on some great hidden list;
'tis rarely fame and wisdom coincide.

Of course, within each group, a varied lot
that spans the gamut from glutton to saint,
exists, and each must find their chosen spot.
For some the vision's strong, for others, faint.

But it is from this pair of points of view
that all the world divides in sects and creeds:
the one, that sees no magic left to do;
the other, knowing better, disagrees.

06 JUN 2004

Certainly my outlook on life, my philosophy of existence, has been influenced and affected by Christianity. Besides the fact that our culture in the United States is immersed not only in Christian metaphor, but has as its core the underlying belief that everyone is Christian and shares as a result some common understanding of a shared reality plays a part in that. It can be an insidious, even covert sense of instrusion by which that undercurrent makes itself known. I'm not referring to the obvious politically motivated occurrences, like "In God We Trust" or "under God" or swearing on a Bible in court as your standard oath. I'm talking about the definition of words. The framework for a worldview that assumes certain things to be "self-evident."

I see these signs in dictionaries and their more readily-accessed counterparts, crossword puzzles. The dictionary I have has a definition for Adam: the first human, and theoretical forefather and progenitor of the human race." It does not preface this phrase with "According to the scriptures of the Christian religion...". Likewise, it is common to see the clue "earthly paradise" in a crossword puzzle. The correct response is, of course, "Eden."

Our system of law likewise reflects this closed-system view. What exactly is "an act of God" - whose God, I would like to know, and on what proof is it established that there is a direct divine origin for said act? Do "acts of God" happen to non-Judeochristians? To atheists (of course, an atheist denies the existence of "God", which doesn't necessarily make it so, Number One, just like believing that George W. Bush is a decent, honest and intelligent human being interested in the well-being of all Americans equally doesn't ip so facto it). This is almost, of course, tanamount to a strange kind of animism, to suggest that anything outside of one's personal control (e.g., earthquakes, floods, political action committees, the mating habits of the lemur, etc.) are under the direct purview and lead by the immense finger of some unseen deity. Are we really saying that every shift in the tectonic plates, every overabundant rainfall (even those precipitated, so to speak, by our own environmental mismanagement and ignorance of the havoc we as industrialized peoples wreak upon the natural balance and cause-and-effect) is a wakeup call from some divine switchboard?

The Bible has been re-translated (or adapted, universalized, updated, modified, or denigrated, depending on your particular point of view), particularly in the New Standard Revised Version (NSRV) to eliminate unnecessary male/female specific pronouns, to reduce gender bias where possible. Political correctness has placed restrictions on such words as "blackboard" (as if being a board whose color, defined by the slate by which it is constructed, being black, is somehow derogatory).

How about a politically correct, or rather, ecumenically correct, dictionary of the English language? One that eliminates Christocentricism so that people (particularly those coming from outside the English-speaking universe) can learn the source of phrase or words without a preconceived bias that is antithetical to their own religious belief? Let the religious nature of a word be defined by its context -- a context not pre-imposed within its very definition, so that it can be better understood that in the human experience, which is in fact in the majority non-Christian world-wide, the prejudices of a minority sect are not the basis by which the English language need be understood. Let the Word represent more universally everyone who is interested in knowledge (be it of words, customs, cultures, self, or even the divine).

Of course, to be thorough, that would entail identifying the sources for artifacts of Christian mythology as well.

For example, the world antediluvian might require modification to its definition, from "the period prior to the Deluge visited upon mankind by God" to "the period prior to the catastrophic flood referred to in Christian literature as the Deluge, and referenced by many other religions and ancient histories as either a divine cleansing, or simply a significant watershed event perhaps linked to the melting of the polar icecaps due to global warming during the post-Ice Age period of the earth's development..." or something like that.

Is this likely to happen? No.

The anthromorpocentric bias of Judeo-Christianity firmly imbedded in our collective Western (and Near East) consciousness, the one that believes there is such a thing as "pre-history" and imagines that with the appearnce of Adam that evolution was completed and the entire universe reached its climax whereupon improvement and/or modification was no longer required, does not entertain exploration beyond its narrow boundaries - thus enforcing its own limitations with a kind of circular definition: it has ceased to evolve, therefore evolution does not exist and has never existed. To paraphrase Descartes, "I do not think, therefore, it isn't."

As I have said before, evolution can be proven. There is no mention of humankind being able to swim in the Bible. Yet, it is obvious that somewhere along the long stretch of time from "Adam" to the present, humankind learned this activity, probably as a means of survival. Ergo, it must be a "learned" skill. A change to the frame of reference by which humanity encountered the surface of the world (and a good part of its surface, by the way). An evolution. Humans have evolved, learned new skills, adapted to different environments, with variations in bone size and density, skin pigmentation, cranial capacity, genetic modifications designed to weed out the less able from the fittest, so to speak. We have, as a species, evolved. Therefore, evolution MUST not only be possible, but essential to our very existence. Everything else is a perhaps once-useful, but ultimately superstitiously misguided despite its apparent good intent, mythos.

However, to paraphase again, this time Arlo Guthrie, "I didn't come here to talk about Alice, I wanted to talk about the Draft."

My outlook on life has certainly been informed by Christianity. But that is not its only source of information. Were that the case, I would be standing at the seashore with a galvanized bucket full of briny water thinking I had a lock on the meaning of the whole ocean. And that is not the case. I have looked in a great number of buckets, tasted many a variety of seafoam. And I have found that by and large, the salt does not lose its savor in the process. If anything, being as a human animal a microcosm for the world as a whole (both approximately 70% saline based) I have discovered under my own blind hands a few of the different parts of the elephant. The trunk, the tail, the tusks, the broadside, the ears. Not that I have a picture in my mind of the whole elephant. That is not likely in a single lifetime, I suppose. But at least I know there's more to the elephant that what it leaves behind in the cage.

Or something like that.

Watch
the sky
slowly unfold
in an array of hues
across the edges of the world
touching every single thing underneath

for only just a moment, and then move
altering its entire pattern
enough to blur and shift
the whole pattern
of the
sky

Each
sunset
a new palette
on which the day is drawn

each instant a virgin canvas
waiting for the touch of an unseen brush
the moving finger that once having writ
becomes part of the scene it paints
creation, creator
insoluble.
The ink,
Life.

When
the sky
has turned to black
the colors are not lost;
if you look close enough, they last
but change, evolve and will not stay the same
no matter how you wish and pray;
they are not permafast
except in dreams
of the
blind.

See
these hues
that seem fragile
and so impermanent
are only simple reflections
of what we choose to imagine
exists only in some clear black and white
but cannot be contained in should and ought.
outside what we can see, the light

contains a wide spectrum
impossible
outside
clouds.

04 JUN 2004

for T.S. Eliot

When Icarus took flight with home-made wings
he sought to rise above, not divine laws,
but listening to how the eagle sings
attempted to reach past the aeropause

that culture places on its young when born
to limit how far flung their dreams may reach,
and teaches children to avoid its scorn
by tempering their thoughts in civil speech.

Poor Daedelus, tradition's solid stock,
can only watch in anguish from the bluff
as his bright future plummets to the rocks,
its bindings frayed, momentum not enough.

Against the ceiling set by common whim
there is no soar or dive; just fall, or skim.

03 JUN 2004

In the United States, the majority undertakes to supply a multitude of ready-made opinions for the use of individuals, who are thus relieved from the necessity of forming opinions themselves. Everybody there adopts great numbers of theories, on philosophy, morals, and politics, without inquiry, upon public trust; and if we look to it very narrowly, it will be perceived that religion herself holds sway there much less as a doctrine of revelation than as a commonly received opinion.

-- Alexis de Toqueville, 1805-1859, Democracy in America

In other words, equality does not equal independence, and liberty does not equate to freedom, particularly of thought.

Alone again or so it seems
and yet, my street of broken dreams
goes on and on

The moon has kissed the sun goodbye
and yet hello, a kiss with which
to build a dream upon

Childhood wanderings in lands
of dragons' wings and foolish fancy
now begin the slow and wondrous
journey to the dawn

and all alone again I wonder
how much longer I can carry on.

Backlit silver silhouette,
a shadow lighting cigarettes
in time with me

Purple grayish ashen rings
float carelessly
as tender summer breeze

Floating through the evening sky
to unknown destinations
ones that we can feel but never see

and once again I am alone,
a child full grown
but lost in make believe.

1984

I seek an answer in the shadow of these years spent wandering and lost; in crumpled notebook pages that mark a trail of desperation and precocious notions, sex-crazed teenage dreams stained with cigarette ash and the half-mad scrawl of an anguished and lonely soul wanting only to belong to something worth belonging to, something real. I see behind these quaint reminders that the poet I have become has been now thirty years in the making --- even at nine years old there were signs of a kind of infectious madness. Believe me, I have dissected my own work over the years with a sharper scalpel that any high-priced psychiatrist could possibly envision.

There is something that draws me to this earlier incarnation. Something that is antithetical to that which can be defined as an American experience. The experience garnered by growing up in America. That experience is the preponderence of ambition and the absolute lack of lofty ambition.

To give oneself without question or pause to a life of the mind, in a nation that worships the life of the body, to produce, to commerce, to practicality. That is the madness that I see forming in myself at an early age. The curse of having read, by the time I was 12, of the history of the entire world without having the limiting prejudice of American interests being of foremost importance. To wonder, at age 10 or so, what the Native Americans really thought of Columbus, echoed perhaps by Flip Wilson's line "and the Indians paid not much attention to Chris and his boatload of Spaniards, being busy celebrating 'Not Having Been Discovered Yet' day..."

I search the landscape of the American mind, and I find no great philosophy to unify the innermost spiritual quest of mankind, but rather Henry Ford, Thomas Edison, Eli Whitney --- inventors of practicum to make this world, not the next, the happy hunting ground.

And I wonder about Thomas Jefferson. The line "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal..." Certainly, it can be intepreted to mean that all humans are created, that is conceived in the same manner --- in fact, in the exact manner of any of the mammalian species --- by the coupling of a male and female of that same species for the purpose of generating offspring. In that sense, yes, they are created equal. Yet, beyond that simple act of conception, there is no real equality. And it is not that act that gives life --- as there are obvious and numerous examples of human coitus that do not result in fertilization. Life is something else altogether; not bestowed by human parents, but rather by a cooperative massing of the energy of the universe into a particular manifestation. Once that manifestation announces itself vocally, it is indeed for the intents and purposes of reincarnation, alive. At any time prior it could, with the cooperation of universal energies beyond the scope of human manipulation, cancel its current mission and await a more fortuitous venture. But that is another point, altogether. As Krishna said to Arjuna at a critical juncture, when Arjuna was bewailing his required task of slaughtering countless relations and other worthy soldiers ... you can no more in reality end their lives than you can create them anew. True life and death are beyond your control; you are merely an agent for forces outside your mortal comprehension. But back to the creation of equals. Certainly, in the studies of genetics that have been pursued since the time of Jefferson, it is clear that the concept of equality at creation is slightly in error. Genetics give one a stooped back, receding hairline, penchance for physicality, prediliction for speech, brain size shape and characteristics. Certainly creation as equals requires equals as parents. But that is another story.

Enough of this for now. I will return to this theme later.

Each day I wake, my head crammed full of dreams
that reach into my conscious life unasked,
defining how I perceive each new task
by tearing at reality's worn seams.

From dawn to dusk they push and pull my mind
in strange directions, seeking some release;
new tangents form in patterns without cease
and with their ebb and flow, seek to design

the life that I too often see as dull,
its colors faded out to browns and grays,
mere repetitions of some useless rite.

Of moments too soon gone, my life is full;
and on these fleeting chimeras, my days
oft lose their edges and fade into light.

02 JUN 2004

Along the coast, the wind was steady, giving the trees that stood two or three hundred yards back from the shore the chance to continue, with their low rustling, the rhythmic chant of the gulf against the sand. Youngsters, in the reckoning of trees, with only a rare few older than that time when Camille wrought such destruction and split Ship Island into east and west; yet a live oak for all its fable longevity grows up fast, and unlike human being who sprint into adulthood and find themselves winded by middle age, these impetuous trees become real elders ahead of forest schedules, laughing with their great arms outstretched over two or three generations of their offspring, who struggle in their mighty shadows.

It is with a great and satisfied sense of perversity that I pay for my gift shop purchases, at a shop just down the street from Beauvoir, the now-museum home of Jefferson Davis, with a wad of five dollar bills, Lincoln-side up.

Yet the ocean itself (which is not the ocean, but the Gulf, says my mate) knows no north and south, no coon-ass or cracker, no redneck or Freedom Rider. It may be the Gulf, and not the Sea or the Ocean, but I sense the presence in the waves that crash lukewarm over me of Lir, of Kanaloa, of Poseidon and Neptune. It is that great mass of liquid that connects us, fluid that knows no real master or nationality. In the gift shop again I look over the rows of seashells available for purchase. Product of the Philippines, one is stamped. I laugh. As if the Philippines were required for this mollusk to come into being.

When I was 17 years old, the age that my daughter approaches now with great anticipation, I spent almost all my waking hours in or at the ocean. That was when I truly became an introspective soul, I think. In the face of the sea's constant Music, spoken words become superfluous and strange.

Away from the shore now, back home in New Orleans, I sat down to read a book; and immediately fell asleep to the gentle sounds of surf remembered; a long sleep, filled with dreams of connections and endless tangents, of currents that hide beneath the surface and feed the cold depths with light by osmosis.

I wonder --- to compare the thoughts of one who has never experienced the ocean (and I'm sure there are a great many such sad and deprived souls) to one who has lived and played in its great shadow. The great religions of mankind, those that must be written in books and given form on a weekly basis, must have been conceived inland.