Poetry Year August 26th The Hurricane, For EMK after Bob Dylan

Pistol shots ring out in the California night.

The whole world was wrong,

Nothing could go right.

Oh my god they've killed the dream.

Here comes the story of the Hurricane,

The man the Republicans came to blame,

for something he would never do

Kept from a prison cell,

but one time he could-a been

The leader of the world.

A car in a river every one could see,

a woman name Kopeche a drowning reed.

Stories rattled and decomposed.

Two bodies there, one dead the other still living.

All the good cut loose in the fog.

His brother's eulogy might as well have been his own.

A gin flower's last seed wilting under the hot television lights.

But the fever had not quite run,

he still knew that they had more terms than one.

Kept from a destiny,

but one time he could-a been

The leader of the world.

Against an era and a President failed,

on a convention podium he railed.

The last liberal that anyone knew,

he was the last man who knew what to do.

But the ballots were all marked in advanced,

the whole country never stood a chance.

No surprises were just the surprise,

by a hollow actor they were hypnotized.

When the chances went down to defeat,

he just got up and went back on his feet.

Carved his name on the senate seats,

too many battles, but so few retreats.

Denied the dollars he found a few dimes,

it was the best he could do in these times.

So let me tell you about the Hurricane,

the man the Republicans came to blame,

but it won't be over till the bill bears his name,

because our lives are not an insurance game.

Kept from the Presidency,

but one time he could-a been

The leader of the world.

Within sight of his life long dream,

he was stricken down and crossed over that stream.

Left the world as the teabaggers scream

about some insane Hitler meme.

Don't you know that in the camps,

everyone had health care from the state?

They've just robbed the register,

they hope you'll understand,

that's what it means to be free,

in this Christian land.

So that's the story of the Hurricane,

his fall and rise and return to fame,

tangle with forces that he couldn't quite tame.

Kept from the promised land,

but one time he could-a been

healer of the world.

Poetry Year August 26th

"The Listening Room"

My ledger counts the figures,
figures of faces,
figurative language.
Rounded curves of "8"
suggest the one whose breasts were cut off.
Sharp point of "7" the one whose lower hair was burned away.
To make sure there were no lice.
"3" can slip both ways, breasts or balls,
or roundness of hips.
Of course we know what "1" suggests.

It still sears in side me, that first one,
my husband's blood spattering in my face,
his mutilated sex in my mouth as a gag,
while to soldiers, some not shaving,
took their turns.

Day o day o sang the 10 year old,
patting his banana clipped third arm.
He was too young, so he pushed the barrel,
between my hips,
where I am small.

Then they tied my daughters to the wall,
the pretty one to keep as a slave.
The other they tied
like "2"
spread eagle and out.
The sickness ones raped her.
Then they chopped her to pieces.
I still see her head,
hair splayed on the ground.
like "9"
I sat on a chair
and wept for two days.

Then my husband's family came,
and took the house,
because my son and husband were dead.
No men, no money.

So I walked. I think I was raped again
while I slept curled by the road,
like "5"
I am not sure.

Then I came to work here,
in the listening room.
The first week,
the soldiers came,
tied me to the chair,
like "4"
and raped me every place
until my every opening,
even where I piss,
was
like "0"

They were chased away.

So I have counted every figure,
been every number on this ledger.
I am not from some far away place,
with clean panties,
and nice packaged tampons,
who has only shivered at a story.
I am every woman here,
like you.

We will feed you,
and you are as safe here as any place,
because the UN is here,
and they know there are cameras
from CNN
the outside,
so they can't sleep on this job.

Tell me your story.
And I will put it here.
The swinging sign,
the smell of the grass roof.
Have some tea.
Let me record this,
so there will be no mistake,
no denial.
Tell me names,
it can't hurt now.

Here let me comb your hair,
this wash cloth is clean,
and this will dry you.
The tea is fresh.
Really.

This is the Listening Room.
I am here to listen,
because I have been there to scream.
My mouth open,
blood still pouring out.
Like this "6" here.
You cannot write?
I will teach you.

There are letters,
and each one reminds me,
of a story.
But the worst letter,
is blank,
because there is no story,
until someone has sat,
in the listening room.

Poetry Year August 25th - After reading too much tang poetry in one sitting

Mountains, moons, clouds and birds, – all crumbled in a heap.

Tang poets knew their moment well – wine induced remorse.

They've forgotten what they've forgotten – remembering it so well.

I feel the baroque carriages – bone built palaces there they dwell.

Five characters can contain a world – and excluded a world even wider.

Poetry Year August 25th

The great swan to the sea comes,

the yellow pond cannot hold her interest.

In the cypress tree the kingfisher watches.

From the roof of the wooden treasure he watches.

The beauty of the winged rise, compels the god to be wicked wisely.

I pull an arrow from the trunk, who hunted such a bird?

(after Zhang Jiuling)

Poetry Year August 25th

Tick and call me gamelon

hear the rhythms all day long,

can't do right, or can't do wrong,

it's just a never ending song.

Hot by the sun,

warm by the sea,

spray from the salt foam,

it's an island fantasy.

But then you look out to the faces,

in the not so pretty places,

the dirt the despair in their eyes,

still there after a thousand tries.

So take the happy pictures,

from the glossy airline features,

put them in your memory,

just a little bit like me.

Flown from the harvest lands,

down to the repast hands,

searching for your madonna,

that's become your mania.

So think as you sleep on her sheets,

that they are two steps from the dirty streets,

feel her tongue on all your skin,

realize she's poor within.

However well she coos your name,

you're just another boy the same.

It's a game you cannot win,

because you are still white foreign.

Don't you hear, or don't you see,

no have happy from misery,

no have rich from poverty,

no solitude from company.

Ticky tacky timp and touch,

you will never learn that much

the language of the beating drums

will never be your native tongue.

She'll fade like flowers in the sun,

and I will still be your only one.

One of the major free sex sims went Zyngo

Free Sex Empire is now in the Zyngo business. The thing to remember about all of the cock dumps is that they don't do it out of the goodness of their hearts, but because it attracts campers. That one of the largest can vanish is not surprising, because as a business model, charging for raw traffic, in the form of mall space, is a dying idea. Partially because more people are buying content on web sites, partially because, well, it's just never been a good road to getting anything.

Another sign that SL is saturated, when there aren't even horny new guys to camp a mall.

Lillie is on buying strike again

The new viewer constantly has people seeing me as a cloud. If people can't see the content I buy, I am not buying any. Period.

Poetry Year August 24th

The ghost of poetry stalks my meter,

a gait that gallops, lame, and halts.

Seized by moments of ecstatic spasm,

and lost by placid splay of rest.

I turn, and find you dressing in the moonlight,

I cry and beg you,

don't go out the door.

The stars that guide you are inscrutable,

burying deep your secret lusts,

That headed monster that I eat,

but that eats my soul,

and snaps my bones into nether shapes

wrapped around it for your reveries.

I straddled you like a horse,

but there is no return to here from here.

There is a swamp we enter,

seeping from your angry eyes.

Don't go out the door.

I witness you rave at the wall,

as your write your questions,

on my skin,

to some heaven.

I will take you through any door,

if only you will leave that one,

closed.

Poetry Year August 23rd

Rise and I sing a new song,

fall and I am a cloud with tears for rain.

Walled by worries, and cares,

I get drunk,

on the scent of liquor,

or the sight of tomorrow.

The mountains are more lonely,

their waters colder,

the years pass unmarked in desolate hamlets,

huddled around the giant's curling toes.

Exile it is among them a spirit,

that settles like the winter clouds.

Walk and recite your favorite rhymes.

On your return, I will play your flute,

and draw from you sounds,

that break the muteness of your habit.

Since ancient times the fall is sorrow,

but these are better than the spring,

because in the green there are false hopes,

while now the harvest is very real.

Call your curses by their colors,

golden flowers, blackened brines,

dragons that lust for other blood.

Rats that eat the votes that are cast,

and shit the votes that will be counted.

But once your gales are truly blown,

their rogue waves crested and carried away,

then settle to the work of plucking,

the fruit that waits, naked, for you.

Here.

(After several Tang poems.)

Poetry Year August 22

歳星

I follow the heavens of a glowing eye,

that stares in at the nearer months of heat.

The sun rises through the wood,

and even in the husk of summer,

it is spring for an aching hour of early light,

that touches through the green.

But noon, oh noon, she is cruel to me,

there is the fire in the south,

high upon the sky,

a vermilion bird that wings over,

snatching us like winged beetles where we stand.

Only the close earth heralds the change of season,

or perhaps the breath of the wind.

Around trees curls the yellow dragon.

Wisps of red touch from his lips.

From the living west it will come,

the autumn to lift this weight.

The mountains will be touched with White Tiger,

and love will rise as lonely petals seek

that last comfort of the dying dew.

North I stare at barren mountain,

as black as tortoise shell.

Soon to be clad in other tones,

as fleet crows circle nigh.

It is the year of my yin,

waiting, waiting, for a touch

of other essence.

Poetry Year August 21st

The idylls in the field of flowers, dotted suns

that spread across a sallow green.

I pick one that has turned to tufted seed,

and blow the bright parachutes towards

eager anticipated germination.

My thoughts are with them scattered,

to land in far corners.

Perhaps to grow,

perhaps to sleep

perhaps as an offering by some fey creature,

to a monarch in inhuman keep.

Perhaps to flower,

perhaps to rot,

perhaps pressed in book,

as forget me not.

The strands of our fingers entwined,

about the fragile stem of nature's vase,

support a shivering of a wind more sublime

than the the one enfolding seed in its embrace.

The contact shivers,

and my bones are rattled

by the front of coming storm.

That in my eye I see beyond this day

beyond this field

beyond this moment,

when to your seed I yield.

Poetry Year August 21

Winged victory, with face long smashed and forgotten

towers over us, as ruin does over forgotten plain.

Worn down by wishes, with compromise besotten,

the city on a hill, is lost under the rain.

A rain that falls upon us, and stings like acid on high,

a darker day is dawning, a sunrise dusk is nigh.

In distance the towers, made of glass and pain,

reflect the new colors mourning, counting up the gain.

Etched by ages are the marks upon her feathers,

remnants of the turning weathers,

Monsoon, tide, and storms that have writ,

their comment on our earthly wit.

But still she stands there, her shadow reminds,

imperfectly, our triumphs leave behind designs.

Poetry Year August 20 The Option of the Public

"The Option of the Public"

The humid haze that is the due of August days,

the love coming from other sun's skies,

take me to river,

drop me in the water.

On a summer hill they fought over words,

riven between the love of all madness,

and the madness that is love for all.

take me to the river,

drop me in the water.

How many candles for the lost we lit,

from the sickness overcome.

Death by poverty,

the sentence for that common crime.

So many on death row,

in every county, state, and town.

Drenched by death and illness,

in debt they cry and drown.

Take me to the river,

Drop me in the water.

He had a dream.

That all God's children,

Would get to that mountain,

that mountain we peer to

still on far horizon.

Is he atop it looking on,

beckoning to follow,

and reflected in that every turning pool,

that is the mirror of a body politic.

Take to me to the river,

drop me in the water,

and baptize me a new,

with a new birth of freedom.

We cannot hallow, we cannot consecrate this ground,

the legions of the lost to sickness,

have hallowed it,

and their blood is a wide deep river.

Take me to the river,

Drop me in the water.

From that river let us come to the air,

for that is what the air is for,

and pledge ourselves a new day,

where upon our own,

we war no more.

Between our desert of decision,

and our shining promised city,

is this wasteland we have wandered

for forty days, and forty days, and forty more.

For forty years I'm told,

and before that some forty more.

He went out into the wasteland

and asked for blessing.

Take me to the river.

Drop me in the water.

And if we fail on this day

to do our daily bread,

let me not come up for breath again.

Poetry Year August 20

Gather globes of red that shimmer in the memory,

beneath which cluster long blond legs, and waves.

They look out with blank broken smiles and call,

cat call, can call, all call and cross check,

for a trace of moisture that might touch their lips and lives,

and so free them for a moment to imagining imagining.

Cluster the vacant leers, that grope and grab for any touch

of time or mind, but wish most of more of all,

to take and force for little livid things

that precious touch of soul soft sincerity,

that held with the heart and mind would bring them satiation.

And so the dance of taking is transfered from this world unto that,

the meaning of the maze the same, though no rats run in it.

With hold, and hold back, tease against take,

Cold contempt the currency, for the ladies of the red light quarter.

A.F. Vandevost's spring rtw collection has a very clear target audience

Mick Jagger's female clone.

Phillip Lim should

just give in and design for boys. He already is.

Poetry Year August 19th

For eight years of eternal war the globe has burned,

the anti-Christ that struck on September spurned,

to this was piled another cataclysm,

without name or knowledge, without ism.

For eight years the soot spewed on high,

until wretched defeat was tasted nigh,

the tiny hands of bright decay,

stalked the cities of light and day.

When toppled the tinker toys of financial princes,

through the blood the poison of recession rinses.

The coffers of the anointed swell,

the unction spat from some mathematic hell.

The oil that greases the wheels of woe,

comes from our vaults, not some place below.

Poetry Year August 18th

The holy hymns your father's duty sang

that tided them betwixt the storm and drang,

that flew like banners before army's throng,

sacred world of war to which you belong.

Those spires that stab the borough's heaven,

the sleepy sounds, of divine inspired lies,

the 6000 years your God has only made,

the cities to waste he is to have laid.

The shattered walls and pillars thunder-split,

the ageless torment in infernal firepit,

the mindless slaughter and cacophonous din,

that is struck on doubter's torture within.

All these things your wars will now soon outclass,

as you wrench to hold Khyber winter pass.

Poetry Year August 17th

Gasp and grasp like dying diver drowned

Or rasp like king overthrown before crowned.

Like asp to breast impaled you claw,

all the world is sucked into sullen maw.

The ocean whirlwind swirled leaves,

the shreds of fatal dignities,

the dismember hands and arms do fly,

the parts of all your little lies.

To wretched timbers twirl and swing,

like dust the wind of your malevolence sling,

plastered to them the shards of light,

that once guided us through tender night.

Your name is maelstrom, made of city's scraps

Now haven for explosive traps.

Poetry Year August 16th

You spat on me and called me a whore,

a bitch for the love money abhored.

But your glances fell hot upon my face,

my face that is your sun and eager dusk.

My race that is rising wrapped around your prominence.

You surrendered that other essence to me,

that heart of what once named a seed,

until once proud you bent like winded reed.

That's all you were, another moment or three.

You buried your face in my musk,

you tortured your conscience in place,

you surrendered to unholy decadence,

Within your face the cravings warred.

You tell me this is what I am for,

only this, and nothing more.