33 POEMS ON THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD
THE 2001 POEMS
In the beginning was the blank page.
God's job was similar to
What to do?
Fill it up! And humans prefer
Following upon original creation, my job is
a smidgen more difficult,
been set, rules
made. Fighting rules is the work of
fools. Am I a fool or God?
God's work, if it is what
have been better conceived, constructed, better ruled.
Nobody disagrees with that: activists, passivists, organ
transplanters, geneticists, warriors, priests, widows,
mothers continually pray
for pattern alterations, rule
retraction, finality easements.
Every quark of everyone, Big Bang initiated,
is born God -- powerful,
a whizzing probability.
One has luck or lacks it.
rules are read, no pattern is pointed
out, no path chosen. "You're on
your own kid,"
with one big female and male -- usually --
who may be dumber than you. You
learn what you
learn, you do
what you do.
This frustration is called "living a life."
The single emphatic lesson life's taught me
about love: You
can't be yourself
and be loved.
Whether it be sex or
of love is deception, fifty percent is
pretense: forced laughter, agreement, prevarication,
a skewing yourself,
bottling, capping down your
effervescence, awareness, energy,
belief, devotion, compassion, unselfishness. Ha!
This is from
a woman's point-of-view.
Who can fathom
the vagaries, the
mysteries of a man's
mind, a creature who created for his
lust both virgin and hussy, not
someone for love,
for conquest, submission, subsumption, who'll take
love of any woman, twist it,
torment it, spit it out, laugh
at the fallen
hussy, rape the unfortunate, mouth
and help, write checks, but
the location of his penis on
in any given womb, nor the capabilities
heart for any thinkable or
unthinkable evil. Man is a veil
of intuition, mystery
preying on his mothers' species.
Close's lecture, assured me 70,000
ago -- after the Torba explosion -- Homo
brothers -- died out, along with everything/everyone
else. There were left -- at most -- forty
capable of birthing modern man.
The Tao says:
one came two, from two
came three, and from the three
the 10,000 things. As McKenna says:
constitutes the history of Homo sapien sapien.
You know, it's sad to know it
will make no difference, even
I discover the
reasons for the existence of the
History, and the history of knowledge is
tidied about that from time
immemorial, no one
credentials, the right friends, the opportune
preferably already prominent in the world --
can say anything
that will be
listened to, that
might make a difference.
Once in a
millennium the human race celebrates an
but usually elites are deaf. Solutions
scattered as broken eggs on the stones
high priest calls a sweeper to
dispose of them, pays no
until served the
omelet by a
preening-clique-authenticated, suitably toadying chef.
But once in a while a noticeable,
large enough pile
of notes are
left about, blowing
in the wind. The sweeper
up, one of the ordained snatches them
publishes them, receives kudos, attention.
Nobody is aware
of the original author, except the author.
Today, early, fiction arrived at my door.
Without preamble, the recorder bowed
the creator stood
ready, pen poised, willing to snap up
eccentricities, stir the pot, serve up
a character, incident, plot. No longer
tethered by reality,
fiction could play, and enjoy, the game.
O Devayani, dull-witted, dreary, dried up like
desiccated, didactic, lacking in
lyric and bravado,
lacking in song, from a heart that
is songless. The
days stride by, and
you read about murder, a Western
amusement, the detective
story, Eastern as well, catching
Can you catch yourself, waylay you in
dark street, call the carabinieri,
have them cuff
coerce your soul, haul you in
for questioning? Where has
all your inspiration
gone? In the gloom of a
you lost your wit? Besides the
are busy -- shooting people in the streets of
people who disagree with the corporate
planet, our lives, spoiling our food supply,
owning it! How inspired can you get
in a world, more
owned by the
West than even the Brits
dream. The Opium Wars drove the opium
importing Brits out of China. But
how inspired can
you get in a civilization where one
human can own 90
billion dollars (who
can even conceived such an amount?)
while others starve
daily. Write some lyrics, write
inspiration, look at the trees which,
only the ghost of a summer,
drop their leaves.
Their blossoms have long since wept and
greed is the opium of
the people. The Corporations help us
imbibe it daily,
with mothers' milk. They say it is
human nature, they encourage our avarice. O
dull-witted, dried up like a
prune, desiccated, didactic,
lacking lyrics, take up heroin. Sniff. Sing!
soul. What good is it
in a soulless world of rape,
disenchantment, profit, disillusion,
greed -- when the
200 own the world.
What will they own if you forego an
addiction to greed, if you return
to the forest,
scratch the earth with an unowned stick.
Thinking about shame this morning, what popped
into my head was clean Cleve's
silver spoon -- going
at it with cleanser and pad, he
with, what I thought was,
disproportionate anger. Having almost never
how was I to know I
was "ruining its
"polishing away the silver." I thought
I was doing him a favor. An
odd, at best, example of shame.
Trivial, inconsequential, except
remained angry at me for years,
for that and similar infractions. But
of "democratic" America's shame: the coup
d'etat of a
election, soon overlooked, absorbed into history.
Think of the shame of a
where, full of riches, food, technology,
more than half
inhabitants starve -- tolerated as "the way
things are." Even the much
of the Christians said: Spend your
money on me,
the poor will always be with you.
Without research, still, I dare say, it
seems there could be
no more frank discussion
of polyandry, in
Thibet, than in
Notovitch's notes, kept while
approaching Leh. He remarks
on the health,
vigor, cheerfulness, delight of the women
of Ladak -- one
wonders if this comes from the fun
of fucking with her three to five
lovers) or the rich
protein of semen
entering her system
or -- maybe -- just being
treated with respect and having
her own person, her own land,
her own family,
and no one having to worry about
over-population in a
high, remote, unknown (to
the Western world) land of scarce
resources. The ideal
population was, it appears, for
years, 1,500,000 inhabitants for 1,200,000
Thibetan men, in Notovitch's view,
is his word (the translator's word?). But
when a husband dies (usually, as in
than his wife) or
is absent, his
place is offered to a
(husband's brothers and father are
in her menage), an en passant,
is all but unknown, and: "The Thibetan
is too cool-blooded to know love... a
violation of established usage... love
would pass in
eyes as both selfish and unjustifiable."
apparently, know only loving-kindness, generosity, and
singular lack of animosity. I
would of course,
see another reference confirm Notovitch's
"feeble". Tibetan have always struck
me as kindly, equitable,
robust, at least
the monks. Perhaps, that
too, is semen
in the system, for the western world
would often like to say the
great monasteries were
full, not only of piety, but gay-ity.
Now, of course,
we have poverty, starvation,
pollution, rampant technology,
and the ruthless (raping)
Chinese to control
the population. These men are more robust.
Reading a description of opulence -- or was
it just luxury? -- that a
lived in, my
soul gasped, cried out for the plain,
the unadorned, possessionlessness. It stopped short of
wishing to be
digambara -- but that's
what it really
wanted: to be sky clad! Enough is
enough! Yet all literature of the spirit
concerns itself -- probably
more than secular
literatures -- with kings
and queens, the high born, the
of heaven, queen of the gods, princes,
as if nothing a
plain person could
give up matter a fig to a
The big stories are about men
giving up their riches, their kingdoms,
their wenches, their
jewels, their heroics of war, blood AFTER
they've enjoyed them unto boredom, a substitute
death. It seems
spiritual literature is
even more about
getting and spending, war, lack of
repentance, but not restraint, about the political
who's worth speaking to
and who's not,
lineages -- who's worth being
related to and
who's not. It seems to me plainness
is what I want, and the
my life (what's left of it) in
a cave, or walking Bharat, alone,
of no one. Human life is
all too entertaining,
much fun, expanding the hearts
of men to accommodate envy, envy for
the power and the riches of
the rich and
powerful. I know. I've played
Now send me out to sea in
a leaking boat, blind and deaf,
feeble, and alone
with my soul to practice my austerities.
TAO TE CHING
Beginning with blank mind: If you have
it, you are silent. Te. Integrity.
Power. These large
words, leave my mind blank. I do
like that. I wonder who
does. The world seems to be
retreating from me
as in a dizzying vortex as I
retreat from the world. We form a
double helix, insight's DNA,
an oscillating gyroscope
made of the
death of passion. I
walk the cold city streets of early
incomprehensible to me. Sex is
offered, not accepted.
As grime eats at the
North West streets, buildings, vistas cloud in
sneeze-inducing air. Lush laburnum
gardens, though not
beautiful bowers for the sleep
of the homeless. Art work is handily
distributed to hang cloak and bag
on when the
staring homeless are
awake -- and warm. I
-- too -- often -- long to become homeless. To
express my rage at "civilization," by
disappearing from civilization,
that which has become a horror, shocking,
I'm sure, to a Martian -- if there
were such. Given the beauty of
the ugliness man has brought, inventing his
tools, perverting the genes of nature.
Greeks spoke of hubris, Chinese spoke
of integrity. Lao
Tzu sounds good, lofty, sonorous, but does
apply? As five billion humans become
refugees fleeing from the ghost-cities of
civilization, will he
find us food? Will we want it?
Describing when copper pipe with lead solder
were last used in Seattle homes,
I read "1980"
and was glad I lived in a
brand new building,
thinking 1980 not far
behind. Later in the morning, I
questioned what had
I been doing in 1980. Mt. Saint
Helens exploded, I went to China.
that, the walk up and down
the central mall
of Boulder, with my
monster of a
new boss, enjoying the Hari Krishna with
their bells and
chant, a preface
of things to
come. The female boss's greed, contempt and
jealousy forecasting the nation's direction, those dancing
forecasting my future and,
as the water
for my coffee boiled, I realized
was twenty years ago. Then I was
ensorcelled by the
extraordinariness that I
could remember that,
that well, so long ago, so
and, for a moment, thought the brain
really wasn't getting
forgetful. Back and
forth, a soft
ping-pong, the brain began to game. I
remembered my Uncle Fred, who was wise,
remarking to my remark, when I
how the years were foreshortening. He said
that later on
the centuries would do
the same dance -- get shorter and
would get closer. And it has. The
millennium rolled by, decades seem
And they are. Unless it's thousands,
it seems trivial.
65 million years ago in the Chicxulub
Extinction the dinosaurs
disappeared. In the Toba
Extinction, humans all but disappeared. I
search button. 75,000?! -- I can almost
remember that! Between
1980 and now isn't even
a puff of smoke. Yet! Look
at the 10,000
things that happened between then and now.
The lights flicker, lightly
dizzy, I remember
the Tibetan monastery. But what do
smiling faces of orange-and-maroon-clad monks squeezing past
on the dark and dirty stone stairs
going back into sunshine after
permission to spend
my twenty-five dollars to take the Kalachakra.
Bewildered, in a fog, depressed, having already
meditated three months
too long in
Korean kyol che,
why would I be here? The booming
bray of the long horns, the scimitar
sweep of the high hats, monsoons
pouring over people
beyond the open doorway, the crowds on
steps, passionate, absorbed, drinking sweet chai
with my back against the back
wall, the diarrhea.
Even the Brahmins rules of caste begin
seem sensible. I can almost discern
when and how they were made,
as I find
I want to eat alone and only
food cooked by my own hand. I
silence and ceremony. Enough of
the chatter and
problems of people. I
begin to think
the Brahmins faced the same situation we
the pollution of our
food, the greed
the crowding and they divided
themselves off --
just for sanity, serenity. And a person
alone is a
challenge to the
multitudes -- Ah, he
has no friends. So we must be
friendly. The Brahmin makes another rule -- he
can be polluted even
person's stare. Another
ceremony to purify himself from the
According to modern community, this is bad.
But it is
coming. The pollution
of every molecule
of the exhaust-fume-air, of food,
of daily life, the touch of grime,
the seeing of the ugliness man
the world. I make my rules too.
Twenty-one years skips through my
fast as a ricocheting bullet. Nothing
It's gone. Two thirds of a century.
V brings up the unified field theory
and, after my usual showing
"I've heard it,
I know it, I can name its components.
I've read much about it I don't
understand and a little that I
did, etc." It,
that conversation, and the GUTS remain in
my mind for days, burrowing there, throwing
evocative rays, shimmerings, glimmerings.
Finally I marry
insubstantial image to the flittering, skittering,
invisible image of my own problem
-- or solution? Lately -- in the
few years -- more
and more frequently I get vivid glimpses
of what I know: world-things, people-things, me-things:
images, laser-vivid, evocative as Proust's cookie,
cookie or the GUTS, all these stunning,
be-jeweled, worth-preserving image never hang together,
nor do they
come in a
They explode randomly --
like reality -- into my
brain, and, like fireworks, last for
-- some linger as cascading sparks -- then
trash, winged snowflakes, falling from the sky.
I asked: What am I really waiting
for? For all that master scatter
of poignant, powerful
to explode into a unified field?
self-cohesive density? -- or a spider-strong
thread to hang them all
to find my
own great novel suddenly written? my own
remembrance of things past made manifest? my
history of the
world recorded? a
Big Bang reversal?
my ten thousand things reduced
Is that? -- would that be? -- enlightenment? Or
#1 on the best-seller list?
Can particles, components,
spin their own gravity, their own glue?
THE TAO TE CHING
I wonder if I'm up for this,
I have Mair, Wing, Feng and
each using a different word for Te:
Integrity, Wing = Power, Feng/
English = Good(ness) F/E is graceful,
poetic, the translation
I owned in the past; Mair
claiming new ground opened up by
the Ma-Wang-Tui manuscripts of silk,
he's no poet;
Wing is a friend of mine,
caught up in the
modern world, she
has fine footnotes. I respond very
statements and progressions, unclear if I am
to observe such phenomena in myself,
to try to emulate them or
give up in
despair. Why do I read the Tao
Te Ching? I
have read it many
times before and can hang on
to it no
this time than the last. Perhaps
its only content is: it is as
elusive as life
itself. I thought
I caught one
thing to disagree with, that the
is more worthwhile than the flower, but
then R.L. Wing
and veneer. Can
I imagine night blooming Cerius as "veneer"?
THE TAO TE CHING
Translators Mair, Grigg, Wing,, Mitchell, Chen, Kaufman,
LaFargue, Feng and English
work The One.
This chapter doesn't exist
in the Guodian.
My mind remains blank, except, I remember
a daffodil growing from
soil, earth, dung.
My roots, though I do
how, support me. I am stone. I
do not tinkle
like jade. Each
translator captures only
his own image, beats his own drum.
THE TAO TE CHING
I resist the Tao's big fuzzy abstractions.
They mean very little to
I remember: "To
make the concrete abstract is the essence
of evil." I now have 13 translations
from the library. Is
that speaks to
me? It may just be that Chinese
philosophy, like Christian philosophy, makes me feel
both sick and like an
evil doer. Hindu
philosophy fills me with
joy. I agree
with the one and find it, for
the better of my
avoid the other
two. Vedic chant fills my heart with
bliss, while Christianity's glorious masses -- musical, religious,
people -- fill my soul with a
feeling of penury,
a need to dodge guilt.
Who are my translators now? Chen, Feng
and English and Lippe, Grigg, Hendricks,
Hendricks, Kaufman, Kohn
and Lafargue, Kwok, Palmer and Ramsay, Lau
and Allan, Le Guin and Seaton, Mair,
Mitchell, Wing and a little
on early Buddhist
manuscripts, thrown in. Another of my
Boltz, appears more than once in the
context of the
Tao Te Ching.
It's amazing how
many world-class scholars,
musicians, adepts I have
encountered along my Way. Dran once
Even if I turned out to
be an unsuccessful
writing has given me a superb
life. Since I was old enough to
think, however, it has struck me
as odd that
we put such
disingenuous faith in old
books: Tao Te Ching c 300 b.
c.e., Bible c. 300 c.
e., Koran, c.
600?? c.e., (a 90% reiteration of
the Christian Bible) Ancient
Buddhist Scrolls c.
100 c.e., Vedas -- the oral
tradition goes way
back, but manuscripts are no older than --
it is not to be
date, palm-leaf books disintegrate fast in
monsoons c.e., when at least two
millennium of compelling intuition, thought, creation,
research has gone on since then
and goes on
greater, perhaps in its power and
insight, than anything the big
early humanity ever thought of in
and yet we
worship, we gloss and
interpret, extract every morsel of meaning that
might have been meant
meant from these
old tomes. My contention: take almost any
manuscript, pore over it enough, gloss it
enough, interpret it
enough and it
too will contain
the world's wisdom -- especially if
it a tribal aetiology or hype it
post-computer-age-super-think. Rumi, in my opinion,
more worth study than the whole
previous or coming lot, but that's
he (right here slipped in a
momentary vision of
crossroads at Hyampom) sees the world
I long to see, the sublime
with the mundane. Well, it gives
the scholars something
to do. Though I often appreciate tradition,
I cannot be a
traditionalist and be
a poet, a creator, I can
only tell you
my vision, I learn what I can
and express what I express i.e.
a brand new synthesis of a
brand new person
capacity, experience, insight. What the
ancestors were doing 10,
20 or 60
thousand b.c.e. I don't
know. Why do
I cut up bits of
poetic pieces? Because it affords form, a
terminus? 'Though I often
way, 'though I
often wonder at what I do and
just working on my soul seems
to have been enough of a
job for me
without partner, children or social context. My
Tao is art,
writing, poetry, painting, pattern --
structures I can build,
on my own --
"I vant to be alone" -- with my computer
I only knew the top of his
head, noted his pleasant presence as
the plants in my windows, his patience,
quietude. He enjoyed the dappled sunlight,
the beauty of the Minor
blue hydrangeas, red
geraniums, his friends, coffee, and
overhead. Meditation gets easier as the years
advance, quietude delights, silence satisfies. It
him a lot, led him gently away,
left remembrance of him in
air of the summer garden. Ninety-five
is a good
age to leave the earth -- at peace.
I gave up on Tao Te Ching --
too much abstract advice for weak/
increase/decrease, action/nonaction. Who
such advice to choose breakfast, make
decide which bus, what walk, invent
software, censor the
terror of aloneness in the anxiety-driven human-gathering
mistake for civilization. Now I study
the Maya. Cerros, Palenque,
the Aztecs -- civilizations
flamboyant, talented, awesome in architecture,
blood, that one would think
our Frankenstein-God would have stopped
Enough of creation!
Today Maya-spirit -- creatures of
feeling, superlative invention,
despair -- is gone. I cannot
rid my mind of pierced penises,
tongues, human-made mountains, pristine, white, sun-toned,
fabrics' beauty, terrors of jungle and jaguar,
vibrancy of royal ceramics, art higher
than our Leonardo
Warhol, their buildings grander, more abstract
than the Tao. Lost
in jungleness, was
their stupendous work-ethic, like ours, an escape
from imperious Gods,
was there no one to help
the terrifying shadows. Apparently the people decided
built vast domains, triumphed,
then withdrew support,
returned to the land to farm,
as Pol Pot obliged the Cambodians to
do. Maya assuaged their fears by
making human life
horrifying than anything met in nature.
How can one go on after
so colossal? Perhaps they thanked Gods
Spanish come to help them die.
they had done enough, had done it
all, had begun their
their civilization, supervised
by the Spanish,
aided by Spanish diseases,
dissolved. Remember! Their supreme
victor's prize was
often death, the spurting of blood
for the delectation of Gods. Even with
eco-terrorism, bombs, starvation-enslavement of the world's
our privatization of food, our
soon-to-begin-manufacture of human
beings, still, we have light-years to match
Maya hubris, Maya grandeur.
TAO TE CHING 2
I keep slogging slowly along the Tao.
For words that propose you do
nothing, it is
too full of injunctions, instructions. If one
occupied one's mind with it, its sayings,
advice, wisdom, one
would not have
time to live,
nor to write, nor to think. Best
to go out and breathe the light
blue air, pick the
on the multi-windowed,
tall buildings, admire
Seattle for planting so
many trees, lead tours of the library,
eat ice-cream, read a mystery, snuggled
down into sleep.
Invent one more poem in the morning.
Experience is the oddest thing. I see
a picture of bare feet descending
a spiral stone
staircase and I am returned to Conques,
monastery behind the ancient abbey with
the stone coffins, thinking
as ephemeral as
are musical notes -- they sound and
gone. Each moment is -- and is gone.
ephemeral than the wind,
ruffles the mind,
touches the senses, the
body -- is gone.
Teasing, kissing, almost unperceived in a
dash with time, through the day's
moments seen in
peripheral vision, smelt as intensely as lilies.
receed, pluck my heart. Poignancy
rules -- but no longer than a
moment, no longer
than experience, come, and gone to memory.
On earth in the moonlight, what still
fascinates me is Angkor Wat,
Ongcor, and hundreds
of similar wats conjured from
near Tonli Sap, the largest structures on
planet save for the gigantic
snake of the
Chinese Wall made into a
the mountains and valleys of the landscape
of the Middle Kingdom by Chin
Huang De. But
built by Khmer Kings in
renunciation of this paltry world the
of Angkor -- even in the Chinese-like
description by (discoverer for the Western world)
the power of desire bleeds through.
Buddha found the answer was
Then proceeded for
fifty years to preach and
in his name were built a plethora
grandest structures of earth,
with brain-washed, unpaid
slave labor. His desires fulfilled, he
died. Along came
Capitalism, declaring we'll enslave
you, but we will pay you,
this time, not so wide as high,
some of the highest
structures the world
could conceive, preaching desire. Cultivate
To be alive,
in the definition of Christian-Capitalism,
have desire, gluttony, greed. Like the Buddhu
Hindu subsisting on austerities
in the woods,
the 21st Century world just
doesn't cut the mustard. Desire is
After desire is death. Construct your
own reality, whether
you build Ongcor with stone or imagination
There is nothing more to
life than the living of it.
but what happens at the center of
things. Dance Shiva.
Dance. The moon went
from half to full, and back
to half again
and down tumbled the World Trade Towers.
Ancient and alone, the decision will happen
sooner or later, to give
live in chaos,
go with the flow. Perhaps Diamond's
contribution, and he didn't even emphasize it:
only in diversity is strength,
a billion automatons
will be erased
by an automaton virus.
only in the muck and the mess,
whirlwind of life creating life
and death, is
continuity to be had,
the going on,
up, down, charm, endless circular earth patterns,
the inventions of heaven, more planets,
more genes, more
more more and, in your case,
Ms. Devayani, more papers to drown
more tides of written words creeping
up your legs,
knees, to your vulva, into
the crinkled bowl of your navel, across
the Gangetic plain of your stomach,
up the slope
breasts, dangling free, clutching hard-handed
at your throat,
making you gag, into
your ears, the tides and tides
tides of paper filled with poems, poem
cyberspace filled with poems, as
if cyberspace were your eyes and
ears, the ends
of your fingertips tappity-tap-taping, trying to
god in your profligacy, reckless
unto eternity. Words go on describing,
in your heart, your liver, your chest,
knees, the keenness of your eyes,
words, radiant words, follow the
crows, blue, black
into the wind, into the flamboyant
And each one different, each a native
to be cultivated into cereal,
each word is
surrounded by its
nutritious carapace, each word
the same, each word unique in its
setting. As chaotic as the world.
Shred a dictionary
fresh. Begin again to assemble
words into sentences. Each sentence
unique, different --
as before the creation.
identical, words are different and
vice versa. It's the setting,
the place in the code, where
helical twists dance
and sport, play melodies of celestial origin
But you needn't keep track. It will
track itself. Endure the Chaos.
Let those who
come after organize. Let bureaucrats do
work. Let the poets do theirs.
How many molecules in 6,000 pulverized bodies?
How many sips can a
take from a
human before it is drained of
Someone can answer those questions, not I.
answer those questions, have
done, will do.
Flames shoot through my
like any fire. Carved on Venetian ramparts
in Heraklion, Crete: "I
hope for nothing
I fear nothing.
I am free." Buddha's admonition, death's invitation.
Ninety percent of knowledge
is writing it in
code to make
incomprehensible to others, strangers.
It's the priest
in us, the abracadabra
instinct. It's too simple
say, I build
it this way because
I like it this
What an adventure it has been,
the sorrow and the pain,
winches and whirligigs,
bestirred to move beyond the moment
-- it's in
What an adventure it has been,
all the motion and
to win to lose what's forgot
by day's end for
-- it's in the plan.
What an adventure it has
never pausing, never savoring until,
too tired to rise at
the drug-warmth of the bed makes you smile,
-- it's in the
Could it have been simpler?
O yes, O yes!
But the pain,
the sorrow, the mood
swing into joy,
what else can you offer an old
-- in such an adventurous plan?
CLEVE, THE GREAT GOD LESHIKAR II
This odd and pervasive sense
that what was my life
Yesterday, e-mail from Roz::
The GGL is no more.
Gone into thinnest
air. I tried to go
reading. It's what he would
certainly done --
behind his mountain of dirty
precious books, Sung, Tang,
celadon, exquisite things.
forty-three years, I
remember him telling me one
a grin now and then
acknowledge some subsurface
He had many oughts
but no personal drama,
grasping after love.
He, his own definition,
friend. "Friends last longer than
and he was right. But
he left. Now almost all
have gone. Men die quicker
women. It's true.
Into thin --
the humid air
of Seattle. He never got
here -- to live, though that
was the long
dream of his
forty years deep in the
for Mrs. Wheeler, his mom,
die. Storming and
she lived on
and so did he. Independent,
children, but adopting everyone, every
thing in sight.
a blankness there now
history. What does it have
me. The span of a
life completed is like
leaving raw grains
behind, it blows in the
breeze of years, scudding
away to death.
What's it all for, cramming my head full of knowledge,
drinking it in to
slake a desert thirst -- to fend off this life?
to prepare for the
Lie down and die.
Wait a few generations,
their greed will do them in.
began the rape of the American's
voted down the right of free
the right to tax the rich.
They took away civil
and human rights.
Sold anthrax to Saddam,
training to Afghanistan,
munitions wherever possible,
Having superseded the electoral process
fraud and, backed by the great court,
the little man who was
refused to look into his own
war chest to find that
warfare came from home.
Someone just helping out
carrying out the pres's predictions.
Can't be prosecuted,
he's one of the good old boys.
So if Osama didn't do
it, Saddam did.
We don't have to look forward to a
government. We have one. Its called
the WTO, the IMF,
the WB, terrorism,
capitalism, the rich, the people
own the world.
It's just tiresome to have to keep
else in jail.
it cuts down on the customers
the have-nots of the world are supposed
crave and buy.
And they do.
wait a few
their greed will do them in.
Not being able to
resist selling arms
to their enemies -- "business
-- nor the powers --
the extraordinary powers --
undeclared war makes
possible, the freedoms
it allows the
Republicans [the rich]
to usurped from the people,
restrictions and repressive
laws it calls for
to keep the
people in line
buying the trash of capitalism.
Don't forget to shop! even
when the bombs are falling.
Red Cross director, good or bad,
who makes 450,000 annually
the dollars donated for relief
from famine, disaster,
knocking down tall buildings.
Note the quarrels that go
among the paid staff of the charities,
the well-paid staff,
who sit in comfort
trying to figure out what is "fair"
people in the streets
who've lost their homes, their
their parents, their friends,
Yeah, exactly what is
It's certainly fair to sit in the towers
that are left,
in the comforts
of capitalism, and maintain their
jobs, trying to figure
out what is fair for the losers
Wouldn't want to be too fair.
Wait a few
Their greed will do them in.
Screw the poor.
Screw the sharing of
Screw the food itself.
So someone can
money in the process!
let out the
preferably to the rich.
MAKE them buy the trash
of capitalism, store the
wastes, turn a blind eye
while agents take
of the "war on drugs."
Wait a few
Mother nature will shrug.
One more species bites
Farewell Homo sapien.
As it turned
wasn't even that much fun.
lonely with no one to rule,
no one to buy their trash,
to envy their life-style,
Having, themselves, to
the GMO food they produced.
Mother nature -- if she is
will shrug before we come up
with two heads,
mutating ourselves into the next
She'll breathe a sign of relief
when the greens
begin to grow again,
and the animals are let out
When food is free, and the next mutations
better to do
than watch the sun set
and the sun rise
are all buried under
Our intentions aren't bad,
they're just insane
like crazy, prolific nature,
who let us loose
In any country but America
it's called a coup d'etat.
Reflected sunlight at 9:06 a.m.,
the autumn is not so
great thoughts, grand visions
but I tire early
I watch the kingdom crumble -- considering
Angkorians must have felt of old
or the residents of Vijayanagar.
It's hard to connect what I hear
to anything happening
me. For this
is a peaceful
As the coup d'etat goes on,
encouraged, daily, to lead our lives:
buy, spend as if
nothing at all
the loss of 450,000 jobs, nor the enrichment of
not the firemen fighting the NYPD for the right
retrieves bodies of their brothers.
400 firemen died along with
the 5,000, were buried
beneath the debris
vaults below the World Trade Towers,
limousines, documents; 70
the spaces descend obese with billions of
worth of world trade
knowledge and what was
Nothing changes, how do you win a war
has no enemy -- except ourselves
thoughts visions, desires
unhindered by conscience, pity.
have long thought I would
like be to around for the
World. Who knew it
would be this
Or that the autumn in cerise and gold
would be so
beautiful, full of
birds flying, scarlet leaves
welcome rains, surprises,
O Devayani, I fear my muse is dead,
other day of the challenging week,
died of caffeine
But the addiction? Where did that come
Shooting with needles?
Not I! Not I! Why doesn't the
do its own work?
Because the heart is deprived and
said: It died
o'Tuesday or some other day of last
week, stopped functioning, exhaled.
Gone, as surely as the
Saracens from history,
my muse left
on a Crusade to wander on
left my mind -- hollowed.
I'd call this a mind mood or
a mood of the mind, but
phrases as I dislike being in thrall
to the moods of my
mind: clouded, stagnant,
inert, dense, as if the fabric
plastic, lined it all the way through.
dim, nothing to think about think
about nothing. As if my forehead,
from temple to
temple, is being squeezed to a point.
pointless errors of the body accumulate
into cascades of irritation,
fiery nerves, all
the cells behaving like
the jittery switchings
of strings. Deep down inside the
the endless inside strings of things
so small one
cannot see or imagine, are gyrating endlessly,
each with its
own pattern. The membranes
grow thin with age, the skin,
out, stomach decides to be always sour.
strings' gyrations are felt excruciatingly shallow,
more as the
surface of life.
There is no
depth. I feel the urge to shut
up, say no more. But each day
comes. The sensational head
Unrelaxed desire strains
at the reins, mind bewails
to transfer nothingness into nothingness. Five
ago today I started my website.
Being able to
everyone in the world and still
have nothing to say, makes me want
to run screaming through the streets.
And always there
urge to return to bed
go to ground. Sleep -- to just not
here, to not think about
this, or even
that, to forego all moods of mind.
So long as men are allowed to
separate themselves from the human
so long as
they cannot be held responsible by
and children, so long as they make
male religion, so long
make male politics,
so long as they make male war,
so long as they bog themselves down
emotionless activities that hide
awareness of the
pain they cause,
so long as they
refuse to see the results of their
greed, to hear the
anguished cries they
bring forth, smell the
fear they engender
in the gentle and chaste, taste the
blood they spill of their
own and their
neighbors, touch the
wounds they gouge in
other's hearts, just so long, shall the
world not know peace, and men
be condemned to
live beyond the pale of silenced dreams.
The poetry year, 2001, opened with occupying
a new place. Yesterday I
to pack to,
move again -- now into an eyrie, an
authentic aerie careening, kiting into the sky
where, when I look
out, there is
nothing but sky: blue, grey,
Already, I begin to hear hurricanes stirring
my soul, dust devils, tornadoes,
penetrating the source
rain? Is it my last
desperate, crab-wise, knight-like move across
Quasimodo, chessboard of quarky-quasar life? Well,
we'll see. Here
it's the solstice. Happy Solstice! Merry
Year, 2002 sloshes in, sidles up, slippery,
to... Birth? Rebirth? Journey? It
begins. And Death?
that aside for now. Get
on with probing the caffeinenated,
brain, the anti-histamined body. Search your
soul for the
last 10,000 things/words to say/write.
2001 burst, closed, crumbled, flamed at 9/11.
Since then it has
at chimerical straws
to reopen. Just yesterday,
one day before
Solstice, announcement was made that the fires
have burnt out. O Shuttered Heart,
perhaps there is
as the flames, the smoke die down,
one last hope, a few more poems
may dribble out. Clasping Virgil's
let's walk Dante-like
through this diurnal, quotidian
inferno. Shall we,
Guelph or Ghibelline, black or white, pray
assassination of Mickey Mouse?
Shall I love
Beatrice or Bill?
Shall I pray for
the trees to rebud after the deluge
Shall I close my
heart and open
my wings, fly round my eyrie? Or
fold the feathered things, spinnaker by spirochete,
plummet, a siren, screaming to
the ground? Just
one more mere
sound of stress in
the siren-riding, fast-closing night skewed by
not anticipated by Australopithecus or Lucy,
Open my spiracle, let out the light!
Sergio, talking about Le Corbusier, when he could
be talking about
Barragan -- Why? Why
talk about less
than the light? It was his
I noticed first, rimless, almost unnoticeable,
mobile-lipped, a strange brain twisting up
shimmering with insight. Why talk about less
the light? Doing good works, having
lived a life of amazing exile
and privilege, sitting
in his office of sunshine, showing me
brochures of his work devoted to helping --
the theory and
practice of Western
Architectural Tradition falling
away into the
Andes' misted crevasses. His
students help build round the world
Montana, India, Washington -- practical structures,
multi-use, Sergio's abstract
lectures becoming concrete, touchable, cradling the light.