Anonymous Antagonists

Meteor Struck

2011-08-05T22:53:00.000-07:00

Meteor struck,
Shelter,
Shelter,
From the storm?

A kiss,
With weight,
Of love, lust, and need,

So much at once would break a lesser woman and create a lesser poem. :)
--------------------
The poem from which this one reflected
http://poemflesh2.blogspot.com/2011/08/butterfly-girls.html
WEdneSdaY'S cHiLd by Cynthia

Onions?

2011-06-11T00:05:00.000-07:00

A person,
Is like an onion,
And the layers,
Are that,
Which has been placed,
To hide the sweet sweet heart,
From all but the true.

In response to a piece by Cynthia

On a piece of Frost

2011-05-31T20:10:00.000-07:00

Love is always shot,
Through,
With that salt,
Which joy never lacks.
Happy needs unhappy,
Heart to be warmed,
A sharpened shard of,
A hardened throbbing heart,
At home in it’s lovers breast be.

I believe I wrote this in response to one of Cynthia's haiku.

A reflection Poem

2011-04-27T22:43:00.000-07:00

Is the rain
Ruling your heart
Those drops
Are springtime's start
No need for saddness
As the flowers in all
Their radness
Will help you enjoy the sun.

Another one on Perspective

2011-03-01T10:53:00.000-08:00

Lessons Learned

One of life's,
Main lessons learned,
Is the pain by which,
Perspective's earned.

Muse

2011-02-27T17:28:00.000-08:00

MUSE

A cafe to share remembrances,
And in the corner,
The lurking shadow of truth.
The muse,
Within the heart,
Never dies,
Or fade,
It is we,
Who erode and accumulate….

I wrote this in response to the line by Illyria, “the pay’s reliable. muses get old. they die.”

The scene of the accident

2011-02-22T07:48:00.000-08:00

A memory

Flowering potted plants,
Glowingly growing among,
Shards of shattered glass,
A memory of pain,
Thankful,
For,
Today.

A year ago a friend was driving towards her home and had an accident in which the vehicle rolled several times. Just the other day she recounted her experience walking past the place. As she walked by the scene of broken glass she spotted potted plants flowering. She said it both saddened and lifted her. Apparently others had died there in similar accidents and the flowers were planted in memory. :)

No Peace/No profit #2

2011-02-21T03:49:00.000-08:00

Prophet's Profit

It never,
Is the prophets,
Who,
From altruism,
Profits,
I doubt any,
Of the many,
True prophets of,
Humanity,
Ever had as,
A primary,
Motivation,
The acquisition of power,
For just the sake of power.

Reflection on a Haiku

2010-10-24T21:38:00.000-07:00

Sadness
Is not
Like a poison
I believe
It is more
A bitter bitter fruit
That must
Be eaten for
The necessary nourishment
It provides....

Shared sadness is enriching and proof we are possessed of hearts.

Prophet's Profit?

2010-10-13T21:22:00.000-07:00

No Peace/No profit #1

It never,

Is the prophets,

Who,

From their altruism,

Profits,

I doubt,

That any,

Of the many,

True prophets of,

Humanity,

Ever had,

As,

Their primary,

Motivation,

The acquisition of,

Power,

For just the sake of power.

An old Poem rediscovered.

2010-09-24T23:11:00.000-07:00

So many beautiful pieces.
I believe the heart of a poet is lit,
By the heat of the sun on one side,
And the other cooled by the moon,
And poetry is,
What comes from their soul,
As they slowly freeze/cook,
Over and over and over,
Again.

peace

A Responce to Gulnaz

2010-09-09T20:36:00.000-07:00

Some folks,
Hold fast to,
Their pain,
Like,
It's a blanket.

Sore comfort,
That harsh fabric,
Covering ones eyes,
With only,
The bad things,
Mad things,
And hurt.

There is too much anger/hate/fear in humanity and I fear it bodes ill for the future.
peace

Blogging

2010-08-29T11:04:00.000-07:00

I have noticed as I am sure you have that blogging has lost a bit of it's creative magnetism.
I attribute it to the popularity of Facebook, Twitter, and the other social network systems.
I don't believe though that they can truly offer the kind of audience that a blog can, not so much in numbers but in interest.
Take for example our friend illyria and that site. We do not go to that site to read about that person's last bowel movement, we go to that site to read that which has been created, in short "Art."
I am on FB but it does not give me the satisfaction that blogging does and I dont put into my blog when I last got drunk or whether the show that featured Ozzie losing his voice. By all means FB and Tweet, but don't forget where your Art is. :)
peace out!
And if you can't peace out then PISS OFF! :)

Words

2010-03-22T23:18:00.000-07:00

Work work work.....
God I hate working for my dreams by way of prostituting myself to another's.
Most of my time is spent laboring for their dreams and what little time is left for me I can barely afford to spend what remains of the ink of my imagination I can barely see the paper upon which I so desire to journey.
There is in this world a missing part I dont know if it is a wheel, a cog, a lever, a hidden micro switch, or an ancient string of words from a dead language I just know that it is missing and without we are lost to live lives of many dull monochrome moments with a few fragments of bright and shiny to taunt us.
If I find that missing part would you my dearest friends clear a path to the place it belongs.

Self examination

2010-01-21T12:35:00.000-08:00

I was just sitting here looking over my scribbling and noticed that I rarely write something that is not a reflection of someonelse's writing, someone's writing from out here in the electroverse.
Is this OK?
OK Owen Wilson that was a classroom reading.
Trans-Illyria
Gulnaz
Cocaine Jesus
Ruksak
Misti
... etc
Aw well have a great day!

What Painful Hope?

2009-12-18T23:05:00.000-08:00

What painful-hope can be found in,
A bomb strapped to a child-heart,
By an angry-loving father,
Sent to visit those others,
Called not fit to be brothers,
Paradise-promised by one who talks to his god,
I find such a cruel and hateful deity,
Deserves not worship but pity,
No pious supplication,
Only intense renunciation,
And it’s idols ground to dust.

Singularity! SINGULARITY!

2009-04-04T18:57:00.000-07:00

More evidence that we have arrived in the pre-singularity phase.....
New Scientist once again gives a story that indicates that Computers are being delegated more and more of the knuts and bolts of society..... WAR. The title says it all.
Full text of article @ http://www.newscientist.com/article/dn17332-plan-to-teach-military-robots-the-rules-of-war.html

Evidence of Impending Singularity?

Robot scientist makes discoveries without human help
by Kurt Kleiner in New Scientist Magazine
A robot scientist that can generate its own hypotheses and run experiments to test them has made its first real scientific discoveries. Dubbed Adam, the robot is the handiwork of researchers at Aberystwyth University and the University of Cambridge in the UK. All by itself it discovered new functions for a number of genes in Saccharomyces cerevisiae, aka brewer's yeast.

Full text of article @ http://www.newscientist.com/article/dn16890-robot-scientist-makes-discoveries-without-human-help.html

Some background

The Coming Technological Singularity:
by Vernor Vinge presented to NASA
Abstract

Within thirty years, we will have the technological means to create superhuman intelligence. Shortly after, the human era will be ended. Is such progress avoidable? If not to be avoided, can events be guided so that we may survive? These questions are investigated. Some possible answers (and some further dangers) are presented.

Full text of article @ http://www-rohan.sdsu.edu/faculty/vinge/misc/singularity.html

A letter to an angry god

2009-02-26T22:20:00.000-08:00

God said "Stop asking so many questions, believe only in me and stop doubting, be loyal to the church, and stop being such a butthead to your fellow humans, because if you dont we are going to have to re-evaluate our relationship."

- I am now and always will be full of questions.
- Because the answers to these questions are so few and far between I am also full of doubt.
- My loyalty must be earned it will not be given freely.
-An unflinching faith in a being who does not have a corporeal form is as dangerous a practice as believing in an ordinary man or woman of clay.
- The violence, greed, and heartlessness displayed by my fellow humans is an expression of the compounded frustrations of the present added on to the pains of the past both created by trying to overcome a bad design.

In responce to another CJ posting on his site.

There is in the dust

2009-01-24T22:47:00.000-08:00

There is in the dust,
of our more active days,
words left unsaid,
I find them by listening,
to the voices,
of distant friends,
over electric presses,
that never stop.

There is always one of the blogging multitude that has the right word to waken what is for the moment sleeping.
Peace

Wilderness Disease

2009-01-12T21:07:00.000-08:00

Concrete skies,
Are all she sees,
She has,
A wilderness disease,
She’s caught,
On the horns,
Of a dilemma.
She has,
A wilderness disease,
Concrete skies,
Are all she sees,

She is a wilderness child
And these,
Soda pop canyons,
Are about to,
Drive her wild,
Concrete skies,
All she sees,
She has,
A wilderness disease,

The world knows
Her wilderness soul’s
Ultimate goal’s,
To embrace,
Life,
Completely,
Before,
The light goes out.

All she sees,
Are concrete skies,
She is wilderness wise
And concrete skies,
Are all she sees,
She has,
A wilderness disease.

Living Color

2008-12-03T21:04:00.000-08:00

The painfully gained palette of,
a perspective's spectrum paints,
a sad sunset behind lonely trees.
The night's cold caresses chill
and down I lay in remembrance still
and lose myself by bleak degrees.

I wrote this in responce to "Wednesday" a poem by Concrete Jesus a fellow blogger

CJ's site

Future Framed

2008-12-01T22:30:00.000-08:00

Nights
Stained
With
An apologetic darkness
Hearts
Pained
With
The senses being helpless
Future
Framed
By those
Captured
In hideous madness
Souls
Trained
To ignore and deny
A very deep sadness.

A bullet does not change an enemy into a friend it ends him and the chance forever.

Thank you Gulnaz, the line "Night stained by apologetic darkness," woke up my muse for a moment.
peace

Broken Images

2008-10-12T10:35:00.000-07:00

Pieces of a broken mirror
give broken images
but each
piece is perspective
in and of itself.
the hardest part is context
a red cloth becomes
a pile of saffron or
the blood on a bandage or
a stain from yesterdays cherry pie...

Broken images
reflected
lost
and then found again.
Does the eye see it
as many pieces of the world scattered or
as the world reflected in many windows shattered or
many makeup mirrors held in many soft smooth hands
what use a broken mirror's melted sands.

What is art but
the view
from the artist's shard
harmonic reflections
disonant deflections
shadow deceptions
and pieces, pieces, pieces.

I think sometimes that broken images
can show more than a crystal clear
photo.

Falling into life

2008-10-12T10:25:00.000-07:00

The speed at which the years pass can become frightening.
Life
is like jumping off
a very very large building
First the fear of flying
then joyous abandon
to the freedom of free fall
then the casual consideration
of
the possibility
of the ground,
and then finally
the absolute certainty
of the ground's
inevitability.

When I die I hope that I get a glimpse of the title of the booklet of me.

Whoa now

2008-10-09T21:44:00.000-07:00

Embodied energy, embodied cost
we must embody
responsability
for what is lost.
We must cease
defining our relationship with the universe
as one of predator to prey
Man consumes everything he touches
from dirt, guano, shark fin soup,
rocks
if it can be priced
it too
can and will be thrown in the pots
Predators that
are too sucessful
are soon extinct
peace

Nested garden?

2008-10-04T21:21:00.000-07:00

When I was a young man just old enough to ask interesting questions my father told me, " Life is like a garden and when we are young the garden is a small one contained safely behind the warm walls of our parents and our family and as we age these walls are replaced by the walls of our friendships and as we age further our jobs become the walls and at the final stages of our life our mortality becomes the walls.
I am glad I have seen some of the garden.

More on perspective

2008-10-03T20:18:00.000-07:00

The great writer finds the nut of that perfect sentence, paragraph, or story within their past's pleasures and pains whether real or imagined. It really is the writer that does the writing. We the reader know that the author is all of their characters, all of their hearts, all of their fists, caresses, and kisses, all of their skinned knees and bandaging hands because it is the author who writes it, creates it, forms it from that pallatte of their soul, palettes of many colors or not.

Where are your words?

2008-09-14T22:50:00.000-07:00

A place in my heart
is bleeding
for the words of a friend
I am needing

This canvas of life
we all travel
without her words
will unravel
to a
static and stale
crumpled, dull and pale
ticket
used and forgetten
in the pocket of a sport coat
at the lost and found.

We are missing you!

Random kindness

2008-07-14T20:27:00.000-07:00

Time can be
As much
A friend
As critic.

Don't regret mistakes own them.
Don't believe the lies you tell yourself.
Don't fear endings for they are in-fact beginnings in disguise.
Don't hold on to memories for too long for they can end your living.
Don't ever miss a good sunset or sunrise for they the tracks of the tears of creation
Remember who you are and give yourself a hug.
peace

I knows

2008-05-17T22:52:00.000-07:00

The animal hunger of lust
where egos and hearts must
either join together
in a snarled and sweaty froth
or run from one another
like a post, windstorm, and cloth

One must not fool with mother nature!
It needs more.. but it is a start

Alone in beauty

2008-04-28T22:07:00.000-07:00

Alone in beauty she walks
A hallway lit with her reflection
She wants to see herself
Without
a mirrors deception
She takes a pen
And jabs it in
To her heart and begins to write

Beauty dances

2008-03-12T23:27:00.000-07:00

I hope no one
frightens away
these beautiful and delicate butterfly's prancing
the flowers softly droop under their leggy dancing
my fascinated heart's gamboling from glancing
at life love without pretense

to those who would forget
what life love is
love life it is not
remember when
you ran in the rain
and smiled
for you knew not

Quiet silence

2008-02-20T23:12:00.000-08:00

Body as foreign country,
landless,
the sounds of sirens,
voices in the dazed,
darkness,
of my missingness,
bones numbed to a stillness,
a
silenced
quietness

in response to I :)

On beauty and posterity

2008-02-11T16:09:00.000-08:00

I would write a poem to beauty
but
a soul is of the surface
not
life is much more magical
and comical and tragical
:)
The hope
when we are gray
and youth has gone it's way
that
the mirror will tell a tale
of a fully balanced scale
on skin lines of truth
not scars of lost youth
Aging is not a slow bleed but a ripening.

A Sign of the Times?

2007-11-26T10:30:00.000-08:00

I found this while wandering San Francisco's streets the other day.

Furies

2007-08-27T22:32:00.001-07:00

I recall a dream I had when I was very, very young, I think I was maybe five or six years old. Voluntarily I allowed myself to be locked up tight into a steel box just barely big enough for me. This box had no window, holes for air, light, or sound to penetrate, it had no padding, I entered it with a full expectation I would lose my mind while in it.
This dream was intensely lucid and I remember that I did lose my mind while in that box. I remember it felt as if I were two people, one was going through the experience while the other was taking notes. When I awoke the next morning I was so tired and worn out that I scared my folks so much that they kept me home for the day.
Now I know that this dream was just a dream, but when I listened to {I}’s Furies post, I couldn’t help but consider what terrible intensity lurks in the dark recesses of our frail human condition.

A rain dance

2007-08-08T21:01:00.000-07:00

Rain, rain come today,
and fall, and wash,
the dust away,
bring a drink,
a soothing swallow,
so that I can speak,
and the goats can wallow,
and crops can grow,
and all can eat,
bread made from,
this hot,
and too dry,
summer's wheat.

A responce to a friends need for rain, if I had the power that rain would arrive on schedule.

Unfinished Reflection

2007-07-20T21:04:00.000-07:00

Awoke
to scattered thoughts of destiny
an unavoidable singularity
to in-spin-infinitely
time, space, substance and soul?
to stand at the pass, hold the last bridge,
ridden perhaps by
one of the four
horseman of the Apocalypse
sounds a little too heroic-
perhaps just a product of the times
going vegan, walking and riding and swearing off cars
sounds a little too Birkenstock and Prius-
maybe perhaps even
the omnipotent producer
of the times
through angular momentum, creativity, and causality
Sounds a little too
and then
Destiny
Singularity
there is only one center
and that my friend is you
and you
and you
and you

It is all about perspective, right?

Electric Friend

2007-06-16T21:07:00.000-07:00

I miss I
mirror for my soul to find reflection
words as feast
to nourish this beast
of untamed intellect
I found I
some years ago
while travelling a lonely road
although I know we are seperate
and distinct individuals never destined to meet
in meat form
there is a subtle connection
where the words of one
call from my soul

Perspective my butt!
get back to punching the keys kiddo!

Painful Memories

2007-05-15T16:43:00.000-07:00

When the dusts of roads traveled
become your clothes
and the path that you walk is
more of thorns than rose
the pain of those
memories I suppose
are the signposts
to lead
you back
to you

And the sidewalk asks

2006-12-11T22:37:00.000-08:00

What does Benjamin cross,
The distance of four-
blocks for?
Something that would warm his cool?
Does he have spirit-visions,
Of touching that glow of hope,
Or,
Is he excited at the prospect,
Of,
Being present at its bloody sacrifice.
This asked by the sidewalk,
Asked of the ghosts,
Of hopes,
Who's glows have been dulled on his pavement.

War?

2006-11-15T16:12:00.000-08:00

If all of the money spent on the wars of great nations and their attendent super lethal technologies were to be turned to focus on the causes of war and the humble technologies of peace the world would likely be a different place.
What are the technologies of peace?
Love?
Compassion?
Consideration?
Understanding?
There is a song by Concrete Blonde I think it is called, "If God is a Bullet."
If you think about it Jesus didn't die on the cross for us, we killed the poor guy.
peace all

Huh?

2006-10-24T18:28:00.000-07:00

What was
What is
What will be
We are losing
History
Faster
Than we
Can make it
And I am
Not so sure
we can bake it
Having lost
The recipe

Losing history faster than we make it on first utterance was nothing more than a odd quirky phrase thrown out in idle conversation with fellow students. I found myself silent for the rest of the meeting, hearing it over and over in my head. After I returned home I was greeted by the Tony Snow Show and his current spinnification of the days of our lives here in the states. What is a poor boy to do? The more I study the more worried I become. I would love to write a beautiful fiction or a compelling line or two in an otherwise bland peice of prose or poetry, but I instead I find only phrases that seem to point out errors in our societal programming.

Here is a prayer I find my otherwise atheist soul emoting:
If you are listening God,
Show a sign,
To give me hope
That we will
See the light of reason
And act compassionatly
With good intention
Towards all life on Earth.

2006-10-06T22:51:00.000-07:00

Amphetamine Wide Awake
A city,
Expression,
Of human anger, with,
It’s tightly,
Controlled,
Flows,
Of containerized pretty people,
To be disgorged only,
At some specific,
Edifice of concrete and glass,
The lesser beings,
On bikes,
Smoking motors,
And bag ladies pushing their carts.

A city,
Expression,
Of human frailty,
With it’s,
Angst thinned skin,
It’s velvet scary,
Smooth,
Occam’s logic,
It’s hunger,
For something,
Somewhere,
Lost,
In cacophony’s,
Caress.

Thnx {I} for the title

She is my partner

2006-09-28T22:40:00.000-07:00

I've alway thought of her as a partner, riding towards the same destination as me. Me on my short but reliable mule and she on her great white percheron clippity clopping down the road of life, each leaving little bits of ourselves as oderous tell tales for the other to find and wrinkle their nose at. She is always there on that trail, maybe a little ahead of me or a little behind, all's I have to do is call. We rarely camp at the same crossroads but when there is a river or creek we will always stop to swim together. It is the most fun in the winter when we freeze our selves to such awareness and then lie next to each other on our collective bedrolls just breathing. The air is alive at those times.

In responce to Rape

2006-09-15T21:54:00.000-07:00

How did it come to this?
We loved so true dear,
but with every passing day,
week, month, and year
a little peice a you disappeared from my heart.
Or did my heart grow smaller in some way?
I hurt you to hurt me to hurt you to hurt me,
and this isnt how it was supposed to be,
I have gone too far to find redemtion,
and couldnt take it anyway,
I hurt you to hurt me to hurt you to hurt me

I wrote this in responce to a friends story of rape.
The lines I hurt you to hurt me just keep coming back to me.
What is it that makes us break beautiful things?
It hurts me to think of taking like this, doesnt it hurt you?
Are the biologists correct that altuism and conscience are self-eleminating?
God damn us each and every one if this is true!

On Being

2006-09-11T22:26:00.000-07:00

Lines of life
pain and strife
Color this canvas of skin

Sweetest wines
Sourest rinds
Soften this fabric of skin

This cloak of color
That softly covers
This sole heart
Within

On Goodbyes

2006-09-08T22:56:00.000-07:00

Seeing the end of the relationship from a distance of months or years and then having it upon you like a ton of anguish, relief, and doubt, ruthlesslly crushing the last vestiges of shared dream/vision from both of your hearts and then just saying your goodbyes, turning away to that quiet abyss of icy solitude.
Goodbyes like this are the most weathering of all, the souls sediments stirred to such a frothy mix that navigation is all guess work for while.

When we realize how alone we are as individuals we remember how important those we love really are.

Silence is a blessing

2006-08-28T22:25:00.000-07:00

All souls journey through the void as voyagers. We always awaken changed by the night of one life’s eve just so we can see the dawning of the new life’s morn. The best path to perspective is a healthy dose of time. It can have positive additive effects and poetry does give true catharsis. That the void is empty of all but silence is a good thing, silence will give the soul what it needs if you let it. The contemplation of self is not what we want but what awaits us around every corner and if you practice looking for yourself I promise you will see yourself smiling. The journey is what makes everything happen.

Middle East

2006-07-28T08:50:00.000-07:00

An Opinion on the Middle East

One of the most tragic aspects of the Middle Eastern conflict is the level at which the powerful parties completely define what is known about the nature of the conflict and who is at fault. The cycle of violence will likely continue as the dominant parties, Israel, USA, and Western Europe refuse to acknowledge in any concrete way the nature of the crisis. Information is so skewed in the American press that the American public has no objective understanding of the region.
Causes of conflict in the Middle East can be found in the Israeli mindset that can justify dehumanizing Palestinian’s, Islamic Fundamentalism’s resulting response to Israel’s actions, and the effect petroleum dependence has upon the governments of the Western Nations. Someone once said that money has a corrosive effect on democracy.
The Palestinian/Israeli issue and violent Islamic fundamentalism are symptoms of a greater problem, the value of oil. Oil is the main engine of destabilization in the region. If oil were to cease flowing out of the Middle East much of the Worlds economies would suffer catastrophic contractions. Middle Easterners have been cursed by being born over a sea of oil that Western nations need to keep their economies going.
If a complete disruption of oil flow out of the region occurred the Western response initially would take on a military face. A response that would have little or no positive effect indeed it is likely that a humanitarian crisis would result. Depending on the level of consensus that would gel between governments regionally and internationally it could either spin out of control into a world war or be the beginning of a substantial reevaluation of positions regarding the region.

To share an angels pain

2006-07-11T22:19:00.000-07:00

I awoke to an angel crying
I thought, why
Would an angel undying
Be sitting by my bed crying

I reached out to this angel
I touched a thin delicate hand
To ease what must be
Tremendous anguish

I lost my sight, but I saw
I became deaf, but I heard
I was mute, but for one word
Truth

The source of the world’s pain
Is found in each and everyone of us
Lives spent torn between love and hate
Alone

The angel looked in to my eyes
And began to sing
You are not finished yet
And that is too bad

Touching the Infinite

2006-07-01T00:09:00.000-07:00

I use to think that touching the infinite was a myth, a pretty story to be passed out during deep philisophical conversations with my fellow armchair saviors. The truth is we are the luckiest organism on this planet. Luck has given us the capacity to remember and communicate our experiences to the generations that follow us and to recieve that same wisdom from those that have preceded us. The world is incredible. All of the living things of our world in their many many expressions have a passionate desire to live. You could say this a no brainer but when you briefly glimpse the true magnificence of our existence, or maybe better yet when you transcend this endless rat-race of our culture for a second, this desire to live and the awareness of it in all others is a thing of incredible transformative power. It is unfortunate that it is always a transient sensation.

A note on the Exclusionary Clause

2006-06-16T15:44:00.000-07:00

The Supreme Court on the 15th of June rendered an opinion on an illegal search and seizure case. It was a violation of the Knock and Announce provision of searching under authority of a warrant. Hudson v. Michigan is the case. Be sure to take a look at Justice Breyer's dissenting opinion. I wonder how this will play out when it is inevitably applied to a governmental office holder like Republican Senator Bill Jefferson of Louisiana.

Good Deeds never go unpunished?

2006-06-01T21:46:00.000-07:00

Is Adam Smith right in his discusion in the Wealth of Nations about the nature of society where
all interactions are reduced to nothing more than a series of simple cost benifit analyses?

What direction will this idea take us as a species, a world where every thing has a price?
That is a very dark future for those who have nothing to trade.

A religous man would say that we are flawed, I disagree, we are always learning.

Ghandi was not perfect but he represented a compelling idea to a
diverse population that was on the edge of the precipice of violent revolution against the British Empire and his compelling idea held the Indian people back from this abyss, freed them of the empires influence, and most importantly saved countless lives.

We need a compelling idea to get us past the heartless aspects of classical economics without totally destroying what good things we have created, what that idea is I do not know but I am always listening.

Maybe this guy has the answer.
http://www.zefrank.com/theshow/archives/2006/05/052206.html#

In Response to Wilford Owen

2006-04-05T22:40:00.000-07:00

W. Owens Anthem for Doomed Youth

The imagery and sounds of this poem are painted with the blood of the young as the primary pigment with just a touch of gunmetal grays and the musical accompaniment is sung by a choir of grieving mothers accompanied by the screeching of artillery shells. I was really moved by this poem and I can’t help relating it to our nations present adventure in Mesopotamia. There is no glory in battle there are only the dead and those who killed them. Those who pull the triggers in the end find no joy in the deed, only painful memories. Those who die like cattle. This phrase in the opening line of the poem sets the tone of the all of the other lines that follow. These early days of industrialized warfare made the battlefield great-mechanized meat-grinders. Bugles calling them from their sad shires. Come young sons; come become a man join the quest and march with us. Not in the hands, but in the eyes, the holy glimmer of goodbyes. There is something about leaving our place of youth in the service of war that brings a heart near to breaking. Will I return home or will he return home? The question a son asks his father or a mother asks her heart. Not to mention the true young lovers and the poignancy of parting in addition to that painful question. The shrill, demented choirs of the wailing shells singing a sadistic song. The sad shires are the towns filled with those who are left behind sonless. Duske a drawing down of blinds as a final lights out and the stuttering rifles rapid rattle are Browning’s contribution to that days terrible technology of war.

Some when there will be peace on Earth

In response to a poem and a friend.

2006-03-10T21:44:00.000-08:00

Like Plato’s Cave, we see,

On a small wall lit by light of cheap reflections,

Shadows.

Setting reflections free in our imagined dream,

We make this shadow world live,

In Rich, Bright, and Brilliant,

Colors.

Living is color and light there is no dark night

A person is thrilled to experience,

By dreams and aspirations.

A leap of Faith?

Perhaps jumping in,

Faithfully thrilled to experience.

Are you experienced?

Bouncing off Zofo

2006-01-28T20:53:00.000-08:00

Entropy is
an all-inclusive
unconditional
embrace
nothing is lost to her
for whatever
she holds
is shared
equally
with all creation

Energy is neither created nor destroyed it is distributed
Entropy is a truly egalitarian aspect of physics
sharing is not an option
its the rule

peace

More bouncing off Trans

2006-01-16T18:46:00.000-08:00

"Put my hands where you wanted my memory to be,"

Holding to our beating hearts, embracing
gentle touching hands,
understanding our paths parting
may be lost in the worlds
moving and shifting sands.

I watch you sleep contently
in my now safe keeping
while tommorow speaks of time away
for breakfast I'll make you an omelet
with buttered toast and tears
the last glass of orange juice
with vodka I'll drink today

God Trans keep Musing

Bouncing off Trans

2005-12-02T09:23:00.000-08:00

The verticle smile calls us with a siren song of pleasure. The sea we sail as men is not so wonderful, a life of puffed out chests cock of the walk egotistical crap is not totally fulfilling so when we answer those silky folds it rarely goes perfectly swimmingly as we are easily led by the thought of what we think we hear.

Isn't love great
it opens
it closes
and leaves
hearts
awake
sometimes wounded
oft times freed
the power
of sensation
fire, ice, and bleed

On the lack of inspiration

2005-11-09T22:18:00.000-08:00

My head is empty of ideas.
There are no warm phrases to light my way to the next sentence.

I find no angst stuck to my shoe
no humor bubbling on up and through

I find no message
that calls out for use
the ryme and reason
is out of season
everthing feels loose

I wonder
when I can feel to write
where does it comes from
and where does it go

I like to feel
to write
with warmth, with phrases that light the way to the next sentence.

Illiteration

2005-11-04T21:51:00.000-08:00

I was in a real bad brood mood
the breed need and search
for the right love glove, (Ok a little bit much)
chasing the walking stalkings
without enough bunny money
to ease the pain my akward
educated vegetable manner
inevitably brought

Yeesh this sounds really suburban
(this is a non sequetur cc validation of a title "werdcast"

Functional Illitterature

2005-10-25T18:15:00.000-07:00

Wannabe boss dogs

A whats in for me moment

A life of competetive cruelty

Unchained hate

What woke me was the sound of my dogs barking incessantlly. I figure one of the dogs had lost it, so I got out of bed, put on my pants, grabbed a flashlight, and went to the back door. All of my dogs are a little crazy but this racket was way out of line. I opened the door and started for the pens, this usually quieted them down for when the "boss dog" was coming, it either meant food, a taste of freedom, and if it was a real good day both, the barking just kept right on. As I approached the pens I could see all the dogs were tearing at the doors to their cages claws frantically trying to tear the cyclone fence that the cages were made of. I was getting more than just a little pissed, I had just worked a 15 hour day just got down to sleep and now this shit.

I remember

2005-10-16T21:24:00.000-07:00

I remember the smell of summer air, heavy with the rain, noticed just in time to run for cover. Tennessee thunderstorms made me so high.

I remember I would run outside without a shirt with my hairless adolescent chest soaking wet and puffed out as lightning and thuder crashed and flashed around me.

I remember I felt like I was a god.

I remember the summer storms of lust, lust so strong I would cum if I moved right/wrong.

I remember doing so, often.

I remember the sound of hounds barking in the distance, one of my neighbors treeing a racoon.

I remember catfish from the Cumberland River.

I remember my Mom saying "you want to eat that fish then skin it yourself."

I remember how timeless it felt, no thought of any-time but it's own lost "now."

I remember when I lost that feeling of timelessness, it was when I joined the service.

I remember that it was after my last plea to be rescued by my parents from basic training.

I remember I cried for about five minutes and stopped.

I remember I went in to the PX bought a six pack of beer, drank it, and walked back to the barracks.

I dont remember crying so freely ever since.

I remember that I was more than human once, I was young, innocent, and immortal. I go back to that summer place by walking the streets my heart's intense city and when I get there I play for an hour or two.

Intense City

2005-10-06T22:22:00.000-07:00

Variations on themes from Trans and friends.
Her heart was burning and I watched the light,
felt and began to write.
Some of us commiserate
co-misery ate our fill
Some of us jumped in and burned along with her
I watched the light, felt and began to write

Hearts are sometimes filled so much that they are bursting with life; love, joy, hate, fear, hunger all individually or every one at once... filled so, those we encounter in our hearts intense city are lost and what else might get lost there, ourselves?
an intense city the heart, it never ever sleeps but it always smiles and always weeps.

what is the heart?
a fire bright
candy apple red
caress
of broken glass
and velvet

Touch Me! Feel Me!Love Me!Heal Me!
A verse from Tommy I think

This part is a response to a blogger "Cynthia"
There is in the heart an intense
city whose streets and sidewalks
are alive with inviting smiles and awash with the blood of joy and lust and love and raw raw passions. There is also the lament of lost loves and the broken parts of hearts scattered in the alleyways, those alleyways less lit by that warm side of the soul.
An intense city the heart :)

Anger or Fear?

2005-09-10T22:28:00.000-07:00

If the population of a nation must have a strong emotional component to act in any politicaly meaningful way, which is more constructive?
Anger will move people to change things, sometimes drastically with violent means.
Fear will move people to be sheep, unquestioning, eyes closed to the "bad things" happening around them.
Love will move people to help one another, compassionately reaching out to their fellows in support.
Hate will move people to swing machetes at their neighbor of 20 years.

I fear that we have too little love in our society to save it and the anger that this engenders is not good for the future.

Precarity?

2005-06-03T12:32:00.000-07:00

The wages of deregulation, privatisation, and sheer stupidity on the part of some European and South American Governments have created a new movement of the socially mobile, albiet downwardly so, called Precarity. This is the condition of holding with only your fingernails a precarious purchase on the lowest rung of the social ladder. I found the mention in Adbusters.

The Senate eats their hat.

2005-05-20T23:05:00.000-07:00

You have got to check out George Galloways Hearing in the Senate Homeland Security Ninnies Club. It is 45+ minutes of wonderful in thier face down dressing, with every thing but cussing. George Galloway is a member of the British House of Parliment who the Amerikan Senate has accused of dealing with bad people like the Saudi Crown Prince and the Arab Emirates Sheik.
BBC Video of entire Hearing

The Old Hound

2005-05-09T22:20:00.000-07:00

I remember Otho Williams and his ranch across the street.
I remember the old hound dog we had to kill because he had an incredibly bad case of mange.
I remember the gun, a twenty-two long rifle and how the bullets shined as Otho loaded it.
I remember the cattle on Otho's ranch and his story about his favorite pet bull that one day played just a little too rough with him and gored him through the chest, it caused him to have a lengthy stay in the hospital. He said he still loved that animal.
I remember the summer rains in Tennessee, the smell of wet dirt just before a drenching.
I remember it rained that day.
I remember looking and looking to find the hound so we could shoot him.
I remember the feel of the rifle in my hands, just a cold piece of steel.
I remember not thinking much about the dog or the fun we had together playing, him nipping at my arm and yipping in mock ferocity.
I remember another dog, our old English sheep dog named Jude.
I remember how he bit me one morning as I walked into the house.
I remember he wasn’t there when I came home from school that afternoon.
I remember Otho holding the hound and gently stroking him and quietly telling me to aim carefully.
I remember when the rifle chuffed the dog leapt up and started howling a terrible cry.
I remember an "Oh shit" and feeling like a monster.
I remember spending the next hour and a half trying to find and catch the dog. We followed his pained howling through the fields.
I remember finding the dog and Otho pulling the trigger to silence the old hound.
I don't remember where Otho told me to aim.
I don't remember any tears.
I don't remember the dog’s eyes or his tail wagging.
It is almost as if the old hound, because I had betrayed him, refused to inhabit my memory.
I will always remember that hound was an animal that trusted me.

This was from an exercise in a creative writing class in 1995/96 called appropriatly the "I remember exercise." I nearly cried when I read it aloud to the class.

An ode to Jonnie

2005-05-06T22:22:00.000-07:00

 I can't tell Jonnie's story without skateboards. A skater's path, is one of hard unfeeling concrete that is full of potholes and traffic. As a philosophy Skating is a non-verbal protest against a far too conservative establishment. In action it is voicing that protest by performing upon it's yellow twisted gnarly spine a long, loud, and aggressive railslide. A skater's primary fuel, second to beer, is his anger, an inate hostility, a qualified hatred of all obstacles in his path. The only truth a skater really knows about is crisis on concrete, pulling a trick off perfectly, and party, party, party.
Jonnie was an agro skater; he would skate with his entire being; he would skate until somthing broke whether it be the skateboard, the pavement, or himself. Jonnie went through his life on a skateboard. Jonnie was also an artist, and Jonnie's skater's heart made all his art a mixture of brokenglass and vomit; it was angry, painful, but above all, it was true.
When looking through the odd peices of Jonnie's art that we all had brought to the party held in his memory, I was struck by the intensity of feeling I had experienced. Everyone of us had a piece of Jonnie's art work to bring, I brought my Colors, he did the crossed skateboard and hockey stick logo. I think the one piece of art that was the most revealing of Jonnie was his antithetical Wellspring Man. This picture was a small black and white sticker made to stick on skateboards and stop signs. The picture depicted a sitting man whose head was an open commode in the process of being flushed. The man's hands were tightly gripping the open rim of his skull and his facial expression was tortured. I think that in some ways Jonnie was the Wellspring Man. Looking at the original picture I could feel Jonnie's anger, through his art I could almost sense the skater's hate that it engedered in his soul.
Jonnie was never untrue to his friends; he told all of us to goto hell. But despite Jonnie's sandpaper personality, he was liked by all of us. Our respect for Jonnie was not built on any need that he fulfilled or any of the "gimmee gimmees." Jonnie was more an experience, never expected, never boring, and always full of life. And it was this I think that we respected most: He was a better "skater" than any of us; he skated from the depths of his soul.
I remember the afternoon my girlfriend came home and told me about Jonnie's death "Oh Damn" was all I said. Jonnie died trying to ride a great white horse and skate at the same time. Jonnie died a long way from home, up north chasing a piece of himself that he had lost or forgotten at one of his lifes too many parties.
As a skater, I play the game of life in my own way, I am a skating fundementalist, with stress on the fun and mental aspects of the game. I don't believe that Jonnie played the game so hard it broke him, I think Jonnie was just too damn heavy for the thin ice of this life. I know that Jonnie the skater, the artist, and rebel is now in Valhalla. He's up there making Old One Eye blink his single eye in suprise at the airs he's pulling off. In conclusion all that I can say is "See ya, Man."

A chaotic poem

2005-05-04T21:40:00.000-07:00

An interesting approach to life
war
innocents
dreamers
and children
walk
in one door and
out the other end
come pretty little boxes draped with flags
or untidy little piles of dirt poor rags
if we were to count
the number of people
that have died
as combatants
and civilians
in the
wars of this world
which would have the highest talley
the number of those alive today
or times total calculated dead.

I think sometimes that broken images
can show more than a crystal clear
photo.
Pieces of a broken mirror give broken images
but each piece is perspective in and of itself.
the hardest part is context, a red cloth becomes a
pile of saffron or the blood on a bandage or a stain
from yesterdays cherry pie...
broken images reflected, lost, and then found again
does the eye see it
as many pieces of the world scattered
or as the world reflected in many windows shattered
many makeup mirrors held in many smooth soft hands
in a broken mirror's melted sands
what is art but the view from the artist's shard
harmonic reflections
disonant deflections
shadow deceptions
and piece, pieces?

Open for Questioning Ranting On

2005-04-29T20:39:00.000-07:00

I am going to Rant, Rant, Rant.
What do you think of Biodiesel or SVO (straight vegetable oil)as a diesel replacement?
Is George the spawn of Satan?
Is Social Security safe?
Will we vote republican in the next election?
How many Wars have been fought since we discovered fire?
If history is written in blood, whose blood is it?
Will there ever be another NHL Hockey season?
If red = republican and blue = democrat, who does white represent?
Can a simple question bring about a widening of awareness?
Ranting, ranting, ranting.
Individualistic seeking of profit limits the possiblity of peace,
competition is indeed good but the how and where of it's expression
is at present creating a non-harmonious world where people spin away
from each other, social interaction is defined in a general sense as a
whats in it for me moment (Generalizations are not bad)
A whats in it for me moment!
There is one phrase that needs a song.
Rant, rant, rant, on.
Ok I am just bleating in the wilderness,
waiting for
that one whats in it for me moment.
Poetry?
What is your most important question?
leave a comment posed as a question.

We are all just sheep
bleating in the wilderness
eyes rolling clockwise
for the direction to travel
in safety

what is it like to be a cow?
must suck,