• the Politics of the ‘Here and Now’

    https://www.deviantart.com/art/Museum-Cavern-Matte-56884324


     

    the Politics of the ‘Here and Now’

     

    portraits hang on walls; dusty | the ticktock of a clock in syncopation marks time | generations consumed in quarter notes; atonal rhythms of coffee cups and saucers; spoons and trays | parlors where they speak of the dead;  empty of hope—full of sorrow lamenting the passing of a cycle | spirits on their journey down the river Styx; pay tribute to Charon | “You May Pass—” into the abyss

    cumulonimbus stratospheric perambulations fade across the sky | flames rise on hearths; embers of extinction glow; pop | leave smoke and residue on mantelpieces; sad | still the family portraits smile | music from ancestral accordions dispatch circles of blackbirds perched on musical staffs; time beats the drum | a slapping bass

    exasperation sends word through ticker tapes and a news conference | plaintive cries heard over the din of emotion | radio waves echo the shattered glass of Cristal chandeliers and forced kisses  ::ribbon cutting ceremonies portend confinement; a bobble-head doll’s spring; broken | chocolate liqueur and heart-shaped confections with fortune cookie wisdom written in red ink; busted | waves break in confusion over the lot of a privileged class; love horns | destitute billionaires cast their lots on Wall Street | desperate for cash

    a view from the top of an Empire below the sea | a heart warming global refuge | listless guardsmen on course to oblivion sail boats to a maddened horizon | empty sockets in electric mayhem ordered by stooges make a captain’s mess | the crew works the night-shift only to find the morning dew flooding the pantry; eating all the food | leaving behind dumb obscenities in a paradise they once called Borikén | keel-hauled

    you walked out the door in a midnight drunken rage; the house still staggering from the slam of the door | crazy and still dreaming of fortunes that nest behind faux walls | a last testament to the abandoned child—a mill in Minnesota; a factory in Duluth; a farm in Massachusetts | a brick in a New York high rise worth it’s weight in gold; sand salt and a copper sea  ::but dreams are for waking—reminisce; as the Empire crumbles with the dust from falling towers | debris has become my currency as I scrape dogs from my shoes | scratch and sniff

    no one brings salvation like a mad monk from the Palestine | but the sun beats down on the infidel and rocket ships send conspiracies to the moon | light-years get measured in dollars; astronauts circle the hemispheres and take snapshots of hurricanes; weather balloons | women stand against lamp posts and urinate on ivy-covered walls; a new cultural awareness abandoned on principle | we never gave a damn

    shop for explosive devices during afternoon siestas in Madrid | empty-handed merchants hunker down in basements where SWAT teams break locks; piece together evidence; planted by detectives; “Shoot to kill—”  | buses transfer the homeless from the boroughs to the New Jersey swamps | lighthouses shine the way to nirvana; for equality is more than just freedom; it’s a fixation on the politics of the here and now | Selah

    loan sharks send French postcards; threaten exposure in time-lapse; photography—black and white images tell colorful stories | a name remembered is like an exceptional vintage; the Champagne of fine wines | the Citroen of the automobile | the Dauphine of the dolphin  ::could the Place de la Concorde exist without a revolution; wheels turn without an emission; Marseilles exist without its port; or a face be remembered without a name? would an explanation be given without an embarrassing moment; preceded by southern exposure? an old song plays on the radio behind each scene | the answer? there never really was an answer

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  • Corpses on the River Ganges


     

    Corpses on the River Ganges

     
    streams coalesce; levitate corpses | tunnels navigate conscious channels
    bloated fetuses float in mercurial silica reflections
    clean the Ganges with antiseptic; kill all the fish
    and there you were bathing; drinking it all in

    maternal patriarchs ride the caboose | lime and stone
    calcified gruel hedging bets on survival | fishing lines and clothespins
    hung out to dry; when all the money’s gone | and we’re too strung out for a ransom

    in the courthouses of jurisprudence limousines chauffeur millionaires on drinking binges
    President’s Port and Hennessy | inebriation in the aisles of Justice
    hung up on red tape and graphite—get to go free

    in soup kitchens and meth labs | on road trips to Reno
    we heard the last of the errant mater pater entrepreneurs
    too far above the summit to be concerned with the articles of faith
    the doers of good works and the lame | the second act of the Apostles
    written and sold to the bookmakers at the House of Poggio

    lucre’s nickel-plated dimes spit on platforms | gendarmes 
    just off the train from the Palais de la Cité | handcuffed and shackled
    irons and leggings; yoga pants and stirrups | lambs to the slaughter in woolen
    balaclava | dragged across Portland tiles and mop water; to the juggernaut
    the High Priest of the Righteous—and the Law

    suspect prescriptions go uncontested by local authorities in Trial of the Century
    a pharmacist arrested while performing due diligence | in other headlines:
    the druggist prescribed the coke; parents plant bad seeds in children
    medical cannabis drives dementia patients wild

    seductions awaken in the night | ensnare the naïve in hospital beds; sent home prematurely
    to cold water flats in Soho—uptown to Harlem—before the sonic boom of gentrification
    eyes closed and pregnant | nostrils intoxicated by the smell of grease in hallways
    just this side of Purgatory | fabricated crime scenes; doorways to the morgue
    a doctor’s declaration precedes birth—Cause of Death: Poverty
    corpses on the River Ganges | mission aborted

  • This Is Not the Time to Talk About It

    The five stages of grief:

    • denial
    • anger
    • bargaining
    • depression
    • acceptance

    When a tragedy like the Las Vegas shooting happens our immediate gut feeling is “How could this have happened?” This is Denial. We become Angry: “We should have prevented this!” We start bargaining: “Let’s outlaw guns!” We get depressed when we realize nothing is going to change. And we accept the unacceptable.

    When people say “This is not the time to talk about gun control,” they are twisting the grieving process to avoid the fact that immediately after a tragedy is the time to talk about it, while we are in denial of the event and while we are angry. This is when things need to get done.

    To say “This is not the time to talk about it,” is a disingenuous lie. The best thoughts and prayers we can share with family and victims is to insure this will never happen again.

  • The Order of Law

    https://americandreaming.deviantart.com/art/Puerto-Rico-is-not-America-707110108


    The Order of Law

    the rule of law is
    breached; the current resident
    mocks the course of justice with impunity
    begs to know the difference between
    Right, and White and Wrong

    leaves no rock obscured
    in the court of diplomatic confusion; obtuse
    to the suffering of the victims of fact
    regards the bottom line with
    simplicity; eloquent of
    inarticulate tact

    the dishonored fight
    his legitimacy rescind; masses
    bamboozled by this hoax of incapacity
    who laugh and cheer while chumped and Arpaioed
    like whales to a Las Vegas complimentary buffet

    we live in a new society
    laws don’t matter; fight the good fight

  • Tristez’ Azul


     

    Tristez’ Azul

     

    A Bolero

     

    cuando pienso
    de la vida que deje allá perdida
    en mi bonita isla ‘bajo el sol
    mi aliento se ahoga
    y las lagrimas brotan
    en mi corazon un gran dolor

    en mi ventana aquí arriba
    de este piso cuarenta’y segundo
    oigo el ruido de la gente alla ‘bajo

    me asomo a velar
    pero solo veo un mar
    que me imagino en mi
    desesperar

    aquí en este pais
    donde nunca estaré feliz
    si pudiera regresar allá a mi playa
    no me sintiera tan triste y azul

    ay Tristez’ Azul
    para mi bella isla y tu
    si pudiera regresar a la playa
    hoy no sintiera tan
    triste y azul

     


     

    when I think of the life
    that I’ve left on my beautiful
    island in the sun

    my breath chokes me
    tears burst from my eyes
    with a pain deep inside my heart

    from my window way up here
    on this forty-second floor I hear
    the busy people on the street below
    I lean out to look but in despair only imagine
    an ocean for as far as I can see

    out here in this strange land
    where is the happiness I once had?
    if only I could go back to my island
    I wouldn’t feel so sad and blue

    oh, Sad ‘n Blue
    for my beautiful island and you
    I feel so sad and blue

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