If Jesus scratched his balls In the most indecent way, Would a thousand angels Turn into a pack of perverts, And would you laugh at me, My love, and say That humanness is something We desire, When cast out of the womb Into the fire Of all that's human, All that is insane?
And so what if Jesus scratched His balls? Or rubbed his ass? Or picked his nose And told bad jokes, burping Or passing gas?-- Would you believe that He was just as human As you and I? Or was he just a myth Personified?
And we have scorched the earth In search of truth, For which so many Pointlessly died In endless wars that spilled The blood of youth, Who for somebody's gods Were crucified.
And so listen -- there are no men Or balls, or lambs to sacrifice For someone's sins, There's just this empty space And therein There is the light, Where darkness ends And love begins.
Franco Battiato, The Doors, Mary Prankster, Insane Clown Posse, Rammstein, Radiohead, Damien Rice, Coldplay, Die Toten Hosen, Anti-Flag, Garbage, Nirvana, R.E.M., Bob Marley, The Clash, Butthole Surfers, Talking Heads, John Lennon, Leonard Cohen, etc.
Movies
Stroszek, A Clockwork Orange, Requiem for a Dream, American Beauty, Cast Away
In this healing wind all our scars of the past are blown away, torn away and scattered around the earth, and all our demons are lifted and carried off in the vortex of the wind funnel till there is nothing left but these rocks and the ocean, and our hearts feel at peace once more, as our eyes scan the distant horizon, where the ocean meets the night sky, where the moon hangs low, casting its tremulous glow upon the water.
In this healing wind all our thoughts are scattered in the silent multitude of stars that shine upon us like new blossoms... yes, I know we've been through a lot all these years, and the loneliness and the pain seemed unbearable at times, but you don't have to say a thing to me right now, because the healing wind turned it all around, gave us new hope and new purpose and new sails-- and breathing in this cool night air, we feel renewed and alive again, as we return to what we always knew as our home, resting upon these rocks, as the ocean waves gently baptize our feet.
If life has taught me anything, it is resilience in battling these demons that crush our dreams. They say with age, we learn acceptance and throw in the towel. Not so. My teeth and claws are sharp as always, my mind's awake and ready for a fight. No, I won't change with age, I'd rather die in battle, I'd rather dive into this dark abyss, than say it's over. It's never over! It has just begun-- this life, this thrilling, exhilarating journey along these countless uncharted paths. I'm bold and foolish as before, no wiser than your beloved cocker spaniel Max-- mad, drunk and raging, knocking down all doors, smashing all windows, tearing down all walls, defiant of all rules, religions and conventions. And if I die, then let my death be sudden and violent and stormy like my life. For I was born into this world with nothing, except this passion and this longing to create. Oh yes, my love, we're cast into this fire, so others, too, may see a higher way!
man is a butterfly or so he says in a cobalt cell of death all words are meaningless without love and no flower can bring us to our senses, he talks of flesh, of hair, of toes, of ankles, of thighs, of breasts, but I see pain behind his eyelids red with alcohol-- don't give me that foolish moon, my face is wrinkled like paper, worn down by the lies, some day they will bury me, I read, I worship the invisible, he speaks of love but does he know the word? I watch the pigeons in tears, hoping endlessly for her to come back, my love, my life my music-- what symphony, what madness they have made of words, words words words like some infection paralyzing the mind of innocence, scream, poet, scream loudly above the town, they have twisted love around, they have given it another shell, bad poets, good poets, sad poets-- I've seen them all scratching out their names in stone but I, I weep in silence at the truth-- love has been lost, disfigured by the temptings of the flesh, I stretch out my arms to a hungry child weeping on my shoulder, surely we must be greater, surely we must know that love is not a bed of pleasure, nor a rose, but rising beyond all forms, all appearances and lies, that no poet can ever touch or sense or smell or hear or see its presence, love is beyond words beyond the fancies and the glamour she is a woman as much as a man soaking through the ink of the endless pages of writing, love is a child before he learns to speak, it cries through the hearts yearning to feel, to feel the flame of the protected secret, the secret of the invisible beauty, not rose, not moon, not flowers, not the rain, she kisses the silver water of Christ, purified through suffering and the decay of death no hunger, no disease can stop the flow, love is the innocence well guarded and never known I saw an eagle once flying in the heights of her glory love is beyond our grasp, no matter how we try to capture her with our greedy hands no prisons, no cages, no songs, but love pure love is all was always all never have I seen a man so naked when he became love-- tear down your clothes, your walls, your sonnets, your words, strip away the ornaments and let love breathe once again!
This crazy woman keeps sending me countless emails, so I stop responding and she gets really mad -- what's the matter, the cat got your tongue? suspecting me once more of hiding behind some secret internet identity -- and I just want to tell her that she's nuts -- for I have no patience with any more games, or with any more Norse bisexual women writers with hyperactive sons, trading lovers like shoes and cheating on their geeky husbands, making more of themselves than they really are -- and I don't care about the sex anymore -- it all really sucks -- hell, I can do much better with my left hand -- I just want to be left alone, but she keeps telling me her whole life's story and I just delete her emails without reading, thanking her for the books she sent me just to be nice, and she keeps telling me that Bush is the Antichrist, that his number is 666, and how she is really my soul twin because God brought us together, and money is the root of all evil, and something about her husband being a closet homosexual and how he wants to divorce her, then she starts talking about me and my problems with women and my therapist and she can really help me out if I only open up, but I don't want to open up -- I've had enough of crazy and promiscuous women -- I just want to meet someone nice -- someone a bit more normal like myself (as I laugh at the thought that there is anyone really normal) though they are good at pretending and stroking a guy's artistic ego -- no, I refuse to give up, I just say to hell with it all, for I don't play by anyone's rules and hell... Well, as Sartre would say: "L'enfer, c'est les autres."*
Once in a while I ask myself: Oh dear! How did I ever end up out here, where these old perverts lure young damsels with their words-- or has the written word become the stuff of birds and all that misty, starry fluffy stuff? And when I'm tired, when I've had enough, why not just get a gun, blow out my brains, for I've had enough of love, enough of pain, enough of angels, moonlit nights and cyber porn-- Once in a while I ask myself: why was I born? Just to be tortured and to witness this??? To dream of some majestic breasts, a long wet kiss inside this hardware of empty cyberspace, to dream of your sweet features and your face inside some phony chat room full of lies-- no, I'd rather shoot myself and die a violent death than live for this-- what's this--a kiss, a bliss, or the abyss??? No, I'd rather touch and see a real woman, not some fantasy, cyber mind-fucking me and playing with my head, for I'd rather wish that I were dead, than make love to this screen, where I'm just these words on your machine, connected to the cable in your room-- no I don't want your cyber moon, nor cyber walks along the cyber sea-- I just want you, my darling, next to me.
When we meet, sparks fly and all logic goes out the window.
It doesn't matter what I did or didn't do-- I try not to explain you.
And why should I try? For even the arguments become a special kind of turn-on, something to get us worked up in passion's frenzy.
Call me a bastard, call me son of a bitch, but don't say that I ever ignore you.
You, who comes out so naturally, expressing your most primal desires.
You just give me that longing "come here" look, and I pretend like it doesn't affect me at all, but you know how to push my buttons, for I've missed your animal presence and outrageous flights of fancy,
Where the world makes no sense at all, dissolving completely in the here and now of you and me
And that implicit love that transpires between us.
We've been fishing for the stars on moonlit nights, finding ourselves in some fishy situations, searching for that romantic ideal -- you were soft and dreamy, dressed in black like the night, charming and alluring all around you -- Oh Pisces girl, you've taken all the clocks and removed the hands, sending me into an unknown time warp -- you have turned the world into an ocean of souls, dancing to the music of constellations, while I watched your heart blossom into a field of violets -- Oh Pisces girl, planting your dreams deep inside my soul.
I don't belong that is my deepest pain I stayed here long but like the autumn rain my tears flow from my heart where do I go? whom do I know? why did we part? I don't belong I hated long good-byes and now in my songs I often cry I think of you my love, it's true you're intense you're much too sad don't be so tense some people said I don't belong how much I long for a tender kiss it's you I miss it's you I think of every night I don't belong, I don't belong and still I fight to make it right and reach your tender heart.
I've been coughing up blood again trying to understand why you were trained to kill another, but it's that adrenaline rush that keeps you going ever since you punched that kid in school and saw his nose bleed-- you felt that incredible head rush-- that sense of euphoria.
now you take the pleasure in aiming your gun at a human target, as your heart beats rapidly-- one, two, one, two, one, two... and you open fire, watching him fall like in some frigging cowboy movie-- only this time it's for real-- bam! bam! bam! bam! he's dead.
look at him fall with the blood trickling from his temple-- he's dead for sure.
and so are you-- dead and brainwashed to be a machine not to ever think or feel
A messenger of love had painted the world with peaceful strokes, reinventing a vision of love and beauty-- he stayed here for just a little while but he left behind the world beyond their wildest imagination-- Look! Can you see it in the outline of the moon, in the smile of a young girl, arranging flowers in patterns of stars?
A messenger of love didn't say a word-- he just painted a picture with his eyes, and all who knew him saw the message that stirred their souls-- someone saw a beautiful red rose, nestled in his heart, someone else, a vision of God, someone else, a mist of stardust in his hair, as he walked the crowded streets in silence, sharing his vision with his eyes.
And as he walked back into the night, the world was changed forever simply because everyone knew that he was nowhere to be found-- the more they looked, the more they realized that the students had to become the teacher.
I can remember the time when I was young and full of strange ideas, I would dream a young girl, who played a golden harp on the ocean rocks, her little hands like gentle bird feathers, barely touching the strings, as the sunlight played upon her hair, and her eyes always posed a question-- Can you see him? In these ocean depths I lost my lover-- he was much like you, foolish yet noble, restless and always ready for change. Then she would disappear, as I walked along the shoreline, wondering who she was, but somehow I knew that she was my destiny... And now each time I walk along this shoreline, I can hear her music and I know that it was always me down there at the bottom-- waiting for you, my love, to draw me out.
Life is a battlefield Of choices made And choices waiting To be made, Even if your choice Is not to choose.
And I have made Some choices That I sometimes regret-- Like opening up to A total stranger, Pretending to be An aspiring writer, Who took my heart And stepped All over it,
While I tried To believe that There was Something greater Between us.
The only thing That I found is That some people Do not live Their lives in the open,
Hiding some dirty Past secrets that Bring on guilt And shame.
And they try to flush Their past Down the toilet, but The lies just keep Building up And the toilet backs up,
And the plunger won't work This time.
I wanted to be your lover, Not your plumber to help Your lies from interfering With your social life.
Even back then You kept saying That you loved me But referred to me As some friend of Your nonexistent Norwegian husband, And you never wanted Anyone to know about Your fatherless children,
As if your children Are a source of shame.
And all I wanted was love And openness.
But all I got were lies, Lies and more lies.
Well, it's been two years Now since you wrote me That love poem, calling me Your soft and wild Lover and a clutter in Your pink laws.
But all the softness And wildness have gone Somehow, after I returned To Connecticut, dissolved In all the fantasies Of some ideal love.
And all I have are just Old love letters and Pictures of you and Your children on my PC, Fading in hollow dreams That I could ever be a part Of your family.
Well, go ahead and Pretend that we never met, Cringing about my Bad breath, dandruff, Receding hairline, And social awkwardness, While hiding behind the name Of your nine years younger Adolescent husband.
I suppose he's good at Fixing your computer Troubles because all your Big writing career Revolves around Internet gossip and All the things You'd like others To believe.
Well, I don't take Myself as seriously-- I once believed in us And our future together Only to have my books, Dedicated to you, Thrown in the garbage And have you deny Ever knowing me.
As Bill Clinton once said: "I did not have sex With that woman," Even though the Evidence pointed To the contrary.
Well, it's been Two years since I've been "that man" That you choose not To acknowledge, And I'm taking my Life back piece By piece, refusing To trash whatever Tender moments That we had together.
And we did have them, Darling.
So, go ahead, and Pretend that you Never loved me, Creating more Lies and fictions.
It doesn't matter.
All that matters Is that I'm true To myself and to My heart.
She crushes everything-- Friendships, loyalty, Any sense of decency Or feelings of love That were once there.
She just plays it all Like a big game, Going from one Guy to another, Never stopping To think of All the wreckage She leaves behind.
Today it's Moses, Tomorrow it's Peter, Then it's Ron or Kris, Then some other Peter, Then some Johnny Or Al from Bridgeport.
They all spend money On her, hoping that She'll divorce her Husband and one day Run off with one Of them.
But it's all a big game With her--she doesn't Love anyone-- Not even her husband, Who sits at home Like an idiot, Playing his porn DVDs On his computer, Waiting for her To return and bring Some money To pay the next month's Rent.
She's just a little girl-- Twenty-two years old-- Who's boy crazy And money hungry, Who gets turned on As quickly as she loses Interest.
Yes, she'll tell you That she's married And that she loves you All the same, The way she loves All her clientele And some dozen Other guys--especially That one who played A guitar--a former Music teacher at A local college Who broke her heart.
Yes, she's sweet and Friendly and she'll Praise your poetry and art, Especially those poems That she inspired you To write for her, And those paintings That flatter her Oversized ego.
She'll laugh and smile With you, go out And have a good time-- But it's all just a game-- In the end, she returns To the safety of Her indifferent husband.
She's a Jezebel-- A shameless little Harlot, who will take Your heart and Dump you like The rest.
I've been listening to your White collar music And bad hair days, Starbucks Coffee and water coolers, Where efficiency and speed Overtakes spontaneity and joy, Where strangers stare At computer screens All day long, calling it A productive day...
And I keep wondering -- Where is the love, brother?
I've been listening to A bunch of pretentious asses, Google searching And internet shopping, Blogging away and yapping away .. phones, listening To CDs of the latest Anesthetic music, Sharing the latest net jokes, Watching the latest Tarantino flicks...
And I keep wondering -- Where is the soul, sister?
I've been listening to your Hearts percolating in Cyberspace, in the world Where there was once Genuine human contact, Replaced by instant Messaging, caller IDs, Email, faxes, e-books, Digital photos, printers, And color copiers, Where life is just An absurd montage Of fast forward, pause And rewind...
And I've been meaning to ask -- Where do we go from here, Now that we have totally Alienated ourselves By plugging ourselves into The vast hole of meaningless Privacy and information?
So I keep wondering If anyone really wants To read or write anything When words keep dragging Endlessly on some flat LCD display, where internet Jargon replaced the joy Of discovery, where Fantasy and virtual sex Replaced our human flesh And blood --
And what happens to us When we can't leave the house Without some gadget That numbs us from knowing Others and ourselves?
And it reminds me of What Philip Slater said So prophetically back in 1970s -- The quintessential American Community is nothing More than a traffic jam -- The experience of being Together with others In the privacy of your Personal prison.
The wind is raging-- Soon the rain arrives. The summer ends-- The summer of our lives, While I'm wondering If you all had fun-- Yes, you out there, Tanning in the sun, And you alone, Drinking in a bar... The wind is raging At the passing cars That go by like Seconds on a clock, While opportunity Always seems to knock And knock forever On somebody's door, And I don't really Know anymore What summer is, What's autumn? And what's spring? To me the cold and frost That winter brings Remind me of the cold Inside our hearts... And what is poetry? And what is art? And do we really want To see the truth? Why do we waste Our energy and youth On sports, success Or some elusive dreams?... The wind is raging, And it somehow seems To be a vain And superficial chase, While we can never Really come to face That which we are-- Our self-important masks Are much too grand For our own good. Yes, there's literature And even Hollywood, And I could write About the lakes and trees, The scenic mountains, The technological disease, The infrastructure, And the social ills... There's a storm in me, But I'm still, Not knowing where I am Or where I'll be.
As they all keep drooling over your drivel, I wonder when you'll ever write anything of significance--
I, for one, do not believe that there's anything particularly holy about my saliva or anyone else's, except that it serves its purpose of a temporary lubricant,
Just like alcohol lubricates certain social situations-- and I have seen babies drool all over themselves and have their mothers wipe off their spittle, forgetting that there might be a genius to be discovered in their salivary glands-- for it could heal the sick like Jesus, but he appears to have been a mythical figure, just like the gods and heroes long before him, but people will believe anything as long we spit the words from our collective drivel--
Alas, poetry is to be lived and not to be worshipped, and among all the oohs and aahs of your entourage, I wonder how many really live half the things that they scribble, but they keep on scribbling anyway about some gods and goddesses, trying to warn us before it's too late to change our ways--
But I don't see anything changing except the empty exchange of words, drool and saliva, and I wish there were less spitting and drooling and more intelligent and coherent writing.
Your brain is a healthy mix of male and female You are both sensitive and savvy Rational and reasonable, you tend to keep level headed But you also tend to wear your heart on your sleeve
Tiger people are sensitive, given to deep thinking, capable of great sympathy. They can be extremely short-tempered, however. Other people have great respect for them, but sometimes Tiger people come into conflict with older people or those in authority. Sometimes Tiger people cannot make up their minds, which can result in a poor, hasty decision or a sound decision arrived at too late. They are suspicious of others, but they are courageous and powerful. Tigers are most compatible with Horses, Dragons, and Dogs.
I'm a poet and a survivor. I was born in Moscow, Russia, in 1962 and have been living in the US since 1975. I have published several books of poetry and I'm widely known around the internet. I am influenced by many Russian poets, Beat poetry (Ginsberg, Corso, Ferlinghetti), Charles Bukowski, e.e. cummings, Emily Dickinson, Weldon Kees, T.S. Eliot, Robinson Jeffers, Dylan Thomas, Anne Sexton, Heinrich Heine, Bertolt Brecht, Rainer Maria Rilke, Federico Garcia Lorca, and many other poets throughout the world. I've done several translations of other poets. My poetry ranges from lyrical to satirical, to just plain crazy. I'm a big fan of Mary Prankster from Maryland who became a counterculture cult hero with her intelligent and uncensored punk lyrics. She is down to earth and loyal to her fans and never compromises her creativity just to get radio play. She brought soul and intelligence to the rebellious punk sound. One of her songs The World Is Full of Bastards has the same title as my famous poem that I published in a college magazine in 1990. I've been writing poetry since 1986. I also draw and paint. You can check out my small art gallery where I added a few works by my artistic friends.
Join me at CHERRY TAP (formerly LostCherry) -- internet's first nightclub. A great place to meet friendly people and have fun.
ADD THIS BANNER TO YOUR PAGE! Copy and paste the code into the About Me section of your profile!
It was another uplifting poem,
Masquerading as the meaning of life,
And those who took little sips from it
Felt a little better during the day
Because the poem was their friend
Like a get-well card or a call from
That special someone with its
Huggy--poo and lovey-doo
Type of fuzzy nonsense,
But it felt good anyway,
Like you were standing in a parking lot
Filled with cheery people, getting
All sickly christmasy,
And the huggy-poos and lovey-doos
Kept ringing loud in your head and
You felt that you wasted all of your
Goddamned motherfucking life
Just to hear some cheerful
Obnoxious moron tell you sickly
Sweet platitudes--hugs and kisses
And sunny wishes, and babies and
Puppies and kittens, and horrible verse
About someone's granny
And how she made it all better,
While you were holding a gun to your head,
Wanting to end it all, sick of all the love
And the hugs and the greetings,
And the Christmas spirit, and saving
The whales, and the genocide in Darfur,
And feeding the world and protecting
Little critters with huggy-poos and
Lovey-doos and all the random fuck-yous
From the passing drivers--
Then it all made sense as you lowered the gun
And took the piss in the parking lot
In front of all those cheery bible peddlers
And said merry fucking Christmas,
Taking a shot in the dark and walking
Away in a drunken stupor.
Oh girl, you act so frisky
In this lethargic town,
You must have had some whiskey,
You must have walked around
These streets that lead me nowhere,
These streets that crush me so,
Oh girl, your eyes are laughing,
They're daring me to go,
To take this aimless journey
With nothing as our guide,
Except the moon that's playing
Upon your hair tonight.
Oh girl, you act so frisky,
I know just what to do--
I'll write this silly poem
And show it to you.
Take this body, my love,
my body, my love,
feel my knees and my arms,
feel my fingers on your hair,
cold fingers, sad fingers,
kiss my mouth, my love,
ever so gently
caressing my chest and stroking my hair,
play with it--whatever is left of it--
I'm sad, my love,
and as I hear you laugh,
I feel the water around my eyes,
my brown eyes, the eyes of a poet,
the eyes of a stranger--
I'm a stranger, my love,
I'm a stranger in a strange land
of secret kisses and lovelorn faces,
of cold bodies huddled together,
hiding behind stiff dresses
and tightly fitting jeans,
I'm a stranger to a kiss,
I'm a stranger to a moist mouth
and a playful tongue,
I'm a stranger to a warm breast,
I stand here bespectacled and confused,
scratching my scraggly beard,
forcing a faint smile--
there is so much pain, my love,
right here in the palm of my hand,
right here in the lump of my throat,
right here in the tightness of my chest,
I'm strung like an instrument
with shrunken testicles
and immobilized toes--
see me tremble, my love,
see me shed a tear
onto this dusty world--
I'm with you, my love,
I'm with you alone,
I'm with you in embrace
of tender passion,
I'm in love with you
and that's why
I'm full of
tears.
He stalks young women at night
like Jack the Ripper or Jack the Poet
or maybe he's but Jack the Dreamer,
obsessed with sunsets and rainbows--
I do not know...
I often see him, watching the
night life in a place where he
knows he doesn't belong--for he
would rather have the sky in
his wallet of stars, and his
visions are of no interest to
the passersby who stop and
look at his crazed eyes filled
with longing...
I saw businessmen reading Hustler
magazine, leafing through Business Weekly--but he just sits
there like an idiot watching the
license plates of cars with
young women carousing with
horny young studs...
Oh to feel young again and to hide
like a cat amidst garbage cans,
persecuted for having dreams...
So Jack the Dreamer sits for
eternity and the common folk
don't like him 'cause his
coat is dirty and his pants
are torn, and pretty young women
get shivers along their spine
as they feel his piercing eyes
upon their girlish forms...
But he'd rather paint the
ocean on their foreheads and
mountains on their shiny white
teeth and he swims on their perfume
and dreams of wild flowers and horses
and planets and strawberries...
Jack the Dreamer, Jack the Ripper,
Jack the Madman, but mostly
Jack Himself without words or fancy
pretenses, without degrees or a job,
without anything at all but
that silly grin on his face that
seems to know, seems to care...
Perhaps he's Jack the Lover--
I do not know...
I met him one night and I
couldn't keep myself from
crying--perhaps he's now in
prison or in a hospital--
I do not know...
There's blood on his hands--
that pure blood of humanity
that no longer cares if he's
alive or dead, that blood of
red and white corpuscles and
deadly viruses that turn
a brother against brother
and a husband against wife--
the same red blood that
unites and divides us all!...
Yes! I screamed, yes! yes!
Wherever you may be at this
time, O Jack the Saint, O Jack
the Murderer, I throw my heart
out to you into the darkness,
into the ocean of silence...
Yes! Yes! And may Love one day
take root in its ventricles and
pump wisdom and knowledge
into that ossified brain
of humanity.
Voglio vederti danzare
come le zingare del deserto
con candelabri in testa
o come le balinesi nei giorni di festa.
--Franco Battiato
I want to see you dance
in the moonlight
like an exotic
beautiful enchantress,
seducing my
immortal gypsy
heart.
I want to taste your
lips like wild berries
and dive into the
ocean of your dreams,
as we spin together
in a kaleidoscopic
dance of
love.
I want to see you dance
in the moonlight
until I'm wide awake
to the realm of
infinite dimensions,
to laugh with you,
as we bare
our souls in the
multitude of
stars.
I want to watch
the wind flirt
with the grass,
remembering
the texture
of your skin,
touching mine,
as our dance
progresses
into an ancient
ritual of
making
love.
Believe me, you're a star now
Because you said so yourself
And your minions applauded you
Like the newly elected Pope --
And you said to them in the most
Poetic way: "What the fuck,
What the fuck did I say that
Got you all riled up over nothing?"
Believe me, you're a star now
Because God pushed you into this
Against your will, for you'd rather
Not be in the public eyes, proclaiming
Your inner sickness, because
You're sick of it all, totally disgusted
With the way everything's being
Processed like cheese and broccoli,
Macaroni and root beer,
You fucked it all up, you gave
The wrong response
And they nailed you to the cross
Of really bad poetry
When all you wanted was to
Rediscover love and adventure,
To immerse yourself into a
Different world,
But you've become a fatality
Of misunderstood words.
Believe me, you're a star now,
Gazing outside your window
And enjoying the view of
Consumers like rats, driving babies
In shopping carts, stopping
Googly-eyed at every aisle
To check out the price of
Dozen bananas or a pound of
Roast beef, while you provoke
Them with authenticity --
Look at my soul in the frozen
Food section, look at my heart
In the carton of milk.
Believe me, you're a star now,
Pasteurized and eulogized,
Analyzed and canonized,
Xeroxed and recycled
To look like a cloned replica
Of Jesus, you have worn
Your cross gracefully
Tattooed on your butt,
You have smoked big Cuban cigars
And kissed missing children,
You have shared bread with
Politicians and the lowest scum
Of the earth because you
Loved them all, when they didn't
Even remember your name.
But you.
You were the Big Cheese --
El Queso Grande --
Waking the masses each day
With your loud verses
That dropped like large hammers
Upon the unaware heads --
You were the pure genius,
The distillate brilliance of
A thousand suns
That used a serrated knife
To cut the jugular of boredom,
Letting the blood flow from
Your thirsty lips.
Yes, you're a star now,
Exploding on your suicide mission
Into a billion pieces,
Leaving nothing but love
In your terrorist tracks.
If I were black, then I could
probably join some Afro poetry
bandwagon, wearing some traditional
African costume, celebrating
my warrior spirit and my exuberant
sexuality that my big butt mama
gave me, speaking my powerful
masculine words to the sound
of the drum beats,
Or I could be some spoken word cool cat,
writing urban verses about gang bangs
and my homies in the ghetto,
But I'm just a heterosexual white male,
who is not too physical
and reserved when it comes to sex--
No, I could never join some Afro poetry
bandwagon, for I'm too uptight and
too white for that.
If I were a woman, then I could join
some goddess poetry bandwagon,
where I could celebrate my uterus
and ovaries and talk about joys
of motherhood and birth pains
and PMS, and how all men are pigs
and rapists and abusers, and I could
talk about my plight and the plight
of my sisters,
But I'm just a heterosexual white male
and I'd sound ridiculous celebrating
my penis or my balls,
and I'm too insecure about my penis size anyway,
Perhaps if I were gay, then I could join
some gay and lesbian poetry bandwagon
and sympathize with my bisexual
and transgender brothers and sisters
and shout proudly about taking it
in my mouth or from behind,
But I'm just a heterosexual white male,
masturbating on weekends without a date,
Perhaps if I turned my life to Jesus,
then I could join some Jesus poetry bandwagon,
proclaiming freedom from sin
and the power of the Lord,
and the promise of the eternal life,
But I'm just an atheist, and I have nothing
to prove or disprove to anyone,
and I could never join
some metaphysical poetry bandwagon,
for bullshit has never been my forte.
For I'm just a heterosexual white male,
transplanted into this foreign universe,
where people group together according
to their beliefs and convictions,
their crosses and their flags,
their allegiance to some
higher authority,
But I just carry myself like
some rude awakening
to anyone who'd like me to join
their camaraderie of insincere assholes,
For I'm like a hemorrhoid in their ass
reminding them of the reality
that I'm not like them,
nor do I want to be.
She dreams in rainbow colors,
dancing freely in her mind,
while squishing pancakes
and dusting off old buttons
that have seen the starry nights
and inexplicable wonders--
she looks at the world
with her inquisitive eyes
and breathes
intelligence and renewal,
hope and compassion--
she is strong and delicate,
shy and bold,
curious about everything
that surrounds her--
she is Jenna--
the shining angel of Georgia,
who stirs my imagination
and challenges my mind
to rise above the darkness,
above the ignorance
of the blind,
who see the world as us and them,
but there is no us or them--
only the truth of love,
and then there is Jenna,
smiling and asking
all the right
questions.
Fuck. I haven't written
One fucking poem in a fucking
Month, arguing about their
Fucking war.
Enough, I say, I've had
Enough of all their stupidity--
Listen, I don't care who
They're planning to kill next--
Somalis, Iraqis, whatever.
Their murder is of
No interest--O.J. must
Be laughing his ass off,
Having murdered just
His wife and her friend,
While they take pride
In the slaughter of
Thousands of Afghanis.
Well, let them continue
With their fucking war---
No one is stopping them.
I'll just sit here, while
They sing their moronic hymns
And wave their moronic flags--
What did that dumbass Dubya
Call it? "Infinite justice",
"Enduring freedom"?
I don't give a damn what he calls it,
I'll just open the window
And look at the stars tonight,
Watching the bright glow
Of the full moon on
December 30, 2001.
For every date is a special
Date in God's cosmic calendar.
Keep God out of this war--
God never blesses those
Who kill, kill, kill.
For God is love, God is truth,
And God has nothing to do
With their propaganda.
They can jerk off to CNN
All day long if they like,
Ramming their girlfriends
With star-spangled dildos,
As they fuck their cousins
Up the ass--hell it's a free
Country, and they are all free
To be stupid and ignorant.
Now I know why Woody got shot
By the police in a Vermont church,
As he threatened suicide
With a small pocket knife.
He was "not with the program"--
He just freaked out that day,
And they had to shoot
A frightened man
With "friendly fire"--
Another casualty in this
Fucking war on terror...
No, I will state my case,
I will smash these lies
Into the next year
And the years to come--
Those who waged this war
Will pay a price
For the evils that they
Had done.
In her loins lie
the possibilities that
only poets dare
to dream of,
in every gesture there
is poetry and subtlety
of a rose opening up
its tender petals,
there is music in her
breasts that makes
you tingle with
a strange desire
to soar in the rhythm
of the senses--
there is beauty and
elegance in her dance,
a pure celebration
of her being,
now she is a star,
bright and radiant
like a dream,
now she found a form
all her own--
unfettered by the
puritan morality
of covering up your private parts--
she was never just parts,
she is always whole,
always herself since the
day she was born--alive
and free and naked
and proud of her body
and her past and her
dreams in a world
where no one dreams
anymore or walks
around like a zombie
with a can of beer,
smacking one's lips, pointing
and remarking:
"Oh baby! Check out that ass!
Ain't she a piece!"
Yes, many things have a price.
But beauty is always priceless.
On this day of cerulean bears
That across silent eyelashes ran,
I foresee past blue waters a stirring
In the hollows of eyes--a command.
--Velimir Khlebnikov (1885-1922)
Beyond the constellations of the Bears
I see reflections of the ancient gods
And I can see the moon inside your hair,
Feeling the music pulsing in my blood.
Beyond the ruins of forgotten cities,
Beyond the battlefields where myriads died,
Beyond religions, wars and hollow treaties,
I see the ancient wisdom in your eyes.
Let daily sermons fall upon deaf ears,
Let prophets come and go as they please,
Let churches go on exploiting fear--
The truth is the wind, the rocks, the trees--
It's what I know in my heart, it's what you know
Each time I look inside your playful eyes,
And when it's time for you and me to go,
The truth is in our love that never dies.
I love you more than all the bull
That you'd been telling me,
I love you more than all those guys
That you had shagged for free,
I love you more than love itself,
For it is just a word,
I love you more than kitty cats
And chirping little birds,
I love you more than hollow lines
Of Hallmark poetry,
I love you more than little faith
That you'd placed in me.
I love you more than all your lies
And your bisexual ways,
I love you more than all your art
That I've come to hate,
I love you more than puny geeks
That you've been living with,
I love you more for teaching me
That I have more to give,
I love you more than empty sex
And lost virginity,
I love you more because I've learned
That love must start with me.
Bastards! Bastards! Bastards!
Bastards! Bloody bastards!
The world is full of them!
Everybody is a BASTARD!
Buddha is a bastard,
Mohammed is a bastard,
Krishna is a big bastard!
All bastards!
Jesus Christ is the biggest bastard!
Crucify that bastard!
White bastards, yellow bastards, black bastards,
We have bloody bastards of all colors,
Jewish bastards, Christian bastards, Hindu bastards,
Muslim bastards, born-again bastards,
religious bastards,
STOP BEING SUCH BLOODY BASTARDS!
atheist bastards, Commie bastards,
capitalist pig bastards,
Feminist bastards, racist bastards,
sexist bastards, peace movement bastards,
insurance bastards, my family are all bastards,
bastards! your mother is such a bastard!
hippie bastards, punk rocker bastards,
fascist Nazi bastards, bastards, all bastards!
Hitler is a bastard! Martin Luther King, Jr. is
another bastard!
All bastards!
Bastard this! Bastard that!
Bastard your father! Bastard your sister!
And your brother, another bloody bastard!
Lao-Tzu is a bastard!
intellectuals are bastards!
I AM THE BIGGEST BASTARD!
I'M TIRED OF ALL OF YOU BASTARDS,
SCREWING UP MY LIFE!
Psychiatrists are bastards,
homosexuals are bastards!
Allen Ginsberg, you are a bastard!
But you probably know that already!
Gooks, niggers, kikes, spics, honkeys,
all bastards!
Virgins are bastards!
Rednecks are bastards!
Married couples are bastards!
I love you, honey, but you are such a bastard!
YOU BASTARDS TAKE YOURSELVES TOO SERIOUSLY!
YOU BASTARDS HAVE NO SENSE OF HUMOR!
Stop polluting the bloody environment, you
bloody bastards!
Stop masturbating!
Take away your fucking nuclear arms!
You can't fuck with nuclear arms!
BLOODY BASTARDS!
I'm going to call the bloody police on
you bastards!
That will show you!
Bloody church bastards, why don't
you give some money to the poor bastards!
And I'm fed up with the rich bastards!
All presidents are bastards!
REAGAN IS A BASTARD! GORBACHEV IS A BASTARD!
THEIR WIVES ARE THE BIGGEST BASTARDS!
Yes, the world is full of bastards!
Only some bastards think themselves better
than other bastards!
And that's how the wars start:
ONE BASTARD GETS UPSET WITH ANOTHER BASTARD
