Najnowsze prace:
jimmymac, 15 lutego 2014
5 Pointz
we wuz celebratin
40 years of Hip Hop
at 5 Pointz
dashing tags
reclaiming the
lost land
speaking for a
community of peeps
routed from their
last stand
making statements
about remembering
tellin stories
about ourselves
giving the drab
dead industrial
sarcophagi a
a face lift
freeing the
entombed
mummies
to let em
walk with
the living
again
seein things
in a new light
reciting our
biographies
writing an epic
autobiography
splashed across
3D murals
spoken in the
lexicon of
gobsmack
multicolored
neon graffiti
testifying to
the ages with
our urban
hieroglyphs
the symbols of
life in the hood
may history be our
witness to aromas
rising from cracked
pavements teaming
with bodegas,
public projects and
store front fantasies
played out in all its
grueling detail
on the corner of
walk don’t walk
them snaps
real down home
expressions
of real people
until some
capitalist
douchebag
his pockets filled
with low interest
money
whitewashed
it away
he thinks he
owns the
5 Pointz
he thinks
he can
erase our
memories
with a gallon of
Sherwin Williams
he thinks
he owns our
perdido
graffito
and is well
in his rights
to launder our
epiphanies over
with the bland
tag of privilege
he thinks his
dollar bills
can buy
we raised this
place from
the dead
that old warehouse
where men and women
once earned a paycheck
was murdered by
Michael Milken
and his posse of well
heeled predators
busy leveraging
livelihoods by
offshoring them
to Third World
plantations
transforming
the natives into
wage slaves
tagging this
strange alchemy
progress
now this
latest incarnation of
Morley’s Ghost stalking
Bloomberg’s Metropolis
haunts the neighborhoods
with a wrecking ball
of entitlement
razing our hood
to build soulless
high rises where
they'll warehouse
dead people
ginned up
on pilates,
chai tea and
elevating
themselves
through life
scoring the
latest fab
yoga gear
on the
urban outfitters
website
the frackers
are gobbling
the land
strip miners are
gnashing away
at the mountains
now the predators
are eating our art
always famished
never satiated
the beast gnaws
away at its
kill scattering
the bones of
of the living
but this
half assed
midnight
whitewash
will never stand
already images
of the holy ghosts
scrawled onto
the Wailing Walls
of 5 Pointz are
bleeding through
the veneer of a
landlords greed
and as the
future tenants
of the proposed
highrise columbarium
snooze away the night
dreaming of leading roles
in star studded schemes
we’ll be taggin
the streets
reciting our
righteous presence
until our last dying
aerosol breath
escapes our
paint stained
hands
Public Enemy:
Fight the Power
Oakland
11/20/13
jbm
http://nypost.com/2013/11/20/5-pointz-fans-try-to-retag-legendary-graffiti-building/
jimmymac, 15 lutego 2014
Madiba
it is said that
a prophet finds no honor
in his own country
hard truths
boldly spoken
are received as a
wretched cacophony
threatening to melt
the caked wax
blocking the closed
intolerant ears of
intransigence
Madiba
once found no
personhood
in his homeland
his people driven
from their land
by Voortrekkers
snortling Boers
gobbling the land
uprooting native
people from villages
they had occupied
since the dawn
of time
spilling Zulu blood
into roiling rivers
of conquest
meeting peaceful
petitions of the
aggrieved with
Sharpsville bullets
splattering
the blood of
innocents onto
hardscrabble roads
redressing crimes
against the victims
by corralling them into
denuded Bantustans
where rivers do not
flow, grass never grows,
game cannot graze;
only the dust doth blow
riddling the captives
with torments of
Transvaal Apartheid,
mocking the speakers
of mother tongues with
the fained eloquence
of bastardized Afrikaans
the dominion of the
oppressors, sanctioned
and affirmed by exiling
a people from their land,
outlawing their language,
dividing the nations into
a fallacy of separate
destinies where a forgetful
history blessed with amnesia
will anoint the conquerors
with the spoils of abundance
stolen from the vanquished
Madiba spoke of these things
and was awarded a prison
cell for twenty seven years
but the hostages of
a conquerors justice
remained destined
to be freed by the arrival
of an accepted truth
set free by the very words
prophetically spoken
prisons cannot contain truth
steel bars cannot imprison
the idea of divine justice
it slips through the smallest openings
like a wafting fragrance of the first day of spring
it saws away at the rust strewn steel bars
like the surest movement of a master carpenter’s arm
it melts the thickest links of iron chains
in the fiery forges that burn in the hearts
of all freedom loving people
the truth of justice
is born and takes flight
on the wings of history
covering the globes
cardinal ordinates
nesting in the most
humble villages
and mean estates
on God’s good earth
truth and reconciliation
can never be separated
planted together to grow
healthy nations and
communities of
trust and restoration
Madiba, you always
found honor with
the salt of the earth
the children of light
who seek to dispel
the darkness of
acrimony and
domination
we continue to
walk your way
guided by your
prophetic visions
we take the first steps
asking liberators to join
with oppressors, pairing
in a magnanimous walk
along wholesome pathways
perceiving the buena vistas
of reconciled communities
firmly established
on foundations
of peace, equality
and justice for all citizens
I caught a fleeting glimpse of Madiba
as he rolled by in the Canyon of Heros
showered under a June blizzard of confetti
and a resounding acclimation of love.
I was a plebe inhabiting a lower floor
Broadway office, yet my station blessedly
brought me closer to Madiba. As he passed
I was moved by his miraculous smile and felt
the colossal reverberations of his waving arm
triumphantly hailing the sweet freedom of
liberation all hostages of feigned justice
exude in the vindication of divine justice
enraptured in the joy of affirmed truth.
Dearest Madiba
we are enriched
and blessed for
the time you walked
among us.
You fought
the good fight
my brother.
Rest easy
for we shall resume
the climb to
the next mountaintop.
Well done Madiba
Godspeed
Rolihlahla “Nelson” Mandela
7/18/18 - 12/5/13
Ladysmith Black Mombazo
How Long
Oakland
12/6/13
jbm
jimmymac, 15 lutego 2014
Happy Birthday Jean-Paul Sartre
reveling in the unity of contradiction
the omnipresence of disjunction
the opaqueness of transparency
the anarchy of governance
the unknowableness of the zeitgeist
the banality of chiqueness
the slavery of fashion
kinda like being a hipster in Brooklyn
with no conscience of consciousness
or is it no consciousness of conscience?
one is a statement the other a dumb question
seeking an intelligent answer
truly the tragedy of comedy
or is it the comedy of tragedy?
enough of these silly questions....
why don't it just fall apart?
how does it stay together?
accessorize smartly
tight ensem
put together
right
Music Selection:
Jimi Hendrix
ifasixwas9
Oakland
6/21/13
jbm
jimmymac, 22 kwietnia 2012
DC Walking Tour
1.
From my
uneasy bed
at the L’Enfant,
a train's pensive
horn breaks the
sullen lullaby of
an HVAC’s hum;
interrupting the
mechanical
reverie of its
steadfast
night watch
allowing my ear
to discern
the stampede
of marauding
corporate Visigoths
sacking the city.
The cacophony
of sloven gluttony,
the bawdy songs of
unrequited privilege
and the unencumbered
clatter of radical
entitlement echoes
off the city’s cold
crumbling stones.
The unctuous
bellows of the
victorious pillagers
profanely feasting
pierces the
hanging chill
of the nations
black night.
Their hoots
deride the train
transporting
the defeated
ghosts of
Lincoln’s last
doomed regiments
dispatched in vain
to preserve the
Federal Republic
in a futile last stand.
The rebels have
finally turned the tide,
T Boone Pickett’s
Charge succeeds,
sending the ravaged
Grand Army of the
Republic sliding
back to the Capitol,
in savage servility,
gliding on squeaky
ungreased wheels
ferrying the
Union’s dead
vanquished
defenders to
unmarked graves
on Potters Field.
The Rebels
joyous yell
bounces off
the inert granite
stones of the
soulless city.
The spittle
of salivating
vandals drips
over the
spoils of war
as they initiate the
disassemblage,
the leveling and
reapportionment
of federal property.
The clever
oligarchs
have laid claim
to a righteous
reparation
of the peoples
assets for
pennies on the
dollar.
Their wholly
bought politicos
move to transfer
distressed assets
into their just
stewardship
through the
holy justice
of privatization
and the sound
rationale of
free market
solutions.
In the land of the
pursuit of property,
nimble wolf PACs
of swift 527, LLCs
have fully
metastasized
into personhood;
ascending to
the top of the
food chain in
America’s
voracious
political culture;
bestriding
the nation to
compel the
national will
to genuflect
to the cool facility
of corporate
dominion.
As the
inertial thrust
of the plaintive
locomotive
fades into
another old
morning of
recalcitrant
Reaganism,
it lugs its
ambivalent
middle class
baggage toward
it’s fast expiring
future.
I follow
the dirge
down to
the street
as the ebbing
sound fades
into the gloom
of the
burgeoning
morning,
slowly
replacing the
purple twilight
with a breaking
day of cold gray
clouds framing
silhouettes of
cranes busily
constructing
a new city.
The personhood of
corporations need
homes in our new
republic; carving
out new
neighborhoods
suitable for the
monied citizens
of our nation.
First amongst
equals, the best
corporate governance
charters form
the foundation of
the republic’s
new constitution.
Civil rights
are secondary
to the freedom
of markets; the
Bill of Rights
are economically
replaced by the
cool manifests
of Bills of Lading.
The agents of
laissez faire
capitalism
nibble away
at the city’s
neighborhoods
one block at a time;
while steady winds
blows dust off
the National Mall.
Layers of the
peoples plaza are
plained away with
each rising gust.
History repeats
itself as the Joad’s
are routed from their
land once again.
A clever
mixed use
plan of
condos and
strip malls
is proposed
to finally help the
National Mall
unlock its true
profit potential.
As America’s
affection for
federalism fades
the water in
the reflection pool
is gracefully drained.
We the people
can no longer
see ourselves.
The profit
potential of
industry is
preferred over
the specious
metaphysical
benefits
of reflection.
The grand image,
the rich pastiche,
the quixotic aroma
of the national
melting pot
is reduced to the
sameness of the
black tar that lines
the pool and the
swirling eddies of
brown dust circling
the cracked indenture.
From his not so
distant vantage point,
Abe ponders the
empty pool wondering
if the cost of lives
paid was a worthy
endeavor of preserving
the damned union?
Has the dear prize
won perished from
this earth?
Was the illusive
article of liberty
worth its weight in
the blood expended?
Did the people ever
fully realize the value
of government
by the people,
for the people?
Did citizens of
the republic
assume the
responsibilities to
protect and honor
the rights and privileges
of a representative
government?
Now our idea
and practice of
civil rights is measured
and promoted as far as
it can be justified by
a corporate ROI, a
shareholder dividend,
an earmark or a political
donation to a senators
unconnected PAC.
The divine celestial
ledgers balancing
the rights and
privilege of free people
drips with red ink.
Liberty, equality
fraternity are bankrupt
secular notions
condemned as
expensive
liberal seditions;
hatched by
UnHoly Jacobins,
the atheist skeptics
during the dark times
of the Age of Enlightenment.
Abe ponders
the restoration
of Washington’s
obelisk, to
repair the cracks
suffered from
last summer’s
freak earthquake.
I believe I detect
a tear in Abe’s
granite eye
saddened by the
corporate temblors
shaking the
foundations
of the city.
2.
The WWII Memorial
is America’s Parthenon
for a country's love
affair with the valor
and sacrifice of warfare.
WWII forms the
cornerstone of
understanding the
pathos of the
American Century.
During WWII
our greatest generation
rose as a nation to
defeat the menace of
global fascism and
indelibly mark the
power and virtue of
American democracy.
As Lincoln’s Army
saved federalism, FDR’s
Army kept the world safe
for democracy.
Both armies served
a nation that shared
the sacrifice and
burden of war to
preserve the grace of
a republican democracy.
Today federalism
crumbles as our
democracy withers.
The burden
of war is reserved
for a precious few
individuals while
its benefits
remain confined to
the corporate elite.
Our monuments
to war have become
commercial backdrops
for the hollow patriotism
of war profiteers.
We have mortgaged
our future to pay
for two criminal wars.
The spoils of
war flow into the
pockets of
corporate
shareholders
deeply invested
in the continuation
of pointless,
destructive
hostilities.
Our service
members who
selflessly served
their country come
home to a less free,
fear struck nation;
where economic
security and political
liberty erodes
each day while the
monied interests
continue to bless
the abundance
of freedom and riches
purchased with the
blood and sweat
of others.
America desperately
needs a new narrative.
The spirit of the
Greatest Generation
who sacrificed and met
the challenge of the 20th
Century must become
this generations spiritual
forebears.
The war on terror
neatly fits the
the corporate
pathos of
militarism,
surveillance
and the sacrifice
of civil liberties
to purchase
a daily measure
of fear and
economic
enslavement.
It must be rejected
by a people committed
to building secular
temples to pursue
peace, democracy,
economic empowerment,
civil liberties and tolerance
for all.
Yet this old city
and the democratic
temples it built
exulting a free people
anointed with the
grace of liberty
is being consumed
in a morass of
commercial
polyglot.
3.
During the
War of 1812
the British Army
burned the
Capitol Building
and the White House
to the ground.
Thank goodness
Dolly Madison saved
what she could.
The new marauders
are not subject to the
pull of nostalgia.
They value nothing
save their
self enrichment.
They will spare nothing.
Our besieged Capitol
requires Lincoln’s troops
to be stationed along the
National Mall to defend
the republic.
The greatest peril
to our nation
is being directed
by well placed
Fifth Columnists.
From the safety
of underground bunkers,
in secure undisclosed
locations within the city’s
parameters, a well financed
confederacy employing
K Street shenanigans
are busy selling off
the American Dream
one ear mark
at a time, one
huge corporate
welfare allotment
at a time.
The biggest prize
is looting the real
property of the people;
selling Utah,
auctioning off
the public schools,
water systems, post offices
and mineral rights
on the cheap
at an Uncle Sam
garage sale.
The capitol is
indeed burning
again.
Looters are
running riot.
The flailing arms
of a dying empire
fire off cruise
missiles and drone
strikes; hitting the
target of habeas
corpus as it
shakes in its
final death rattle.
I make a pilgrimage
to the MLK Jr.
Monument.
Our cultural identity
is outsourced to
foreign contractors
paid to reinterpret
the American Dream
through the eyes
of a lowest bidder.
MLK has lost
his humanity.
He has been
reduced to a
a Chinese
superhuman
Mao like anime
busting loose from
a granite mountain while
geopolitical irony
compels him to watch
Tommy Jefferson
shag Sally Hemings
from across the tidal
basin for all eternity.
MLK’s eyes fixed in
stern fascination,
forever enthralled
by the contradictions
of liberty and its
democratic excesses
of love in the willows
on golden pond.
Circling back to
Father Abraham’s
Monument, I huddle
with a group of global
citizens listening
to an NPS Ranger
spinning four score
tales with the last full
measure of her devotion.
I look up into Abe’s
stone eyes as he
surveys platoons
of gray suited
Chinese Communist
envoys engaged
in Long Marches
through the National Mall;
dutifully encircling cabinet
buildings and recruiting
Tea Party congressmen
into their open party cells.
This confederacy
is ready to torch
the White House
again.
Congressmen and
the perfect patriots
from K Street slavishly
pull their paymasters
in gilded rickshaws to
golf outings at the Pentagon
and park at the preferred
spots reserved for
the luxury box holders
at Redskin Games.
They vow not to rest
until the house of the people
is fully mortgaged to the
People’s Republic of China’s
Sovereign Wealth Fund.
4.
A great
Son of Liberty like
Alan Greenspan
roundly rings
the bells of
free markets
as he inches
T Bill rates
forward a few
basis points
at a time; while
his dead mentor
Ayn Rand
lifts Paul Ryan
to her teet
cooing songs
from her primer
of the Mother
Goose tales
into his silky ears.
The construction
cranes swing
to the music
building new private
sector space with
the largess of
US taxpayers
money; or
more rightly
future generations
taxpayer debt.
Libertarians,
Tea Baggers, Blue Dogs
and GOP waterboys
eagerly light a
match to the
the crucifixes
bearing federal
social safety
net programs
to the delight
of NASDAQ
listed capitalists
on the come,
licking their chops
to land contracts
to administer
these programs
at a negotiated
cost plus
profit margin.
Citizens
dependent
on programs
are leery
shareholders
are ecstatic.
To be sure
our free
market rebels
don disguises
of red, white
and blue robes
but their objectives
fail to distinguish
their motives and
methods with
some of the finest
Klansman this
country has
ever produced.
5.
DC is a city
of joggers
and choppers.
Corporate
helicopters
wizz by the
Washington
Monument,
popping erections
for the erectors
inspecting the progress
of the cranes
commanding the
city skyline.
USMC drill team
out for a morning
run circles the Mall.
The commanding
cadence of the
DI keeps us
mindful of the
deepening
militarization of
our society.
A crowd
rushes
to position
themselves,
genuflecting
to photograph
a platoon on
the move.
I try to consider
the defining
characteristics of
Washington DC.
DC is all surface.
It is full of walls
and mirrors.
Its primary hue
is obfuscation.
Open
communication
scripted from well
considered talking points
informs all dialog.
The city is thoroughly
enraptured in narcissism.
Thankfully, one can
always capture the
reflection of oneself in
the ubiquitous presence of
mirrors.
Vanity imprisons
the city inhabitants.
Young joggers circle the
Mall and gerrymander
down every pathway
of the city.
They are the clerks,
interns and staffers of
the judicial, executive
and legislative branches.
They are the children
of privilege.
They will never
alter their path.
You must cede the walk
to their entitlement
of a swift comportment
or risk injury of a
violent collision.
These young ones
portray a countenance
of benevolent rulers.
They seem to be learning
their trade craft well from
the senators and judges
whom they serve.
They appear confident
they know what's best
for the country and after
their one term of tireless
service to the republic
they look forward to
positions in the private
sector where they will
assist corporations
to extend their reach
into the pant pockets
worn by the body politic.
6.
Our nations mythic story
lies hidden deep in the
closed rooms of the
museums lining the
Mall.
I pause to consider
what a great nation
and its great people
once aspired to.
I spy the a
suspended
Space Shuttle
hanging in dry dock
at the air and
space museum.
Today America’s
astronauts hitch
rides on Russian
rockets.
America rents a
timeshare from
the European
space agency to
lift communication
satellites into orbit.
Across the Mall
I photograph
John Smithson’s
ashes in its columbarium.
I fear it has become a
metaphor for America’s
future commitment
to scientific inquiry
and rational secular
thinking.
I am relieved to
discover a Smithsonian
exhibit that asks
“what does it mean
to be human?”
The Origins of Humans
exhibit carries a disclaimer
to satisfy creationists.
The exhibit timidly states
that science can coexist
with religious beliefs and
that the point of the exhibit is
not to inflame inflame religious
passions but to shed light on
scientific inquiry.
I imagine these exhibits
will inflame the passion of
the fundamentalist
American Taliban and
provide yet another
reason to dismantle
the Moloch of Federalism.
The pursuit of science
remains safe at the
Smithsonian for now.
7.
Near K Street at
McPherson Park
a posse of
well dressed
lobbyists, the
self anointed
uber patriots
doing the work
of the people
stroll through
the park
boasting a
healthy population
of bedraggled
homeless.
The homeless
occupy the benches
that have been
transformed into
pup tents.
Perhaps some of
the residents of this
mean estate were
made homeless by a
foreclosed mortgage.
The K Street warriors
can be proud that their
work on behalf of the
banking industry has
forestalled financial market
reform.
Through it exacerbates
the homeless problem it has
allowed these K Street titans to
profit from the distress of others.
Earlier in the day
I photographed
a homeless man
planted in front of
the Washington
Monument.
I wonder
if my political
voyeurism is
an exploitation of
this man’s condition?
I have more in common
then I probably wish to
admit with my K Street
antagonists.
In another section
of the park the
remnants of a
distressed OWS
bivouac remain.
The legions of sunshine
patriots have melted away
as the interest of the
blogosphere has waned.
As the weather
improves Moveon.org
and democratic
party operatives
pitch tents in an
effort to resuscitate
the moribund
movement.
They hope
to coop any
remaining energy
to support their
stale deception,
a neoliberal vision
based solely on the
total capitulation
to the bankrupt
corporatocracy.
I heard someone say
a campaign lasts a
season; while a
movement for social
change takes decades.
If that metric proves
correct, and if the
powers don’t succeed
in compromising the
people’s movement
I’ll be three quarters
of a century old
before I see
justice flowing like
a river once again.
8.
I circle back to
the L’Enfant and
find myself
tramping amidst
the lost platoon
of Korean War
soldiers.
My feet drag
in the quagmire
of grass covering
the feet of this
ghostly troop.
My namesake
uncle was a
decorated
veteran of this
conflict and Im
sure I detect
his likeness
in one of the
statues.
The bleak call
of a distant train
sounds a revelry
and I imagine this
patrol springing
to life to answer
the call of their
beloved country
once again.
Yet they remain
inert.
Stuck in a
place that the
nation finds
impossible to
leave.
The eyes of the
men stare into
an incomprehensible
fate.
They see the swarms
of Red Army infantrymen
crossing the Yellow River
streaming toward
them in massive
human waves,
the tips of
sparkling bayonets
threatening to slash
the outmanned
contingent fighting
to bits.
They are the
first detachment
to bravely confront
the rising power
of China many
thousands of
miles away
from their homes.
America like
this lone company
is overwhelmed
and lost in the
confusion
that confronts
them.
Looking up
I perceive the
bewilderment
of my muddled image
reflected on the
marble walls
surrounding
the memorial.
I am a comrade-in-arms,
a fellow wanderer sojourning
with the lost platoon tramping
onward to another uncertain midnight.
The ambivalent eyes
of my comrades look
upon the wall beholding
the fleeting image of
our shared predicament.
It records in the stone
tablets, a ubiquitous
moment of a
nations incessant
wandering in a
wildness of dismay,
entrapped in the
intractable morass of
unending war.
Did those eyes
looking on from
an expired century
perceive
Viet Nam
Granada,
Panama
Gulf War One
Somalia
Balkan War
Gulf War Two
Afghanistan
Iraq
Libya?
Is our terror
the intractability
of war?
Do we have
no other vision
but to look
forward to
the next
conflict?
9.
I drive down to
Charlottesville
to tour Monticello.
I roam the grounds
of Thomas Jefferson’s
beloved plantation.
It is magnificent and
enthralling as the man
himself.
The author of the
Declaration of Independence
built his bankruptcy on the
exploitation of slave labor.
Monticello sits atop
a stable of dependencies
like a new world pyramid.
All the laborers and their labor,
the foundation stones
of his beloved mansion,
tucked under the house,
hidden from view,
so that Mr. Jefferson could
enjoy an unobstructed view
from the peak of this
modest mount.
Sally Hemings managed
the affairs of the chamber
for our third president.
It laid beyond the
eyes of history
for almost two
centuries.
This giant of the Enlightenment
was free to enjoy the pursuit
of his keen intellect
and converse about worldly matters
with esteemed guests while enjoying
an unencumbered view of the
Blue Mountains as he sat atop
the subterranean blues of
his well concealed
dependencies.
Music Selection: The Band,
The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down
Dedicated to the memory of Levon Helm, Godspeed Beloved
and
Robert Lowell's
For The Union Dead
Relinquunt Omnia Servare Rem Publicam
(“they gave up all to serve the republic”)
Washington, DC
Charlottesville, VA
4/12/12
jbm
jimmymac, 22 kwietnia 2012
Day Before Earth Day
on the day before Earth Day
the parched ground seethes with thirst
a neighbor employs a plastic milk jug
to water his Home Depot shrubs
I finish laying a blanket of phosphates on the lawn
then fall asleep to the 2 cycle lullaby of a leaf blower
it's 70 degrees in North Jersey
snow is forecast for Pittsburgh
in our blue day of expectation
we brace for tomorrow's deluge
on the morrow
we will honor the earth
yet manana never seems to come
as we relish the comfort of today's savage civility
Music Selection:
Elvis Presley, Tomorrow Never Comes
Oakland
4/21/12
jbm
jimmymac, 1 kwietnia 2012
The Birds of the Nile
the river flows as
living memory
the birds of the
Nile are its
knowing eyes
fly catchers
ply the rich
delta
probing
sediments
of sand
washed
from
distant
Nubian
mountains
eons
ago
layers of
recollection
go fathoms
deep
shrieking
gulls
plumb the
mud flats
with heroic
persistence
as they did
when the
first rafts
drifted out
of the
Great Rift
ferrying
civilizations
forebears
to the
opening chapters
of world history
the first
seafarers
competed with
greedy spoonbills
to navigate
porous
papyrus
crafts
through
the narrow
channels
of the
Damietta,
transporting
ideas, skills
and goods
to build an
emerging
world
mallards
troll the
same
gentile
eddies that
goaded the
Mother of
All Waters
to float the
basket cradling
Yahweh’s
infant prophet
Musa, into the
loving arms
of Bithiah
who nurtured
the vanquisher
of Osiris’
galleries of
Gods
a litany
of conquests
rolled on the
silver waves
of this river
conquerors
maneuvered
the truculent
currents
like sharp
eyed hawks
skimming the
pliant waters
with well
extended
razor quick
talons
picking the
Nile’s bounty
clean
this fertile
delta remembers
more than
6,000 seasons
of harvests
the
cycles of time
has produced
seasons of plenteous
abundance and
desperate privation
all cleverly exploited
by generations of
fearless herons
who wrangled
the demons
of hardship
to route the
dread of hunger
expelling despair
from the Egyptian
DNA, etching
a new hieroglyph
of freedom onto
survivors hearts
the Niles
sorrows
and glories
perpetually
wash this
magnanimous
delta
surely as
the gentle
wakes
of feluccas
continue
to lap its
shore
the marshes
have not withered
the verdant
reeds prosper
flamingos find
the water
rich in fish
in due
season
the red
lotus will
paint
the arcuate
alluvial
fans in
scarlet
autumnal
hues
In the
Valley of
the Kings
the shadows
of migratory
flocks mark
the foundation
stones of the
pyramids
as they did
when slaves
pushed them
into place
the eternal
lines of
pharaohs
rule has fallen,
their gods
imprisoned
in hieroglyphs
adorning their
royal tombs
on display
in the worlds
museums
the weathered
pyramids continue
to crumble
the face of
the sphinx
withers away
torrents of
blood flowed
in this rivers
currents, now
strained clear
by the reeds
anchoring
its banks
the fleeting
rule of regimes
are pictured
as momentary
reflections
skimming along
the ripppling
water; the
rise and fall
of rulers is
captured like
the shifting hues
sunrises and
sunsets bespeak
upon the waters
the ascending
waves of
the Sacred Ibis
dance atop
the Nile’s gray
waters; the
river jumps
to life as the
graceful wings
take flight
to foreign
destinations;
expecting
to return
again as
the cycles
of seasons
round once
more
as the Nile flows
its memory deepens
the eyes of the birds
watch and remember
Music Selection:
Gary Bartz, I've Known Rivers
Oakland
3/31/12
jbm
jimmymac, 29 marca 2012
Where's Rumi?
Thou and I
Joyful the moment when we sat in the bower, Thou and I;
In two forms and with two faces - with one soul, Thou and I.
The colour of the garden and the song of the birds give the elixir of immortality
The instant we come into the orchard, Thou and I.
The stars of Heaven come out to look upon us -
We shall show the moon herself to them, Thou and I.
Thou and I, with no 'Thou' or 'I', shall become one through our tasting;
Happy, safe from idle talking, Thou and I.
The spirited parrots of heaven will envy us -
When we shall laugh in such a way, Thou and I.
This is stranger, that Thou and I, in this corner here...
Are both in one breath here and there - Thou and I.
Jelaluddin Rumi
By the waters
of Babylon the
beloved weep;
mourning the
loss of our
brother
Rumi.
We have
forgotten
Rumi’s
example,
we no longer
speak his
language
of love.
The beloved
have discarded
his virtuous
entreaties
as useless
historical
relics.
His compassion
is mocked
as a sign
of weakness.
His empathy
is considered
a seditious act.
The
beauteous
poems
bespeaking
ecstatic graces
found in the
resplendent
embrace of
unity in the
holy spirit
are shattered,
like a worthless
vase, its
shards
scattered into
a million
splinters that
bloody our feet.
We no
longer
sing the
blithe
words of
your love
songs.
The
rapturous
melodies have
evaporated
along with
our joys.
We have
destringed
our harps.
Our songs
of joy have
become
dirges of
lamentations
moaned in
the streets
of our
desecrated
cities.
Our people are
in shambles.
We are
refugees
fleeing our
besieged
homelands.
We are
prisoners
in the
basements
of our homes.
We perpetrate
crimes against
humanity by
willfully defiling
ourselves.
The heads of
our children
have been
dashed
against
blasted
rocks.
We are
desperate
to find you
dearest
Rumi.
We hope
your sweet
reminders
of love will
bind the
broken
people;
leading us
to forsake
the diet of
acrimony
that has
become
our daily
bread.
I wander,
the streets
with open
ears
listening
for a hint
of your voice;
hoping to
follow it to a
rendezvous
with the
Divine One.
I open
my heart
to discern
a tiny note of
your songs,
winging on the air,
the sweet chords
of agape love
is our hope
to salve our
deep running
wounds.
Only
deafening
silence
returns
to my
saddened
ear.
The elegant
magic of your
voice are
angelic fingers
plucking strings,
evoking a
heavenly
chorus
of love
and divine
reconciliation.
Your voice
rolls through
the ages
beckoning us
to transcendent
peace; your
whispers
dance
upon the
face of hatred.
The marching epochs
have dissipated
our memory of you,
beloved Rumi.
Your verses
are ancient
dialects we
can no longer
decipher.
The urgency
grows for us
to speak in your
tongue once
again.
Our besieged
cities are
filled with
the cacophony
of distress.
The beloved
tend lamps
to light the paths
of reconciliation
but few
step forward
to sojourn
the pathways
of peace.
Some ecstatically
turn willing cheeks
to the nasty slaps
of adversaries;
daring to let
flesh absorb
the totality
humanity’s
pain.
Hostility
spills over the
lips of stormy
volcanoes
like gushing
lava flows
of destruction
covering
all corners
of the globe.
Can the
forgiveness
offered by the
aggrieved
blunt the
world’s
acrimony?
Oh Rumi
where are you?
I offer prayers
that your spirit
still moves
among us,
with balm
in hand
you anoint
misspent
love
wandering
amidst the
desolate cities;
daring to spark
life back
to the dead
stones,
your
miraculous
palms
warming
the cold
rocks
with extreme
humanity.
Your love
rises to answer
the intractability
of indifference;
defeating the
crucifix
of empathy.
Your love
rolls away
the bloated
stones covering
compassion's
cold dead tomb.
Your love
breaks the
omnipotent
cycle of
unrequited
vendettas;
laying it
to rest in
the solitary
oneness
of spirit;
freeing
the beloved
to live in the
liberty of
unconditional
love once again.
We evoke
the presence
of your spirit,
imagining you
levitated
by Allah’s
slightest
whisper,
floating
among us
in aromas of
spring violets.
We hope
to detect
your soft
footprints
on the
open hearts
of the
compassionate.
We invite
your tears
of joy to water
flowers that
bloom into
luscious
groves
offering the
bread of life.
Rumi, return
to teach us the
lost language,
remind us
of the songs
we have
forgotten,
unite all hearts
with dervish spins,
turning the world
in circles of love,
conjure an
avenging
tornado to
route the
despoilers.
We are
battered
exiles
seeking
refuge
in the nape of
your scented
neck.
We wish
to hide in the
embrace
of your
warm bosom
and become
medicated by
the perfume of
life’s gardens
chasing away
the stench
of graveyards
alive in our
memories.
Has the music of Rumi’s words fallen on deaf ears?
Has the rhyme and reason of Rumi’s poetry been misunderstood?
Has Rumi’s example been forgotten?
Has Rumi’s revelations of love evaporated into nothingness?
Rumi I look for you in the market.
I hope to see you saunter down the street biting into a fresh apple.
I crane my ears to hear your voice incanting poetic prayers.
As the sun
sets on
another
violent day
I cannot detect
the gentle taps of
your joyful dance.
I remain starved
to join you at
the Lord's table,
to fill myself with
Eden’s Feast.
Rumi
as you once
came to seek me,
I now come
to seek you.
Panting,
I run through
the streets
in desperation.
I become
a callous
voyeur spying
through every
window, hoping
to catch a
fleeting image
of your shadow.
I throw open
every last door
leading from the
barren streets
in vain attempts
to track your
footprints in
the dusty
courtyards.
My search
only reveals
bare rooms.
Not a single
trace of you
is discovered.
The empty
corners
once lit with
the resonance
of your spirit
are dark, blinded
by the midnight
worries of the
refugees that
have escaped
these black rooms.
I scavenge
the piles
of concrete,
rummaging
through the
the skeletons
of fractured
buildings leveled
by war.
I am covered
with the dust
of destruction.
I scatter the
bones of the dead
frantically looking
to find a single
footprint as
evidence of your
presence.
I find nothing.
I prophesy
to the bones.
I prophesy to
the disconnected
sinews.
I cleave my sinews.
I bleed my veins.
I drape the sinews,
I drain the blood
onto these decrepit
dry bones.
I scream prayers
to breathe new life
into them.
They do not reassemble.
They do not move.
They do not stand.
Where’s Rumi?
Music selection:
Zikr Call of the Sufi
The Divine Union
Suffern
3/28/12
jbm
jimmymac, 20 marca 2012
The Passover
two wars, two wounds
four deployments in ten years
the trauma, the scars
the waste, the tears
a soldier driven to madness
numb warriors driven to drink
a lost decade of blood-lust
gives a nation pause to think
how virtue becomes nightmare
how ideals implode and die
how the paradox of intention
is undermined with hidden lies
fighting wars to kill terrorists
on obscure Afghan plains
generations of young ones
sentenced to death and pain
the tramp of bloodied footprints
march strait to a profiteer’s bank
depositing lucrative spoils of war
fill contracts to build more tanks
woe to the battlefield heroes
who answered a country’s call
decorated with broken families
and home mortgage defaults
a minds discombobulation
nurses a spiritual malaise
fuels emotional breakdowns
kindles smoldering rage
kneeling to medieval potentates
to win hearts of corrupt Afghans
guard Loya Jirgas of narco kingpins
spill blood to defend tribal lands
the call of deranged duty
maniacal as a video game
lines of the real and phantasmagoric
firm only in minds of the insane
the Skype connection broken
won’t see the kids face tonight
a landmine took a buddy’s leg
some hooch will set things right
the brain starts quickly buzzin
a zillion scenes flash in the head
better paint blood on the door jams
the grim reaper gonna thresh the dead
don a suit of Kevlar armor
the invincible angel stalks
to avenge blatant inequities
he suffered here and in Iraq
a land washed by bloody oceans
scarlet splashed on every door
death prowls along dark roads
a passover finds no safe abode
the screaming eyes of the angel
inflamed with red spikes of hate
seeks to still the heaving roil
his raging heart could not abate
he murdered a sleeping family
and found another to share its fate
a desperate act to cleanse himself
to find a profane state of grace
this pilgrim of death was not finished
cool retribution must square accounts
a burnt offering to the Lords of War
speak the deeds sermon on the mount
dragging live and dead bodies
stacking unholy piles in the hall
no angel to stop this Abraham's hand
this grotesque executioners pall
Staff Sargent Bales was arrested
He now sits in the prison of his thoughts
does his trembling mind have knowledge
of what his awful hands have wrought?
or does a trembling nation
so much in love with war
understand its complicity
with what it should abhor?
the blood of innocents drip
from every American sill
as the passover approaches
the stain invites an angel’s ill will
Music Selection:
Charles Gounod,
Funeral March of a Marionette
Oakland
3/19/12
jbm
jimmymac, 11 marca 2012
Exodus From Homs
In damp
cellars of
Baba Amr,
women and
children
huddle,
waiting
for the
Arab Spring
to arrive.
They are
arrested
emigrants
on the road
to freedom,
now hostages
to tyranny
seeking asylum
from a season
of discontent
lashing another
poor generation
cowering
deep within
the bowels of
a crumbling
city.
The hajis share
the solace of
desperation,
pressing
this wretched
commune to haunt
dark catacombs
where collective
hope takes refuge
only to discover their
dream of freedom
lying in state
waiting for
a struck match
to consume
the decrepit
effigy in a
final funeral pyre.
The chill of winter
moves through
these poor
pilgrims like a
messenger
of death.
An indifferent
world has allowed
the scrapes of
the besieged
to fester;
growing
into mortal
wounds.
The grim reaper
chuckles from
a dark corner
in these
underground
rooms.
He deeply
inhales the
exhilarating
stench of death
creeping in from
the street,
musing about its
complementary
qualities to
the soiled rags
robing colic
infants.
Allah’s beloved
are famished
from the feast
of acrimony
playing out
on the streets
above them.
The hunger
for peace
dances on
their tongues
like the taste
of a mocking
Hors d'oeuvre
for a starving man.
The wages
of dissent,
protests, the
armed resistance
of revolutionaries
have led them
to the shelter
of this profane
place.
Outside this
god forsaken
bivouac, the
sounds of
cold blades
threshing
insurgents
have entered
the city,
moving with the
facility of a
frigid wind.
The terrible
sword of
a Baathist’s
revenge
eagerly slits
the voices
of dissent;
silencing
the last
songs
of an
Arab Spring,
once joyfully
risen from
the streets
in a chorus of
militant
insistence,
replaced
by mournful
dirges of
horrific
lament.
The
realization
that the
promise of
an Arab Spring
will never arrive
for some
strikes
winter in
the heart
of all.
Have our songs
of liberation
been nothing more
then the baying
of a starving
dog begging
for meat
from a
terrible
master?
The dialog
of gun battles
on the street
above have
abated.
The soliloquy
of grenade
launchers
have been
silenced.
Partisans
defending the
city have left the
streets.
The taste of
recrimination
will be the
prize for
those still
remaining.
The sound
of insurgents
fleeing
boots
gives way
to the pinch
of hissing
bayonets
deflating
the lungs
of prostrate
children
kissing the
dust of
the streets
that will
entomb them.
Abandoned
fighters
too wounded
to retreat
face skyward
to glimpse a
last mortal
vision of
heaven
from their
beloved
city;
gargling
final
prayers
from the
bubbling
blood
of their slit
throats.
It is time
for the
hoveled
pilgrims
to leave
the dank
basements
of Homs.
Care
must be
taken as
we
travel
the midnight
roads,
avoiding
checkpoints;
ducking into
dark doorways
to evade being
caught in the
headlights
of passing cars.
We must
remain
invisible.
We must
be one with
the black
midnight
that swaddles
us in darkness.
We will
follow
the trail
well marked
with the tears
of Hama’s
survivors.
We hear
the whispers
of unresolved
vendettas
leading
to unrequited
sanctuaries
of revenge.
The last
to exit Homs
will follow our
trail of tears as
we trudge
toward Mecca
in search of our
Arab Spring.
We pray
that Allah
will rendezvous
with his tired
wanderers
there.
Music Selection:
Bob Marley, Exodus
Oakland
3/6/12
jbm
jimmymac, 5 marca 2012
Watching Homs
the world is adorned with a million windows
the bleakest night has a thousand eyes
daylight shines into the globes darkest corners
truth will ultimately expose all lies
NASA’s satellites circle
Tropic of Cancer latitudes
cameras pinpoint the disease
metastasizing in the body of Homs
from stratospheric limits
sensitive lenses read the names
magic markers have scrawled
onto white sheets covering the dead
YouTube gets Oscar consideration
for grisly cinematography
a real-time visceral docudrama
of panting fascists gleefully tramping
through the desecrated streets
coolly administering a coup de gras
to a city on its knees, pleading release
from an orgy of incessant bloodletting
twitter records desperate tweets
the batting wings of endangered flocks
furiously thumbing into the blogosphere
calls for UN intervention that falls on blind eyes
BBC reportage,
the global gold standard
for journalistic excellence
scoops the stories
of London based FSA partisans
awaiting repatriation to scatter
Bashar’s Kodachrome killers
Has the All Seeing Eye
who has graced us with sight
laughingly cursed us with vision?
Does the
One Caring Eye of the Universe
bless us with perception
to haunt us with images?
Has
The One Thats Sees Everything
blinked closed the eye of compassion?
Has the horror of Homs
become too much even for
The Universal Eye of Love?
the opened eyes
of a dead child
reflects our
cold winter
of indifference
demoralizing
dehumanizing
a watching world
Music Selection
Grateful Dead Eyes of the World
Oakland
3/2/12
jbm
Ostatnie komentarze:
31 października 2024
sam53
cisza wylazła na środek pokoju i daje się
30 października 2024
Jaga
Dziękuję Jeślinko :)
30 października 2024
jeśli tylko
żyły bez życia..
30 października 2024
bardzo lubię słoneczniki, a to tu wyszło świetnie
30 października 2024
Owoców nie było wcale/ z wiatrem listek odleciał/
30 października 2024
Lubie takie cienie jesieni :)
30 października 2024
Delikatnie "skruszały" :)
30 października 2024
Eva T.
Milego dnia, Jeslinko :)
30 października 2024
Przegapilam wczesniej, sorry :) Piekna kompozycja
30 października 2024
Belamonte/Senograsta
to jakiś symbol, trzeba się zastanowić jaki
29 października 2024
płynę tu..
29 października 2024
"włączam stare płyty i tańczę"
31 października 2024
Marek Gajowniczek
31 października 2024
Marek Gajowniczek
31 października 2024
wiesiek
31 października 2024
sam53
31 października 2024
jeśli tylko
31 października 2024
Marek Gajowniczek
31 października 2024
Arsis
30 października 2024
Jaga
30 października 2024
Eva T.
30 października 2024
Belamonte/Senograsta