Latest items:
jimmymac, 15 february 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 february 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 february 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 april 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 april 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 april 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 march 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 march 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 march 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 march 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
jimmymac, 5 march 2012
Jazz Kisses
I blow tiny
jazz kisses
onto your
sweet petunia
lips
flutter delicious
notes into
lazy daisy ears
soft breath
puffs bluesy
tunes onto the
nape of a
lovely
curvy neck
I smell
bold begonias
whisper pink
secrets through
gyrating eyes
I roam
the flowers
blooming from
every luscious
groove
I pluck
the bows of
deep swing
heart strings
I blow
rose pedal
jazz kisses
from my
tippy tip
to teeny toe
Music Selection:
Esperanza Spalding, Little Fly
Oakland
3/1/12
jbm
jimmymac, 5 march 2012
A Cool Bullet
another cool bullet
to the head
a sudden death of
an American dream
the smart uniform
of a young officer
pressed and squared
sharp as a West Point salute
lay blood stained and crumpled
in a lifeless heap on a hospitals floor
the furious efforts of
heroic triage teams comes to naught
trust, respect and idealism
lay victim to an assassins whim
the dreams of another young patriot
prematurely commended to a cold grave
forevermore his body to moulder
returning to earths royal dust
an assassins work speaks
hard blatant truths
we somehow
refuse to hear
leave Afghanistan
to the Afghans
its time to leave
the ungodly places
that murder our dreams
and betray our children
Music Selection
Tom Jones
Green Green Grass of Home
Oakland
3/1/12
jbm
jimmymac, 29 february 2012
Homage to Homs
1.
From our
safe windows,
we crane our necks,
rubbernecking
past the slow
motion wreckage
unfolding in Homs.
We remain
perfectly
perched
to marvel at
the elegant arc of
a mortar shell
framing tomorrows
deep horizon,
whistling through
the twilight to
find its fruitful
mark.
In the now
we keep
complicit time,
to the arrest
of beating hearts,
snapping fingers
to the pop
of rifle cracks,
swooning to
the delicious
intoxication of
curling smoke
lofting ever
upward;
yet
thankfully
remain
distanced
enough to
recuse any
possibility
of an
intimate
nexus
with the
besieged.
2.
From our
safe windows,
we behold the
urgent arrivals of
The Friends of Syria
demanding
clean sheets
and 4 Star
room service at a
Tunisian Palace
recently cleaned
and under new
management
promising a
much needed
refurbishment.
The gathered,
a clique of
this epochs
movers and shakers,
a veritable
rouges gallery of
ambassadorial
prelates, Emirs and
state department
bureaucrats
summoned
with portfolio
from the
darkest corners
of the globe.
They are
eager to
sanctify
the misery
of Homs,
deflect and
lay blame
with realpolitik
rationalizations,
commencing
official commissions
of inquiry,
deliberating
grave considerations,
issuing indictments
of formal charges for
Crimes Against
Humanity
while
remaining
urgently
engrossed
in the fascination
of interviewing
potential
process servers
to deliver the bad news
to Bashar al-Assad
and his soulless
Baathist
confederates
if papers
are to be
served.
Yes, the diplomats
are busy meeting
in closed rooms.
In hushed circles
they whisper
into aroused ears,
railing against
Russia’s
gun running
intransigence
and China’s
geopolitical
chess moves.
They boast of the
intrepid justice
of tipping points
and the moving poetry
of self serving tales,
weighing
the stern sanctions
amidst the historical
confusion of the
asymmetrical
symmetries
of civil war.
Caravans
of Arab League
envoys arrive
in silver Bentleys,
crossing deserts
of contradictory
obfuscations,
navigating the
endless dunes
with a handheld
sextant of
hidden agendas.
The heroic
Bedouins are
eager to offload
their baggage
and share
on the ground
intelligence from
their recent soirees
across Syria.
They beg
a quick fix,
the triage of
critical catharsis
to bleed their
brains dry
of heinous
recollections,
pleading
release from a
troubled conscience
victimized by
the unnerving paradox of
reconciling the discoveries
of perverse voyeurism
with sacnctioned
explanations
of their respective
ruling elites.
The bellies
of these
scopophiliacs
are distended;
grown queasy
from a steady diet
of malfeasance
an ulcerated
world parades
in continuous loop;
spewing the raw feeds
of real time misery;
forcibly fed
the grim
visions of
frantic
fathers
rushing
the mangled
carcases
of mortally
wounded
children
to crumpled
piles of smashed
concrete that were
once hospitals.
We despondently
ask how
much longer
must we
look into
the eyes
of starving
children
emaciated from
the wanton
indifference
of the world?
3.
From our
safe windows
we wonder
how much
longer can
the urgent
burning
ambivalence
continue
before it
consumes
our common
humanity in
a final
conflagration?
My hair already
singed by the
endless firestorms
sweeping the prairies
of the world.
How can we survive
the trampling hoards,
the marauding
plagues of acrimony
fed by a voracious
blood lust aspiring to
victimize the people
of Homs and a
thousand cities
like it?
4.
From my safe
window I stand in witness
to the state execution of
refugees fleeing the
living nightmare
they are forced
to inhabit.
The murder of innocents,
today's newly minted martyrs,
women and children
cornered, trapped
on the road,
mercilessly
slaughtered and
defiled in death
to mark the lesson
of a ruthless master
enthralled with the
power of his
sadistic fascist
lordship.
I cannot avert my eyes
of pleading women
begging for the
lives of their children
in exchange for
the gratification
of a torturers
lust.
My heart
is impaled
on the sharp
spear of
outrage
as I watch
careening
children mowed
down with the
serrated blades
protruding
from marauding
jeeps of laughing
Syrian soldiers.
I drop
to my knees
in lakes of
tears
reflecting
a grotesque
horror stricken
image of myself.
My eyes have
murdered my soul.
The ghastly images
of Homs have chased
away my Holy Ghost
to the safety of a child's
sandbox hidden away
in a long forgotten
revered memory.
5.
From my safe window
I seethe with anger
demanding vengeance
debating how to rise
to meet the obscenity of
the Butcher of Damascus.
The sword of Damocles
dangles so tantalizing close
to this tyrants throat.
The covered women of Homs
scream prayers
“may Allah bring Bashar to ruin”
Dare I pray
that Allah trip the
horsehair trigger
that holds the
sword at bay?
Do I pick up
the sword
a wield it
as an
avenging
angel?
Am I the
John Brown
of our time?
Do I organize
a Lincoln Brigade
and join the growing
leagues of jihadists
amassing at the
Gates of Damascus?
Will my righteous
indignation fit well
in a confederacy
with Hamas and
al-Qaeda as
comrades in arms?
Do I succumb to
the passion of hate
and become just
another murderous
partisan, or do I
commend the soul
and live into the
power of satyagraha?
I lift a fervent prayer
to claim the justice
of Allah’s ear,
“may the knowing one
lift the veil of foolishness
that covers my heart in
cloaks of resent, cure
my blindness that ignores
my raging disease of
plausible deniability
ravaging the body politic
of humanity.”
Indeed,
physician heal thyself.
I run to embrace my
illness.
I pine to understand it.
I undertake the
difficult regimen
of a cure to eradicate
the terrible affliction.
This
pernicious
plague,
subverting
the notion
of a shared
humanness
is a cunning
sedition that
undermines
the unity of
the holy spirit.
The bell from
the toppled steeples
still tolls, echoing
across the space of
continents and eons
of temporal time.
The faithful chimes
gently chides us
to remove the wedge
of perception that
separates, divides
and undermines.
Time has come
to liberally
apply the balm
that salves the
open wounds
so common to
our common
human condition.
The power of prayer
is the joining of hands
with others racked
with the common
affliction of humanness.
Allah,
My eyes are wide open,
my sacred heart revealed,
my sleeves are rolled up,
my memory is stocked
my soul filled with resolve,
my hand is lifted
extended to all
brothers and sisters.
Lift us,
gather us
into one
loving embrace.
6.
From the safe
windows of
our palaces
we live within
earshot of
the trilling
zaghroutas
of exasperation
flowing from
the besieged
city of Homs
smouldering
under Bashar’s
symphony of terror.
Our nostrils
fill with the
acrid plumes
of unrequited
lamentations
lifting from the
the burning
destruction
of shelled
buildings.
Our eyes spark
from the night
tracers
of sleeking
snipers
flitting along
the city’s
rooftops;
the deathly jinn
indiscriminately
injecting the
paralysis of
random fear
into the veins
of the city
with each
skillful
head shot.
These
ghoulish
assassins
lavish in their
macabre work;
like vultures
they eagerly
feast on the
corpses of their kill,
the stench of bloated
bodies drying in the
sun is the perfume
that fills their nostrils.
7.
From our
safe window
we discern the
silhouettes of militants
still boldly standing
amidst the
mounting rubble of an
unbowed Homs
shouting;
Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!
raising pumped fists,
singing songs
of resistance,
dancing to
the revelation of
freedom,
refusing to
be coward by
the slashing
whips of a
butchers
terrible
sword.
8.
From my
safe window
my tongue laps
the pap
of infants
suckling from
the exhausted
teats of mothers
who cannot cry
for their dying
children;
tears fail
to well from
the exhaustion
of dehydrated
pools.
9.
From my
safe window
my heart stirs
to the muezzin
calling the
desperate faithful
from the toppled
rubble of dashed
minarets.
We can
no longer
shut our ears
to the Adham
of screams
the silent
voices that echos
the blatant injustice
of a city under siege.
10.
From my
safe window,
I pay
Homage to Homs
and call brothers
and sisters to rise
with vigilant
insistence
that hostilities
cease and
humanity be
upheld,
respected and
protected.
11.
From my safe
window
I perceive
the zagroutas
of sorrow
manifest as a
whiling hum
of a sweeping
blue mist,
levitating
the coffins
from the rubble
of the ravaged city.
A swirling
chorus
of wails
join my
desperate
prayers;
rising in
concert
with
black billows
of smoke
dancing
away
from the
flaming
embers
of scorched
neighborhoods.
12.
From my
safe window
I hear
the fluttering
wings
of avenging
angels
furiously
batting
as they
climb
within
the black
plumes,
leading from
the streets
of the
desecrated
city.
It is the
Jacob’s
Ladder
for our
time;
marking
a new
consecrated
place
where
a New Adam
is destined
to be formed
from the
pulverized
dust of
desolate
city.
13.
From our
safe windows
as we peer into
resplendent
mirrors
beholding
the perfect image of
ourselves
we notice
our falling tears
dripping blood,
coloring death
onto the
blanched sheets
of our imperial
palaces.
14.
From our
safe windows
our voices are silenced,
words mock urgency
thoughts betray comprehension
senses fail to illicit empathy
action is the only worthy prayer
15.
From my
safe window
I hear the
mortar shells
walking toward
my palace,
the crack
of a sniper
shot
precedes
the wiz
of a bullet
whispering
its presence
into my
waxen
ear.
Music selection:
John Coltrane
A Love Supreme
Acknowledgement
Oakland
2/28/12
jbm
jimmymac, 18 january 2012
Blue Monday
its a blue Monday
after Super Sunday
Americas 45th funday
yesterdays spectacle
the dip is done
the broken bones
of buffalo wings
fill giant glad bags
the ridged ripples
of broken Doritos
scattered on the floor
wait for a vacuums hum
dead soldiers rattle
a melodious cascade
the aroma of flat Bud
plunge into recycle bins
ribbed Trojans
dripping bagged jism
rim plastic trash cans
confirm an orgy's frenzy
the game forgotten
commercial reveries remain
seared into the briney mush
of compliant olfactories
collective hallucinations
successfully branded
a new and improved
global consciousness
Madmen Shamans
ebulliently channel
transactional zeitgeists
from the ripped boxes of
Best Buy plasma screens
Monday morning
water cool scuttlebutt
the planet is buzzing about...
Google's cool slap
of IPod clad automatons
the vanquishers of IBM's evil empire
Apple's brave new world is next
("meet the new boss,
same as the old boss?")
we all dug
rolling with Eminem
through the glitzy
streets of Motown
How cool is 8 Mile?
The hoods lookin good
angelic chorus lifts spirits
Swing Low Sweet Chrysler
The artistic types
faun over
the graphic beauty
illustrious aestheticism
moving story line
the epic journey
of the worlds
greatest brand
heroic product marketing pros
rival Jason and the Argonauts
sojourning trans-formative odysseys
of clever packaging and fat tail shelf life
holding precious real estate
of living imaginations
infecting hearts and minds
of future generations
realizing
everything
ends better
with coke
The State Farm Pre-Game
Jimmy Johnson's new coiff
jawed away with his old boss
rattlesnake booted Jerry Jones
A poignant embrace captured in
living color on grand jumbo trons
lording over a cavernous palace
a new stadium for Homeboys
Jimmy J asks Jerry J
"Why you overpaid
for The Boys New
Crib?"
"A billion 4,
a palace for the masses".
Jerry breaks some news
with an impish wink.
"No expense is spared
for the peeps."
"I always make out,
get a good return. I
make a profit. Ain't
America great."
This year Super Bowl
went Hollywood
and installed
a long red carpet.
Mike Strahan, collared
Harrison Ford.
Bagging his greatest sack
on a dazzling red rug.
"How many Super Bowls
is this for you?"
Strahan whistles
through his gaped teeth.
The aging Indiana Jones
came to promote his new flick,
"Cowboys and Aliens"
(I'm told an early Cannes
favorite. And it should be. Spoiler alert,
the movie is a moving story of an American tragedy.
Romo blows another one
throwing an interception in overtime.
The Aliens return it 95 yards for a touchdown.
Boy's lose again. America's Team vanquished by bubble headed Martians.
All of Texas weeps.)
Indy
coolly quips an answer
whipping with sarcasm,
"after today, one."
yuck yuck
lol
Strahan continues
to stalk Ford like a
scrambling quarterback,
"where will you be sitting?"
Ford shrugs
"dunno,
somewhere
up-there,
I guess",
he points to
the lofty
luxury boxes.
Royalty sits
next to God
in Jerry Jones
house of the
people.
Ford dons a green scarf.
He's down with the Pack.
Another sunshine fanny
in the seat.
Michael Douglas and Zeta Jones
arrive in time to hear
Keith Urban sing
"Who Wouldn't Want to be Me?"
"He's alive
He's free
Who wouldn't
want to be me?"
Indeed who?
The parade
of heroes
continue.
The walking,talking
little S Corp, LLC's
dance their way
into the stadium
on resplendent
cushions of red.
Terrific brands
all earnestly
questing to
urgently
deliver
messages
to promote
themselves
and plug
shameful
products.
A Black Eye Peas
teaser
blinks onto
my giant
flat screen.
Will I Am
a black man
in a blacker mask
marches down the street
zapping people
with a ray gun.
(fascist culture is so cool, a
little light on liberation,
but damn does he look bad as all get out
in that leather rumble don't fuck with me
outfit)
Jamie Foxx on the royal carpet leaks
that he yodeled three tunes
at a pregame party for Jerry's Kids;
T Boone and the Big W among them.
Quick cut
to Jamie's
new movie
Rio.
(I wonder if its
about Mexicano's
crossing the river?)
Wealth
Power
the perfect
image of ourselves
take a pill
I am Limitless
a new movie?
I've seen this one before.
I think I'm watching it now.
Just Go With It
Adam Sandler,
Jennifer Aniston
Americas sweetheart
teamed with Americas
kosher jokester.
He looks hot
in his droopy
pretend
don't give a shit
orange sweatshirt
and acid washed jeans.
Jennifer's tits, legs
what can you say
about America's sweetheart?
I think Brad Pitt
made a big mistake.
Bill O
is next.
Posturing,
arm wrestles
with the Prez,
shadow boxes
with the Big O.
"Muslim Brotherhoods
Rendition
Mubarack goes off the reservation
knows where the bodies are buried"
OMG!
OMG!
(Do we really need a dose of Fox Fear?
Is there no escape from the pernicious harangue?
Don't they know its Super Bowl Sunday?)
Bill O's drive by continues,
"Obamacare,
why do Americans hate you?"
Great journalism by this Fox thug.
Bill O is
haughty,
arrogant,
disrespectful
a despicable bully
and a self serving blow hard.
(My bladder is busting.
Its a great time to take a piss.)
We escape to
the freshness
of Owen Wilson's
smiling face,
playing two hand touch.
His bent nose
shining
he trots about
Jerry's field
carefree as a child.
(Is this a pitch, pass and punt
contest for A Listers?)
Other stars
join the light fun;
goose cheerleaders
give the cabana boys
hand-jobs
and themselves
a well earned blow-job.
Its an orgy of photo ops
product placement
a sizzling collection
of dancing brands
prancing on the gridiron
of the New Cowboy field.
Ashton Kutcher
peeks over the shoulder
of a tweeting W.
I'm impressed
W knew
how to use
his thumbs.
Mrs. W's
permanent smile
was clearly visible
from the stadiums
cheapest seats.
Condie sat
way to the right
quietly stewing
lamenting
lost opportunities
of a gig as NFL
Commissioner.
On the stadiums floor
the frenetic dancing
of the
bumping
brands
fast
approaches
ecstatic elation.
Hollywood's version of
Whirling Dervishes; is
immediately stilled
as the solemn portion
of the program
commences.
The Declaration of Independence
is read by a bright galaxy of stars
accompanying armed service personnel
and other diligent American's.
"We hold these truths
to be self evident"
"United colonies
levee war,
dissolve bounds,
our day of allegiance
lives, fortunes and sacred honor
freedom is common sense,
free, equal, united"
CEO's
imprisoned
in Jerry's
luxury boxes
overcome
with
emotion
pound fists
on the glass
smearing
cocktail sauce
on the windows
of the suites.
Illegal
Chicano's
bravely
step forward
with rolls
of Bravo
and Windex
to wipe
it clean.
The focal point
of festivities
seismically
shifts like a
tectonic plate
almost as large
as Jerry's Stadium.
The stampede
of cheers
thunder like
canon shots,
the patriotic
ramparts of
militant
free market
capitalism
supplants the
shallow frivolity
of consumer slavery.
We are
compelled
to kneel
to celebrate a
Eucharist of
nationalism.
My partner explodes,
"Can't watch a football game
and view it for what it is,
a fucking football game."
The Fox
broadcasters
dedicate
this segment
of the show
to our military.
I squirm in my seat.
Sorry,
but the declaration is about
free people in free societies
not militarism.
Next up
dis old cowboy
Sam Elliot.
He knows
how to speak
the language
of real football fans.
Finally, a man of the people.
Sam introduced the cities.
He starts with Pittsburgh.
"Built on steel
a place where
terrible is good
these are the
enduring qualities
of this great American City."
The Steelers
make a timely entrance
onto the floor of the stadium,
as millionaires erupt
shaking their terrible towels.
Sam's
fuax
folkism
for
Fox Sports
continued.
"Green Bay is Title Town
the people never quit.
Crafty veterans are winners
exhorting all to greatness"
Images
of Lombardi's
toothy grin
fills my 72 inch screen.
A visitation by
America's Saint,
the sanctifier
of all competition
anoints the proceeding,
the quest to claim
the trophy named
for the games
very own
Archangel
of the
Gridiron.
The extended gig of
Lombardi's ghost
has haunted America
for over half a century;
has reportedly been seen
stalking the stage
on Broadway.
The anointed
Packers sprint
onto the field and
millionaire cheese heads
taking big bites out of life
erupt in cheers.
My hi def wide screen
made by Sharp reports
Battle of Los Angeles
opens 3/11/11.
The Chicago Code
premiers on Fox
sometime in March.
Walter Payton
Man of The Year Award
is presented
to an NFL Player
watching the game
with the troops
in Iraq.
The millionaires
don't cheer,
but the Fox announcers
are verklempt
overcome with patriotism.
Michelle Lee,
star
of Fox's hit show
Glee,
poses in front of a
sanitized choir
in blue uniforms to sing
America the Beautiful.
The beautiful song
is but an opening act
for the musical centerpiece
Star Spangled Banner.
The cameras cut
to a smiling W.
He can't get into Switzerland
but dammit, he won't be turned out
of JJ's OK Corral.
Christina Aguilera
takes center stage.
She mounts
the silver football
crowning the
Holy Logo of the NFL
to sing the hallowed
Star Spangled Banner.
She fumbles her lines!
She forgot the rockets red glare!
The Steelers are crying.
The Packers are angry.
Ice melts from the stadiums roof.
The foundations of Jerry Jones
new stadium shakes.
A fly over of 4 fighters in formation
appears to be unaffected by the flub.
The planes do not crash.
They stay in formation.
The pilots spare Christina
a strafing and drone strike.
The republic remains
secure for now.
An unfamiliar announcer
addresses TV land.
He offers an apology to the fans
who cannot be seated.
The fire marshals
have revoked
Jerry's seating plan.
Greed got the better
of this man of the people.
Cowboy Stadium
is overbooked!
What is happening?
Is this America?
An ATT commercial
arrives just in time.
ATT has a new plan for America.
They encourage us to live social
with the new ATT AG.
Free market solutions
always work best.
Michael Douglas
reads another
patriotic exhortation.
"United we,
see the journey
of Acme Packers
as our journey."
"We see the resolve
of US Steel
as our resolve.
Big dreams
believe the best
journeys are
celebrated together."
(I'm down with that.
Whats good for Jerry Jones
is still good for me.
Right On! Check this stadium.
Power to the people!
It may not apply to the people who
will not be seated but tough nuggies.
This is America dammit. Everybody
can't be seated at the table.
Even if they paid for their seat.
This ain't Red China.)
Neon Dion and other inductees
into the Football Hall of Fame
tosses the coin.
Steelers' call tails.
Heads it is.
At half time
The Black Eyed Peas
descend from
an upper Valhalla.
Still attired in
black fascist threads
The Righteous Peas
start wailing as
white metallic minions
dressed as
Imperial Storm Troopers
gallop to surround
their idols.
Precise formations
goose steppin bops
choreographic steps
the visceral porno
perfect counter-point
to swabbles of wiggling Peas.
Slash,
Guns and Roses
guitar hero
gunslinger
strode on stage
winging
this gal of mine
in choreographed
unison with
the leggy
Fergie.
Pumping it louder
the spectacle incites
the dancing
Imperial minions
quick steppin
and fetchin it
as Usher descends
in white unison
to leap and dance
over nasty
black peas.
The Gods
are descending
upon us.
Their words
have become
flesh.
The BEP's bleat
"kids are dying
wheres the love?"
Art does mirror life.
The neon hearts
of cheap
glow sticks
light up
the time
of our lives.
We are
cubed box heads
happily dancing along
the 50 yard line
answering China's
resounding drum
of frantic proletarians
bashing away
neocolonial disgrace
during the opening
ceremony of the worlds
greatest Olympian
display of
the pounding will
of an emerging nation
arriving on the world stage
with urgent insistence.
In America
we party on
every night
swiping
revoked
credit cards
for express lane
exits at the
local Walmart.
We are proud
highly personal
bar codes!
We refuse to be
marked down and flung
into discount bins at a
Tupelo Dollar Store.
Our light of life
flashes across screens
directing the trading pits
at the Chicago Board of Trade.
Each Super Bowl Sunday
souper bowl beggars
collect canned soup
for hungry Americans
at the local Shop and Drop
begging for larmen
boxes of Kraft
freeze dried noodles
and cans of Progresso
the feast of kings
A triumph
of the
Will I Am
BOOM BOOM
Says
Will I Am
I finish my bag of
Cool Ranch Doritos
and lick my partners
fingers clean.
Music Selection
Steve Miller,
Livin in the USA
2/7/11
Oakland
jbm
(WIP)
jimmymac, 16 january 2012
Epitath for Bull Conner
Bull Connor,
like the Dutch Boy from Haarlem,
put his finger in a hole
to plug a burgeoning leak.
But Bull Connor,
unlike the boy from Haarlem,
did not foresee
the raging torrents of history,
smashing against
the crumbling walls
of the porous dike
he sought to buttress.
His decadent heroism
held no moral authority
to sustain
his ungodly labors.
His savage dogs,
hungry for meat
bent on aggression
for a twisted masters bidding
were devoured
by the teeth
of a movement
hungry for justice.
His water cannons,
tiny water pistols,
pissed
into the mighty squalls
of a raging hurricane
that blew the stinking urine
back into his face.
The weight of history
moves with the just.
Untruth,
archrival of justice,
is blown away
like an expired candle
snuffed out,
blessedly extinguished
from the first breath
of a glorious new day.
Bull Connor
doesn’t rest in peace.
He stands on
the other side of the river.
He is the rich man
driven by
insane thirst
begging for water
from a comforted
Lazarus,
now secure
in the bosom
of Abraham.
Bull Connor
looks across
the chasm of fire
he knows
he'll never bridge.
Medgar Evers
and MLK Jr.
stand as keepers,
collecting tolls
for a heavenly passage
from the wages he earned
for his earthly work.
A forlorn
Bull Connor
forever searches
deep empty pockets
for fare
as Martin
and Medgar
patiently wait
with outstretched palms.
Music Selection:
The Soul Stirrers,
Jesus Gave Me Water
MLK Jr. Day
1/20/86
NYC
jbm
jimmymac, 16 january 2012
Nelson Mandela
I perceive
the shadow
of your
imprisoned
face
watching
eyes
peering
through
iron rods
that
cannot
contain
your
visions
of freedom
the force
of your
righteous
halo
frames
a
presence
of light
you are
a blazing
apparition
melting
the steel
cages
releasing
the world's
hostages
of justice
You Tube Music Video:
Gil Scott Heron
Third World Revolution
2/17/11
Oakland
jbm
jimmymac, 16 january 2012
Mountiantops
I'm truly blessed
to be counted
amongst the
trooping pilgrims
walking dusty roads,
negotiating rocky
Himalayan trails
on the way
to the mountaintop.
Together
as brothers
and sisters,
we traverse
precarious paths,
strengthening
each other,
bucking up,
getting a
second wind
to make that
final push
to scale the most
jagged boulders
that lie nearest
the peaks.
I'm heartened
to see
Dorothy Day,
Mahatmas Gandhi,
The Dali Llama,
Nelson Mandela
and Johnny Cash,
trooping along side me;
keeping me in step
as we press on to
the promised land.
If I get hungry,
Dorothy will
serve me soup
to feed my
spirit.
If I get lonely,
Mahatmas will
muster up a posse
welling deep within
the salt of the earth
to walk with me.
If I take a
wrong turn,
The Dali Llama's
smiling eyes
and sage
advise
will get
my feet
back on the
right path.
On this
tiresome journey
if my will begins
to falter and my
commitment wanes,
Nelson will remind me
to endure the trial
with the grace
of fortitude.
And if we enter
dangerous canyons,
filled with the
cacophony of
boisterous hate,
The Man in Black
will strum his
guitar to quell
the angry noise
and fill all hearts
with a loving harmony.
We're on our way
to Freedom's Land
and some believe
we're almost there.
We can see
Martin looking
over those last
jagged ledges,
he's got a prayer
of encouragement
on his lips,
and he's waving
Mrs. Liberty's torch,
showing us
the way,
guiding us
home.
Sweet Honey on the Rock:
Ain't Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Around
MLK Jr. Day
1/16/12
Oakland
jbm
jimmymac, 8 january 2012
Luna
Na zimno przesilenia
magnes aksamitu
magii Luna
ściąga
cicho wzywa
szeptanie
delikatne czary
w marzycielski uszy
przekonujące
kochanka
rosnąć
quixotically
bałamuctwo
go z
ciepły sen
z zimy
first sen nocy
ona wezwanie
chce kochanka
wzywając go
do naśladowania
jej wyraźny
pociągający światło
oświetlenia
samotny czerń
z ponury wszechświat
jej
uwodzicielski uprawnień
przekracza odległości
tysiąc przesilenia
jej
zdecydowane światło
pewny znak
szelki żadnych słabości
ośmiela pragnienie
kierowanie zaproszeni
nieprzewidzianych
miejsc
stojący
w obecności
moja twarz jest koloru
odzwierciedlone przez
Wspaniałe światło
moje serce
pieczonej
przez
dokuczliwy
blask
fali roiling
z zadumy północy
odpływa
jak mój
ziemnych cień
rozpoczyna się przejść
nad
niezatarty
biel
I świadek
moje ciemne oblicze
zaćmienie twoje światło
zanieczyszczając się
obawiając
na zawsze
oznaczyć
musujące srebro
z podłości mnie
bez wstydu
Twój uśmiech
allays mój strach
zrozumieć
Przewiduje się
wyrażenie
z moich
coy powściągliwość
słodki śpiew
śpiewa
nieograniczonego
marzenia
delikatnie
uspokaja
można tańczyć
przez wiele
księżycowe noce
z upragnieniem miłośników
tylko, aby powrócić ponownie
w biel dziewicza
przez
niekończące się cykle
czasu
wydany
ulgę
porzucając
wszelkich ograniczeń
teraz
Ja
przywołać się
moja ciemność
Twój biel
ras
zmysłowy
pomarańczowy
słodsze
następnie
otwarte mango
ona zasady na niebie
niebieskich monarcha
zmuszając do Mars
bezwolnym rekolekcje
komendanta
potężny Orion
do koła miecz
podczas
Wenus
kipi
z zazdrości
moja forma
zaczyna się połknąć
do linii
i
miękkie krzywe
moja ciemność
znika
w
zapraszając pęknięcia
należących do
ciemne zagniecenia
miękkie fale
słodkie pagórki
zmysłowa kraterów
place zabaw dla gejów
na ustach
tajemnicze kopce
chętnie zbadać
rękami i
limbered palce
Don Kichot Eros
zapach przypraw
pęcznieje w mojej głowie
wszystko
kopercie
jak
Duch Święty
figlarnie gier
w chowanego
promiennie ruchu
przez
zaciemnionym zadaszenia
z pięknego lasu
nozdrza wypełnić
z
tang przyprawy
zapach
Caribe
twarzą ukrytą
w grube warkocze
z szaleństwa czerń
coraz Unhinged
przez oczy mówiąc
tysięcy języków
jak szepczą usta
radosne płacze
cichy pocałunek
z pomarańczowym nocy świeci
wijące się ciała
płaskie razem
drapieżnymi wąsów
kształt opadający
poduszki chmury
drżącymi wargami
rozwijają się uśmiechy
alabaster pereł
ciemność mokka
samb przez
w nocy
ona oddycha
jej imię miłośników
Luna wanny
jej cynamon krzywe
w pyszne
mango światło
oferuje bardzo dużo
dollops
z brodawki
peeking
szeregowych
drifting
I zrzucić
na morze
świadomych snów
pitnej z
ciemnej otoczki
jak warkocze
jej
słodzone gniazdo
zwilżoną mój członek
w świętej komunii
na głodne usta kochanków
jej nogi tancerzy
cienki, elastyczny
nieograniczona
i otwórz
słodki smak
gładki
tak miękkie
w dotyku
pełni
naszych rumba
se los tango
con cha cha cha
lekkie kroki
blisko pieścić
kinetycznej zamieszanie
dziki śmiech
wypełnia żagle
śmiałych szkunery
Luna uśmiech
Polecenia
mórz
na falowanie
un poco loco
ola de feliz
los hablamos
un contrara
la estas
la esta
lawenda niebo
w godzinach porannych
zmierzch
inspirować
Szpakowników
zwiastować
dnia wschodzących
nadal
pijany swigging
kocha nektar
sen skrada bliżej
wyznając
małych żałuje
upadła
ofiara
do pasji ponownie
Luna
wraca
jej kochanka
zwierzęta piersi
z delikatnymi palcami
głosem
lekki jak powietrze
śpiewa
wiersz
do jego ucha
namiętnych nocy
piękna sztuka
pragnienie, aby wyrazić
szczere prawdy
Mango spożywane
Luna wraca biel
mój cień oddala
na nieistotne
nicość
nagi
Stałem
niestety świadkami
Dark Horizon
wyprzedzanie
moim kochankiem uciekającym
połykaniu jej
w małe kawałki
jak rano krople
ostatecznej welon
na twarzy
z obecnie
zniknął miłość
Wybór Muzyka
Grant Green, Moon River
JBM
Oakland
19.01.11
jimmymac, 8 january 2012
Luna
On the cold solstice
the velvet magnet
of Luna's magic
pulls
quietly urges
whispering
gentle spells
into dreamy ears
compelling
her lover
to rise
quixotically
coaxing
him from
the warm sleep
of winters
first night slumber
she summons
a willing lover
inviting him
to follow
her stark
alluring light
illuminating
the lonely blackness
of a bleak universe
her
seductive powers
transcends distances of
a thousand solstices
her
resounding light
a sure mark
braces any weakness
emboldens desire
guiding the bidden
to unforeseen
destinations
standing
in your presence
my face is flush
reflected by your
resplendent light
my heart
broiled
by your
vexing
radiance
the roiling tide
of a midnight reverie
ebbs
as my
earthen shadow
begins to pass
over your
indelible
whiteness
I witness
my dark countenance
eclipse your light
defiling you
fearing
to forever
mark your
effervescent silver
with the baseness of me
without shame
your smile
allays my fear
you understand
you anticipated
the expression
of my
coy reticence
a sweet chant
sings
unencumbered
reveries
gently
reassures
you've danced
through many
moonlit nights
with eager lovers
only to return again
in virginal whiteness
across the
endless cycles
of time
released
relieved
abandoning
all restraint
now
I
summon you
my blackness
your whiteness
breeds a
sensuous
orange
sweeter
then an
open mango
she rules the sky
a celestial monarch
forcing Mars into
a sheepish retreat
commanding
mighty Orion
to sheave his sword
while
Venus
seethes
with envy
my form
begins to swallow
your lines
and
soft curves
my blackness
disappears
into
inviting cracks
falling into
dark creases
the soft billows
sweet mounds
voluptuous craters
gay playgrounds
for my mouth
mysterious hillocks
eagerly explored
with hands and
limbered fingers
a quixotic Eros
the scent of spice
swells in my head
everything
enveloped
like a
holy ghost
playfully gaming
hide and seek
radiantly moving
through
darkened canopies
of a lush forest
nostrils fill
with
tang of spice
a scent
of Caribe
face buried
in thick tresses
of maddening blackness
becoming unhinged
by eyes speaking
a thousand languages
as lips whisper
joyous whimpers
a silent kiss
of an orange lit night
writhing bodies
splayed together
ravenous tendrils
shape sloping
cloud pillows
quivering lips
unveil smiles of
alabaster pearls
mocha darkness
sambas through
the night
she exhales
her lovers name
Luna bathes
her cinnamon curves
in delicious
mango light
offers generous
dollops
of nipple
peeking
baying
drifting
I cast off
onto a sea
of lucid dreams
drinking from
a dark aureole
as the tresses
of her
sweetened nest
moistened my member
in a sacred communion
to a hungry lovers mouth
her dancers legs
slim, supple
unbounded
and open
sweet to taste
smooth
so soft
to touch
the fullness
of our rumba
se los tango
con cha cha cha
light steps
close caress
kinetic commotion
wild laughter
fills the sails
of bold schooners
Luna's smile
commands
the seas
to heave
un poco loco
ola de feliz
los hablamos
un contrara
la estas
la esta
the lavender sky
of the mornings
twilight
inspire
Meadowlarks
to herald
the emerging day
still
drunkenly swigging
loves nectar
sleep creeps closer
confessing
small regrets
she fell
victim
to passion again
Luna
comes back
to her lover
pets his chest
with delicate fingers
in a voice
as light as air
she sings
a poem
into his ear
of passionate nights
beauteous art
longing to express
heartfelt truths
The mango consumed
Luna's whiteness returns
my shadow recedes
into inconsequential
nothingness
naked
I stood
sadly witnessing
the dark horizon
overtaking
my fleeing lover
swallowing her
in tiny bits
as morning drops
a final veil
over the face
of a now
vanished love
Music Selection
Grant Green, Moon River
jbm
Oakland
1/19/11
jimmymac, 7 january 2012
iBook of Jobs
i given nothing
i abandoned
i adopted
i dropout
i garage
i Apple
i NeXT
i Pixar
i Apple
i pilfered i
i invented i
i produced i
i market i
i retail i
i am i
i am
i
i tech beauty
i consumer fetish
i whom you love
i sleekest widgets
i Toy Story
i Macintosh
i macbook
i Lisa
iTunes
iPod
iPhone
iPad
i more
i rebel
i genius
i visionary
i entrepreneur
i world changer
i exceptionalism
i capital market hero
i bigger then business
i cool capitalism
i myth
i "the man"
i worker
i employer
i boss
i thief
i savior
i billionaire
i venerated
i vanity
i Buddhist
i prophet
i redeemed
i 1 in 300 million
i America
i sing the pathos
i am the creed
i define the ethos
i Steve Jobs
i amassed riches
i accolade crowned
i ingratiate world
i virtue
i success
i creativity
i favored
i Midas
i bedeviled
i tested
i afflicted
i retire
i human
i mortal
i succumb
i eulogized
i leave legacy of i
i am an MBA case study
i employed workers
i peddled intrepid product cycles
i subject of amusing anecdotes
i am heroic corporate folklore
i grew pods full of music
i incite kids to thumb phones
i captivate consumer imagination
i built rock solid balance sheet
i erected toxic Chinese factories
i enriched investors
i am the cool corporate brand
i inspired a million unused i apps
i hipster capitalism
i imposed my will
i insisted
i am that i am
i cannot take it with me
i leave blue jeans
i leave NB sneakers
i leave black collarless shirt
i will be asked what
i did with the time
i was given?
i did the best i could
i played the hand dealt
i parlayed it into a royal flush
i filled it up with i
i ask why
i am no more?
i leave the world
i am no more
Godspeed Beloved
Steven Paul "Steve" Jobs
(February 24, 1955 – October 5, 2011)
jbm
Oakland
10/6/11
jimmymac, 6 january 2012
Chicago for Carl Sandburg
FIRST DAY
1.
Who wanted me
to go to Chicago
on January 6th?
I did!
The night before,
20 below zero
Fahrenheit
with the wind chill;
as the blizzard of 99
lay in mountains
of blackening snow.
I packed two coats,
two suits,
three sweaters,
multiple sets of long johns
and heavy white socks
for a two-day stay.
I left from Newark.
Damn the denseness,
it confounds!
The 2nd City to whom?
2nd ain’t bad.
It’s pretty good.
If you consider
Peking and Prague,
Tokyo and Togo,
Manchester and Moscow,
Port Au Prince and Paris,
Athens and Amsterdam,
Buenos Aries and Johannesburg;
that’s pretty good.
What’s going on here today?
It’s friggin frozen.
To the bone!
But Chi Town is still cool.
Buddy Guy’s is open.
Bartenders mixing drinks,
cabbies jamming on their breaks,
honey dew waitresses serving sugar,
buildings swerving,
fire tongued preachers are preaching
and the farmers are measuring the moon.
The lake,
unlike Ontario
is in the midst of freezing.
Bones of ice
threaten to gel
into a solid mass
over the expanse
of the Michigan Lake.
If this keeps up,
you can walk
clear to Toronto
on a silver carpet.
Along the shore
the ice is permanent.
It’s the first big frost
of winter
after a long
Indian Summer.
Thank God
I caught a cab.
Outside I hear
The Hawk
nippin hard.
It’ll get your ear,
finger or toe.
Bite you on the nose too
if you ain’t careful.
Thank God,
I’m not walking
the Wabash tonight;
but if you do cover up,
wear layers.
Chicago,
could this be
Sandburg’s City?
I’m overwhelmed
and this is my tenth time here.
It’s almost better,
sometimes it is better,
a lot of times it is better
and denser then New York.
Ask any Bull’s fan.
I’m a Knickerbocker.
Yes Nueva York,
a city that has placed last
in the standings
for many years.
Except the last two.
Yanks are 1!
But Chicago
is a dynasty,
as big as
Sammy Sosa’s heart,
rich and wide
as Michael Jordan’s grin.
Middle of a country,
center of a continent,
smack dab in the mean
of a hemisphere,
vortex to a world,
Chicago!
Kansas City,
Nashville,
St. Louis,
Detroit,
Cleveland,
Pittsburgh,
Denver,
New Orleans,
Dallas,
Cairo,
Singapore,
Auckland,
Baghdad,
Mexico City
and Montreal
salute her.
2.
Cities,
A collection of vanities?
Engineered complex utilitarianism?
The need for community a social necessity?
Ego one with the mass?
Civilization’s latest perversion?
Chicago is more then that.
Jefferson’s yeoman farmer
is long gone
but this capitol
of the Great Plains
is still democratic.
The citizen’s of this city
would vote daily,
if they could.
Chicago,
Sandburg’s Chicago,
Could it be?
The namesake river
segments the city,
canals of commerce,
all perpendicular,
is rife throughout,
still guiding barges
to the Mississippi
and St. Laurence.
Now also tourist attractions
for a café society.
Chicago is really jazzy,
swanky clubs,
big steaks,
juices and drinks.
You get the best
coffee from Seattle
and the finest teas
from China.
Great restaurants
serve liquid jazz
al la carte.
Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they serve is Jazz
Rock me steady
Keep the beat
Keep it flowin
Feel the heat!
Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they is, is Jazz
Fast cars will take ya
To the show
Round bout midnight
Where’d the time go?
Flows into the Mississippi,
the mother of America’s rivers,
an empires aorta.
Great Lakes wonder of water.
Niagara Falls
still her heart gushes forth.
Buffalo connected to this holy heart.
Finger Lakes and Adirondacks
are part of this watershed,
all the way down to the
Delaware and Chesapeake.
Sandburg’s Chicago?
Oh my my,
the wonder of him.
Who captured the imagination
of the wonders of rivers.
Down stream other holy cities
from the Mississippi Valley
all mapped by him.
Its mouth our Dixie Trumpet
guarded by righteous Cajun brethren.
Midwest?
Midwest from where?
It’s north of Caracas and Los Angeles,
east of Fairbanks,
west of Dublin
and south of not much.
Him,
who spoke of honest men
and loving women.
Working men and mothers
bearing citizens to build a nation.
The New World’s
precocious adolescent
caught in a stream
of endless and exciting change,
much pain and sacrifice,
dedication and loss,
pride and tribulations.
From him we know
all the people’s faces.
All their stories are told.
Never defeating the
idea of Chicago.
He had the courage to say
what was in the heart of the people, who:
Defeated the Indians,
Mapped the terrain,
Aided slavers,
Fought a terrible civil war,
Hoisted the barges,
Grew the food,
Whacked the wheat,
Sang the songs,
Fought many wars of conquest,
Cleared the land,
Erected the bridges,
Trapped the game,
Netted the fish,
Mined the coal,
Forged the steel,
Laid the tracks,
Fired the tenders,
Cut the stone,
Mixed the mortar,
Plumbed the line,
And laid the bricks
Of this nation of cities!
Pardon the Marlboro Man shtick.
It’s a poor expostulation of
crass commercial symbolism.
Like I said, I’m a
Devil Fan from Jersey
and Madison Avenue
has done its work on me.
It’s a strange alchemy
that changes
a proud Nation of Blackhawks
into a merchandising bonanza
of hometown hockey shirts,
making the native seem alien,
and the interloper at home chillin out,
warming his feet atop a block of ice,
guzzling Old Style
with clicker in hand.
Give him his beer
and other diversions.
If he bowls with his buddy’s
on Tuesday night
I hope he bowls
a perfect game.
He’s earned it.
He works hard.
Hard work and faith
built this city.
And it’s not just the faith
that fills the cities
thousand churches,
temples and
mosques on the Sabbath.
3.
There is faith in everything in Chicago!
An alcoholic broker named Bill
lives the Twelve Steps
to banish fear and loathing
for one more day.
Bill believes in sobriety.
A tug captain named Moe
waits for the spring thaw
so he can get the barges up to Duluth.
Moe believes in the seasons.
A farmer named Tom
hopes he has reaped the last
of many bitter harvests.
Tom believes in a new start.
A homeless man named Earl
wills himself a cot and a hot
at the local shelter.
Earl believes in deliverance.
A Pullman porter
named George
works overtime
to get his first born
through medical school.
George believes in opportunity.
A folk singer named Woody
sings about his
countrymens inheritance
and implores them to take it.
Woody believes in people.
A Wobbly named Joe
organizes fellow steelworkers
to fight for a workers paradise
here on earth.
Joe believes in ideals.
A bookkeeper named Edith
is certain she’ll see the Cubs
win the World Series
in her lifetime.
Edith believes in miracles.
An electrician named Lech
saves money
to bring his family over from Gdansk.
Lech believes in America.
A banker named Leah
knows Ditka will return
and lead the Bears
to another Super Bowl.
Leah believes in nostalgia.
A cantor named Samuel
prays for another 20 years
so he can properly train
his Temple’s replacement.
Samuel believes in tradition.
A high school girl named Sally
refuses to get an abortion.
She knows she carries
something special within her.
Sally believes in life.
A city worker named Mazie
ceaselessly prays
for her incarcerated son
doing 10 years at Cook.
Mazie believes in redemption.
A jazzer named Bix
helps to invent a new art form
out of the mist.
Bix believes in creativity.
An architect named Frank
restores the Rookery.
Frank believes in space.
A soldier named Ike
fights wars for democracy.
Ike believes in peace.
A Rabbi named Jesse
sermonizes on Moses.
Jesse believes in liberation.
Somewhere in Chicago
a kid still believes in Shoeless Joe.
The kid believes in
the integrity of the game.
An Imam named Louis
is busy building a nation
within a nation.
Louis believes in
self-determination.
A teacher named Heidi
gives all she has to her students.
She has great expectations for them all.
Heidi believes in the future.
4.
Does Chicago have a future?
This city,
full of cowboys
and wildcatters
is predicated
on a future!
Bang, bang
Shoot em up
Stake the claim
It’s your terrain
Drill the hole
Strike it rich
Top it off
You’re the boss
Take a chance
Watch it wane
Try again
Heavenly gains
Chicago
city of futures
is a Holy Mecca
to all day traders.
Their skin is gray,
hair disheveled,
loud ties and
funny coats,
thumb through
slips of paper
held by nail
chewed hands.
Selling promises
with no derivative value
for out of the money calls
and in the money puts.
Strike is not a labor action
in this city of unionists,
but a speculators mark,
a capitalist wish,
a hedgers bet,
a public debt
and a farmers
fair return.
Indexes for everything.
Quantitative models
that could burst a kazoo.
You know the measure
of everything in Chicago.
But is it truly objective?
Have mathematics banished
subjective intentions,
routing it in fair practice
of market efficiencies,
a kind of scientific absolution?
I heard that there
is a dispute brewing
over the amount of snowfall
that fell on the 1st.
The mayor’s office,
using the official city ruler
measured 22”
of snow on the ground.
The National Weather Service
says it cannot detect more
then 17” of snow.
The mayor thinks
he’ll catch less heat
for the trains that don’t run
the buses that don’t arrive
and the schools that stand empty
with the addition of 5”.
The analysts say
it’s all about capturing liquidity.
Liquidity,
can you place a great lake
into an eyedropper?
Its 20 below
and all liquid things
are solid masses
or a gooey viscosity at best.
Water is frozen everywhere.
But Chi town is still liquid,
flowing faster
then the digital blips
flashing on the walls
of the CBOT.
Dreams
are never frozen in Chicago.
The exchanges trade
without missing a beat.
Trading wet dreams,
the crystallized vapor
of an IPO
pledging a billion points
of Internet access
or raiding the public treasuries
of a central bank’s
huge stores of gold
with currency swaps.
Using the tools
of butterfly spreads
and candlesticks
to achieve the goal.
Short the Russell
or buy the Dow,
go long the
CAC and DAX.
Are you trading in euro’s?
You better be
or soon will.
I know
you’re Chicago,
you’ll trade anything.
WEBS,
Spiders,
and Leaps
are traded here,
along with sweet crude,
North Sea Brent,
plywood and T-Bill futures;
and most importantly
the commodities,
the loam
that formed this city
of broad shoulders.
What about our wheat?
Still whacking and
breadbasket to the world.
Oil,
an important fossil fuel
denominated in
good ole greenbacks.
Porkbellies,
not just hogwash
on the Wabash,
but bacon, eggs
and flapjacks
are on the menu
of every diner in Jersey
as the “All American.”
Cotton,
our contribution
to the Golden Triangle,
once the global currency
used to enrich a
gentlemen class
of cultured
southern slavers,
now Tommy Hilfiger’s
preferred fabric.
I think he sends it
to Bangkok
where child
slave labor
spin it into
gold lamay.
Sorghum,
I think its hardy.
Soybeans,
the new age substitute
for hamburger
goes great with tofu lasagna.
Corn,
ADM creates ethanol,
they want us to drive cleaner cars.
Cattle,
once driven into this city’s
bloodhouses for slaughter,
now ground into
a billion Big Macs
every year.
When does a seed
become a commodity?
When does a commodity
become a future?
When does a future expire?
You can find the answers
to these questions in Chicago
and find a fortune in a hole in the floor.
Look down into the pits.
Hear the screams of anguish
and profitable delights.
Frenzied men
swarming like a mass
of epileptic ants
atop the worlds largest sugar cube
auger the worlds free markets.
The scene is
more chaotic then
100 Haymarket Square Riots
multiplied by 100
1968 Democratic Conventions.
Amidst inverted anthills,
they scurry forth and to
in distinguished
black and red coats.
Fighting each other
as counterparties
to a life and death transaction.
This is an efficient market
that crosses the globe.
Oil from the Sultan of Brunei,
Yen from the land of Hitachi,
Long Bonds from the Fed,
nickel from Quebec,
platinum and palladium
from Siberia,
FTSE’s from London
and crewel cane from Havana
circle these pits.
Tijuana,
Shanghai
and Istanbul's
best traders
are only half as good
as the average trader in Chicago.
Chicago,
this hog butcher to the world,
specializes in packaging and distribution.
Men in blood soaked smocks,
still count the heads
entering the gates of the city.
Their handiwork
is sent out on barges
and rail lines as frozen packages
of futures
waiting for delivery
to an anonymous counterparty
half a world away.
This nation’s hub
has grown into the
premier purveyor
to the world;
along all the rivers,
highways,
railways
and estuaries
it’s tentacles reach.
5.
Sandburg’s Chicago,
is a city of the world’s people.
Many striver rows compose
its many neighborhoods.
Nordic stoicism,
Eastern European orthodoxy
and Afro-American
calypso vibrations
are three of many cords
strumming the strings
of Chicago.
Sandburg’s Chicago,
if you wrote forever
you would only scratch its surface.
People wait for trains
to enter the city from O’Hare.
Frozen tears
lock their eyes
onto distant skyscrapers,
solid chunks
of snot blocks their nose
and green icicles of slime
crust mustaches.
They fight to breathe.
Sandburg’s Chicago
is The Land of Lincoln,
Savior of the Union,
protector of the Republic.
Sent armies
of sons and daughters,
barges, boxcars,
gunboats, foodstuffs,
cannon and shot
to raze the south
and stamp out succession.
Old Abe’s biography
are still unknown volumes to me.
I must see and read the great words.
You can never learn enough;
but I’ve been to Washington
and seen the man’s memorial.
The Free World’s 8th wonder,
guarded by General Grant,
who still keeps an eye on Richmond
and a hand on his sword.
Through this American winter
Abe ponders.
The vista he surveys is dire and tragic.
Our sitting President
impeached
for lying about a blowjob.
Party partisans
in the senate are sworn and seated.
Our Chief Justice,
adorned with golden bars
will adjudicate the proceedings.
It is the perfect counterpoint
to an ageless Abe thinking
with malice toward none
and charity towards all,
will heal the wounds
of the nation.
Abe our granite angel,
Chicago goes on,
The Union is strong!
SECOND DAY
1.
Out my window
the sun has risen.
According to
the local forecast
its minus 9
going up to
6 today.
The lake,
a golden pillow of clouds
is frozen in time.
I marvel
at the ancients ones
resourcefulness
and how
they mastered
the extreme elements.
Past, present and future
has no meaning
in the Citadel
of the Prairie today.
I set my watch
to Central Standard Time.
Stepping into
the hotel lobby
the concierge
with oil smooth hair,
perfect tie
and English lilt
impeccably asks,
“Do you know where you are going Sir?
Can I give you a map?”
He hands me one of Chicago.
I see he recently had his nails done.
He paints a green line
along Whacker Drive and says,
“turn on Jackson, LaSalle, Wabash or Madison
and you’ll get to where you want to go.”
A walk of 14 or 15 blocks from Streeterville-
(I start at The Chicago White House.
They call it that because Hillary Rodham
stays here when she’s in town.
Its’ also alleged that Stedman
eats his breakfast here
but Opra
has never been seen
on the premises.
I wonder how I gained entry
into this place of elite’s?)
-down into the center of The Loop.
Stepping out of the hotel,
The Doorman
sporting the epaulets of a colonel
on his corporate winter coat
and furry Cossack hat
swaddling his round black face
accosts me.
The skin of his face
is flaking from
the subzero windburn.
He asks me
with a gapped toothy grin,
“Can I get you a cab?”
“No I think I’ll walk,” I answer.
“Good woolen hat,
thick gloves you should be alright.”
He winks and lets me pass.
I step outside.
The Windy City
flings stabbing cold spears
flying on wings of 30-mph gusts.
My outside hardens.
I can feel the freeze
deepen
into my internalness.
I can’t be sure
but inside
my heart still feels warm.
For how long
I cannot say.
I commence
my walk
among the spires
of this great city,
the vertical leaps
that anchor the great lake,
holding its place
against the historic
frigid assault.
The buildings’ sway,
modulating to the blows
of natures wicked blasts.
It’s a hard imposition
on a city and its people.
The gloves,
skullcap,
long underwear,
sweater,
jacket
and overcoat
not enough
to keep the cold
from penetrating
the person.
Like discerning
the layers of this city,
even many layers,
still not enough
to understand
the depth of meaning
of the heart
of this heartland city.
Sandburg knew the city well.
Set amidst groves of suburbs
that extend outward in every direction.
Concentric circles
surround the city.
After the burbs come farms,
Great Plains, and mountains.
Appalachians and Rockies
are but mere molehills
in the city’s back yard.
It’s terra firma
stops only at the sea.
Pt. Barrow to the Horn,
many capes extended.
On the periphery
its appendages,
its extremities,
its outward extremes.
All connected by the idea,
blown by the incessant wind
of this great nation.
The Windy City’s message
is sent to the world’s four corners.
It is a message of power.
English the worlds
common language
is spoken here,
along with Ebonics,
Espanol,
Mandarin,
Czech,
Russian,
Korean,
Arabic,
Hindi,
German,
French,
electronics,
steel,
cars,
cartoons,
rap,
sports,
movies,
capital,
wheat
and more.
Always more.
Much much more
in Chicago.
2.
Sandburg
spoke all the dialects.
He heard them all,
he understood
with great precision
to the finest tolerances
of a lathe workers micrometer.
Sandburg understood
what it meant to laugh
and be happy.
He understood
the working mans day,
the learned treatises
of university chairs,
the endless tomes
of the city’s
great libraries,
the lost languages
of the ancient ones,
the secret codes
of abstract art,
the impact of architecture,
the street dialects and idioms
of everyman expression of life.
All fighting for life,
trying to build a life,
a new life
in this modern world.
Walking across
the Michigan Avenue Bridge
I see the Wrigley Building
is neatly carved,
catty cornered on the plaza.
I wonder if Old Man Wrigley
watched his barges
loaded with spearmint
and double-mint
move out onto the lake
from one of those Gothic windows
perched high above the street.
Would he open a window
and shout to the men below
to quit slaking and work harder
or would he
between the snapping sound
he made with his mouth
full of his chewing gum
offer them tickets
to a ballgame at Wrigley Field
that afternoon?
Would the men below
be able to understand
the man communing
from such a great height?
I listen to a man
and woman conversing.
They are one step behind me
as we meander along Wacker Drive.
“You are in Chicago now.”
The man states with profundity.
“If I let you go
you will soon find your level
in this city.
Do you know what I mean?”
No I don’t.
I think to myself.
What level are you I wonder?
Are you perched atop
the transmission spire
of the Hancock Tower?
I wouldn’t think so
or your ears would melt
from the windburn.
I’m thinking.
Is she a kept woman?
She is majestically clothed
in fur hat and coat.
In animal pelts
not trapped like her,
but slaughtered
farms I’m sure.
What level
is he speaking of?
Many levels
are evident in this city;
many layers of cobbled stone,
Pennsylvania iron,
Hoosier Granite
and vertical drops.
I wonder
if I detect
condensation
in his voice?
What is
his intention?
Is it a warning
of a broken affair?
A pending pink slip?
Advise to an addict
refusing to adhere
to a recovery regimen?
What is his level anyway?
Is he so high and mighty?
Higher and mightier
then this great city
which we are all a part of,
which we all helped to build,
which we all need
in order to keep this nation
the thriving democratic
empire it is.
This seditious talk!
3.
The Loop’s El
still course through
the main thoroughfares of the city.
People are transported
above the din of the street,
looking down
on the common pedestrians
like me.
Super CEO’s
populating the upper floors
of Romanesque,
Greek Revivalist,
New Bauhaus,
Art Deco
and Post Nouveau
Neo-Modern
Avant-Garde towers
are too far up
to see me
shivering on the street.
The cars, busses,
trains and trucks
are all covered
with the film
of rock salt.
Salt covers
my bootless feet
and smudges
my cloths as well.
The salt,
the primal element
of the earth
covers everything
in Chicago.
It is the true level
of this city.
The layer
beneath
all layers,
on which
everything
rests,
is built,
grows,
thrives
then dies.
To be
returned again
to the lower
layers
where it can
take root
again
and grow
out onto
the great plains.
Splashing
the nation,
anointing
its people
with its
blessing.
A blessing,
Chicago?
All rivers
come here.
All things
found its way here
through the canals
and back bays
of the world’s
greatest lakes.
All roads,
rails and
air routes
begin and
end here.
Mrs. O’Leary’s cow
got a bum rap.
It did not start the fire,
we did.
We lit the torch
that flamed
the city to cinders.
From a pile of ash
Chicago rose again.
Forever Chicago!
Forever the lamp
that burns bright
on a Great Lake’s
western shore!
Chicago
the beacon
sends the
message to the world
with its windy blasts,
on chugging barges,
clapping trains,
flying tandems,
T1 circuits
and roaring jets.
Sandburg knew
a Chicago
I will never know.
He knew
the rhythm of life
the people walked to.
The tools they used,
the dreams they dreamed
the songs they sang,
the things they built,
the things they loved,
the pains that hurt,
the motives that grew,
the actions that destroyed
the prayers they prayed,
the food they ate
their moments of death.
Sandburg knew
the layers of the city
to the depths
and windy heights
I cannot fathom.
The Blues
came to this city,
on the wing
of a chirping bird,
on the taps
of a rickety train,
on the blast
of an angry sax
rushing on the wind,
on the Westend blitz
of Pop's brash coronet,
on the tink of
a twinkling piano
on a paddle-wheel boat
and on the strings
of a lonely man’s guitar.
Walk into the clubs,
tenements,
row houses,
speakeasies
and you’ll hear the Blues.
Tidewater Blues
from Virginia,
Delta Blues
from the lower
Mississippi,
Boogie Woogie
from Appalachia,
Texas Blues
from some Lone Star,
Big Band Blues
from Kansas City,
Blues from
Beal Street,
Jelly Roll’s Blues
from the Latin Quarter.
Hell even Chicago
got its own brand
of Blues.
Its all here.
It ended up here
and was sent away
on the winds of westerly blows
to the ear of an eager world
on strong jet streams
of simple melodies
and hard truths.
A broad
shouldered woman,
a single mother stands
on the street
with three crying babes.
Their cloths
are covered
in salt.
She pleads
for a break,
praying
for a new start.
Poor and
under-clothed
against the torrent
of frigid weather
she begs for help.
Her blond hair
and facial features
suggests her
Scandinavian heritage.
I wonder if
she is related to Sandburg
as I walk past
her on the street.
Her feet
are bleeding
through her
canvass sneakers.
Her babes mouths
are zipped shut
with frozen drivel
and mucous.
The Blues live
on in Chicago.
The Blues
will forever live in her.
As I turn the corner
to walk the Miracle Mile
I see her engulfed
in a funnel cloud of salt,
snow and bits
of white paper,
swirling around her
and her children
in an angry
unforgiving
maelstrom.
The family
begins to
dissolve
like a snail
sprinkled with salt;
and a mother
and her children
just disappear
into the pavement
at the corner
of Dearborn,
in Chicago.
Music Selection:
Muddy Waters
I'm Ready
Robert Johnson
Sweet Home Chicago
jbm
Chicago
1/7/99
jimmymac, 5 january 2012
I Like Jazz
Ko Ko to Go Go
a prelude to a kiss
dance with Chubby Checker
lift a slo gin fizz
Head bobs to Be Bop
flip the B Side now
mellowtune in monotone
two ears for stereo wow!
Wonderment of Duke and Miles
swinging kool birthin boplicity
urban crush the hipsters rush
jazz joints cross the city
Firery sax emote a clash
strain ears of credulity
Lester leaps creative heat
nips harden on my titties
Max taps exotic wax
Django's quick pickin
finger snaps flip my lid
lips deliciously sippin
Eurozone a Zen zone
a blue infinitive smokin
big peeps dig don pink wigs
fat spliffs hot token
My new suede shoes
walks west end blues
Pop's cornet got me tippin
his open blast first to last
I like cornbread, barbecue
and fine home jazz cookin
jbm
Oakland
3/12/10
Latest comments:
29 april 2024
sam53
nic nowego, wszystko mam pod kontrolą... tak
29 april 2024
a jak wygląda nieromantyczny pocałunek...?
29 april 2024
Weronika
Przynajmniej przy bezdennym brzegu.
29 april 2024
violetta
Jesteś w niebie:)
29 april 2024
wg. pisma ... ? ...ale nie na 100
29 april 2024
Promieniowanie ciała doskonale czarnego.
28 april 2024
samoA
dziękuję. uśmiech posyłam
27 april 2024
Jaga
Bardzo, widać że dobrze mu z oka patrzy ;)
27 april 2024
On tak dostojnie chodzi, że to czysta przyjemność
27 april 2024
kb
hm tutaj pokazano niejako wprost sprawcę światła.
27 april 2024
sufit, uśmiech i barany... no tak to jest, sama
27 april 2024
"wszystkie modlitwy wymyślili grzesznicy"
29 april 2024
Satish Verma
28 april 2024
Jaga
28 april 2024
Satish Verma
27 april 2024
Jaga
27 april 2024
Satish Verma
26 april 2024
wiesiek
26 april 2024
Satish Verma
25 april 2024
wiesiek
25 april 2024
Satish Verma
24 april 2024
Satish Verma