Latest items:
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, 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, 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, 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, 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, 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, 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, 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, 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
Latest comments:
29 april 2024
Weronika
Przynajmniej przy bezdennym brzegu.
29 april 2024
violetta
Jesteś w niebie:)
29 april 2024
sam53
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"
27 april 2024
social-real. bardzo fajnie ujęte
26 april 2024
jeśli tylko
właśnie :)
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