Latest items:
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, 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, 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 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
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, 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, 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, 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, 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
Latest comments:
16 may 2024
jeśli tylko
słońce w płynie..
15 may 2024
Weronika
Za jeszcze jeden rejs!
14 may 2024
violetta
Mam takie oko :)
14 may 2024
Jaga
Zwierzęta upodobniły się do koloru otoczenia
14 may 2024
To naturalny suchy i pustynny klimat. I tam są
14 may 2024
Klimat taki, że nie był i raczej nie będzie,
12 may 2024
Melancthe
Kajzerki są przereklamowane ;)
11 may 2024
kb
wielki wypas - był albo może będzie. kto wie...
11 may 2024
sama prawda z tym myśleniem i psoceniem ale
11 may 2024
zastanowiło mnie czy owe cenienie kajzerek wynika
11 may 2024
skomponowane kolorystycznie..
11 may 2024
To co te kozy dziobią i dlaczego? Co na to aktywiści?
16 may 2024
Satish Verma
15 may 2024
wiesiek
15 may 2024
Jaga
15 may 2024
Satish Verma
14 may 2024
Satish Verma
13 may 2024
Satish Verma
11 may 2024
Satish Verma
10 may 2024
Jaga
10 may 2024
Satish Verma
9 may 2024
wiesiek