Latest items:
jimmymac, 5 march 2012
Jazz Kisses
I blow tiny
jazz kisses
onto your
sweet petunia
lips
flutter delicious
notes into
lazy daisy ears
soft breath
puffs bluesy
tunes onto the
nape of a
lovely
curvy neck
I smell
bold begonias
whisper pink
secrets through
gyrating eyes
I roam
the flowers
blooming from
every luscious
groove
I pluck
the bows of
deep swing
heart strings
I blow
rose pedal
jazz kisses
from my
tippy tip
to teeny toe
Music Selection:
Esperanza Spalding, Little Fly
Oakland
3/1/12
jbm
jimmymac, 5 march 2012
A Cool Bullet
another cool bullet
to the head
a sudden death of
an American dream
the smart uniform
of a young officer
pressed and squared
sharp as a West Point salute
lay blood stained and crumpled
in a lifeless heap on a hospitals floor
the furious efforts of
heroic triage teams comes to naught
trust, respect and idealism
lay victim to an assassins whim
the dreams of another young patriot
prematurely commended to a cold grave
forevermore his body to moulder
returning to earths royal dust
an assassins work speaks
hard blatant truths
we somehow
refuse to hear
leave Afghanistan
to the Afghans
its time to leave
the ungodly places
that murder our dreams
and betray our children
Music Selection
Tom Jones
Green Green Grass of Home
Oakland
3/1/12
jbm
jimmymac, 29 february 2012
Homage to Homs
1.
From our
safe windows,
we crane our necks,
rubbernecking
past the slow
motion wreckage
unfolding in Homs.
We remain
perfectly
perched
to marvel at
the elegant arc of
a mortar shell
framing tomorrows
deep horizon,
whistling through
the twilight to
find its fruitful
mark.
In the now
we keep
complicit time,
to the arrest
of beating hearts,
snapping fingers
to the pop
of rifle cracks,
swooning to
the delicious
intoxication of
curling smoke
lofting ever
upward;
yet
thankfully
remain
distanced
enough to
recuse any
possibility
of an
intimate
nexus
with the
besieged.
2.
From our
safe windows,
we behold the
urgent arrivals of
The Friends of Syria
demanding
clean sheets
and 4 Star
room service at a
Tunisian Palace
recently cleaned
and under new
management
promising a
much needed
refurbishment.
The gathered,
a clique of
this epochs
movers and shakers,
a veritable
rouges gallery of
ambassadorial
prelates, Emirs and
state department
bureaucrats
summoned
with portfolio
from the
darkest corners
of the globe.
They are
eager to
sanctify
the misery
of Homs,
deflect and
lay blame
with realpolitik
rationalizations,
commencing
official commissions
of inquiry,
deliberating
grave considerations,
issuing indictments
of formal charges for
Crimes Against
Humanity
while
remaining
urgently
engrossed
in the fascination
of interviewing
potential
process servers
to deliver the bad news
to Bashar al-Assad
and his soulless
Baathist
confederates
if papers
are to be
served.
Yes, the diplomats
are busy meeting
in closed rooms.
In hushed circles
they whisper
into aroused ears,
railing against
Russia’s
gun running
intransigence
and China’s
geopolitical
chess moves.
They boast of the
intrepid justice
of tipping points
and the moving poetry
of self serving tales,
weighing
the stern sanctions
amidst the historical
confusion of the
asymmetrical
symmetries
of civil war.
Caravans
of Arab League
envoys arrive
in silver Bentleys,
crossing deserts
of contradictory
obfuscations,
navigating the
endless dunes
with a handheld
sextant of
hidden agendas.
The heroic
Bedouins are
eager to offload
their baggage
and share
on the ground
intelligence from
their recent soirees
across Syria.
They beg
a quick fix,
the triage of
critical catharsis
to bleed their
brains dry
of heinous
recollections,
pleading
release from a
troubled conscience
victimized by
the unnerving paradox of
reconciling the discoveries
of perverse voyeurism
with sacnctioned
explanations
of their respective
ruling elites.
The bellies
of these
scopophiliacs
are distended;
grown queasy
from a steady diet
of malfeasance
an ulcerated
world parades
in continuous loop;
spewing the raw feeds
of real time misery;
forcibly fed
the grim
visions of
frantic
fathers
rushing
the mangled
carcases
of mortally
wounded
children
to crumpled
piles of smashed
concrete that were
once hospitals.
We despondently
ask how
much longer
must we
look into
the eyes
of starving
children
emaciated from
the wanton
indifference
of the world?
3.
From our
safe windows
we wonder
how much
longer can
the urgent
burning
ambivalence
continue
before it
consumes
our common
humanity in
a final
conflagration?
My hair already
singed by the
endless firestorms
sweeping the prairies
of the world.
How can we survive
the trampling hoards,
the marauding
plagues of acrimony
fed by a voracious
blood lust aspiring to
victimize the people
of Homs and a
thousand cities
like it?
4.
From my safe
window I stand in witness
to the state execution of
refugees fleeing the
living nightmare
they are forced
to inhabit.
The murder of innocents,
today's newly minted martyrs,
women and children
cornered, trapped
on the road,
mercilessly
slaughtered and
defiled in death
to mark the lesson
of a ruthless master
enthralled with the
power of his
sadistic fascist
lordship.
I cannot avert my eyes
of pleading women
begging for the
lives of their children
in exchange for
the gratification
of a torturers
lust.
My heart
is impaled
on the sharp
spear of
outrage
as I watch
careening
children mowed
down with the
serrated blades
protruding
from marauding
jeeps of laughing
Syrian soldiers.
I drop
to my knees
in lakes of
tears
reflecting
a grotesque
horror stricken
image of myself.
My eyes have
murdered my soul.
The ghastly images
of Homs have chased
away my Holy Ghost
to the safety of a child's
sandbox hidden away
in a long forgotten
revered memory.
5.
From my safe window
I seethe with anger
demanding vengeance
debating how to rise
to meet the obscenity of
the Butcher of Damascus.
The sword of Damocles
dangles so tantalizing close
to this tyrants throat.
The covered women of Homs
scream prayers
“may Allah bring Bashar to ruin”
Dare I pray
that Allah trip the
horsehair trigger
that holds the
sword at bay?
Do I pick up
the sword
a wield it
as an
avenging
angel?
Am I the
John Brown
of our time?
Do I organize
a Lincoln Brigade
and join the growing
leagues of jihadists
amassing at the
Gates of Damascus?
Will my righteous
indignation fit well
in a confederacy
with Hamas and
al-Qaeda as
comrades in arms?
Do I succumb to
the passion of hate
and become just
another murderous
partisan, or do I
commend the soul
and live into the
power of satyagraha?
I lift a fervent prayer
to claim the justice
of Allah’s ear,
“may the knowing one
lift the veil of foolishness
that covers my heart in
cloaks of resent, cure
my blindness that ignores
my raging disease of
plausible deniability
ravaging the body politic
of humanity.”
Indeed,
physician heal thyself.
I run to embrace my
illness.
I pine to understand it.
I undertake the
difficult regimen
of a cure to eradicate
the terrible affliction.
This
pernicious
plague,
subverting
the notion
of a shared
humanness
is a cunning
sedition that
undermines
the unity of
the holy spirit.
The bell from
the toppled steeples
still tolls, echoing
across the space of
continents and eons
of temporal time.
The faithful chimes
gently chides us
to remove the wedge
of perception that
separates, divides
and undermines.
Time has come
to liberally
apply the balm
that salves the
open wounds
so common to
our common
human condition.
The power of prayer
is the joining of hands
with others racked
with the common
affliction of humanness.
Allah,
My eyes are wide open,
my sacred heart revealed,
my sleeves are rolled up,
my memory is stocked
my soul filled with resolve,
my hand is lifted
extended to all
brothers and sisters.
Lift us,
gather us
into one
loving embrace.
6.
From the safe
windows of
our palaces
we live within
earshot of
the trilling
zaghroutas
of exasperation
flowing from
the besieged
city of Homs
smouldering
under Bashar’s
symphony of terror.
Our nostrils
fill with the
acrid plumes
of unrequited
lamentations
lifting from the
the burning
destruction
of shelled
buildings.
Our eyes spark
from the night
tracers
of sleeking
snipers
flitting along
the city’s
rooftops;
the deathly jinn
indiscriminately
injecting the
paralysis of
random fear
into the veins
of the city
with each
skillful
head shot.
These
ghoulish
assassins
lavish in their
macabre work;
like vultures
they eagerly
feast on the
corpses of their kill,
the stench of bloated
bodies drying in the
sun is the perfume
that fills their nostrils.
7.
From our
safe window
we discern the
silhouettes of militants
still boldly standing
amidst the
mounting rubble of an
unbowed Homs
shouting;
Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!
raising pumped fists,
singing songs
of resistance,
dancing to
the revelation of
freedom,
refusing to
be coward by
the slashing
whips of a
butchers
terrible
sword.
8.
From my
safe window
my tongue laps
the pap
of infants
suckling from
the exhausted
teats of mothers
who cannot cry
for their dying
children;
tears fail
to well from
the exhaustion
of dehydrated
pools.
9.
From my
safe window
my heart stirs
to the muezzin
calling the
desperate faithful
from the toppled
rubble of dashed
minarets.
We can
no longer
shut our ears
to the Adham
of screams
the silent
voices that echos
the blatant injustice
of a city under siege.
10.
From my
safe window,
I pay
Homage to Homs
and call brothers
and sisters to rise
with vigilant
insistence
that hostilities
cease and
humanity be
upheld,
respected and
protected.
11.
From my safe
window
I perceive
the zagroutas
of sorrow
manifest as a
whiling hum
of a sweeping
blue mist,
levitating
the coffins
from the rubble
of the ravaged city.
A swirling
chorus
of wails
join my
desperate
prayers;
rising in
concert
with
black billows
of smoke
dancing
away
from the
flaming
embers
of scorched
neighborhoods.
12.
From my
safe window
I hear
the fluttering
wings
of avenging
angels
furiously
batting
as they
climb
within
the black
plumes,
leading from
the streets
of the
desecrated
city.
It is the
Jacob’s
Ladder
for our
time;
marking
a new
consecrated
place
where
a New Adam
is destined
to be formed
from the
pulverized
dust of
desolate
city.
13.
From our
safe windows
as we peer into
resplendent
mirrors
beholding
the perfect image of
ourselves
we notice
our falling tears
dripping blood,
coloring death
onto the
blanched sheets
of our imperial
palaces.
14.
From our
safe windows
our voices are silenced,
words mock urgency
thoughts betray comprehension
senses fail to illicit empathy
action is the only worthy prayer
15.
From my
safe window
I hear the
mortar shells
walking toward
my palace,
the crack
of a sniper
shot
precedes
the wiz
of a bullet
whispering
its presence
into my
waxen
ear.
Music selection:
John Coltrane
A Love Supreme
Acknowledgement
Oakland
2/28/12
jbm
jimmymac, 18 january 2012
Blue Monday
its a blue Monday
after Super Sunday
Americas 45th funday
yesterdays spectacle
the dip is done
the broken bones
of buffalo wings
fill giant glad bags
the ridged ripples
of broken Doritos
scattered on the floor
wait for a vacuums hum
dead soldiers rattle
a melodious cascade
the aroma of flat Bud
plunge into recycle bins
ribbed Trojans
dripping bagged jism
rim plastic trash cans
confirm an orgy's frenzy
the game forgotten
commercial reveries remain
seared into the briney mush
of compliant olfactories
collective hallucinations
successfully branded
a new and improved
global consciousness
Madmen Shamans
ebulliently channel
transactional zeitgeists
from the ripped boxes of
Best Buy plasma screens
Monday morning
water cool scuttlebutt
the planet is buzzing about...
Google's cool slap
of IPod clad automatons
the vanquishers of IBM's evil empire
Apple's brave new world is next
("meet the new boss,
same as the old boss?")
we all dug
rolling with Eminem
through the glitzy
streets of Motown
How cool is 8 Mile?
The hoods lookin good
angelic chorus lifts spirits
Swing Low Sweet Chrysler
The artistic types
faun over
the graphic beauty
illustrious aestheticism
moving story line
the epic journey
of the worlds
greatest brand
heroic product marketing pros
rival Jason and the Argonauts
sojourning trans-formative odysseys
of clever packaging and fat tail shelf life
holding precious real estate
of living imaginations
infecting hearts and minds
of future generations
realizing
everything
ends better
with coke
The State Farm Pre-Game
Jimmy Johnson's new coiff
jawed away with his old boss
rattlesnake booted Jerry Jones
A poignant embrace captured in
living color on grand jumbo trons
lording over a cavernous palace
a new stadium for Homeboys
Jimmy J asks Jerry J
"Why you overpaid
for The Boys New
Crib?"
"A billion 4,
a palace for the masses".
Jerry breaks some news
with an impish wink.
"No expense is spared
for the peeps."
"I always make out,
get a good return. I
make a profit. Ain't
America great."
This year Super Bowl
went Hollywood
and installed
a long red carpet.
Mike Strahan, collared
Harrison Ford.
Bagging his greatest sack
on a dazzling red rug.
"How many Super Bowls
is this for you?"
Strahan whistles
through his gaped teeth.
The aging Indiana Jones
came to promote his new flick,
"Cowboys and Aliens"
(I'm told an early Cannes
favorite. And it should be. Spoiler alert,
the movie is a moving story of an American tragedy.
Romo blows another one
throwing an interception in overtime.
The Aliens return it 95 yards for a touchdown.
Boy's lose again. America's Team vanquished by bubble headed Martians.
All of Texas weeps.)
Indy
coolly quips an answer
whipping with sarcasm,
"after today, one."
yuck yuck
lol
Strahan continues
to stalk Ford like a
scrambling quarterback,
"where will you be sitting?"
Ford shrugs
"dunno,
somewhere
up-there,
I guess",
he points to
the lofty
luxury boxes.
Royalty sits
next to God
in Jerry Jones
house of the
people.
Ford dons a green scarf.
He's down with the Pack.
Another sunshine fanny
in the seat.
Michael Douglas and Zeta Jones
arrive in time to hear
Keith Urban sing
"Who Wouldn't Want to be Me?"
"He's alive
He's free
Who wouldn't
want to be me?"
Indeed who?
The parade
of heroes
continue.
The walking,talking
little S Corp, LLC's
dance their way
into the stadium
on resplendent
cushions of red.
Terrific brands
all earnestly
questing to
urgently
deliver
messages
to promote
themselves
and plug
shameful
products.
A Black Eye Peas
teaser
blinks onto
my giant
flat screen.
Will I Am
a black man
in a blacker mask
marches down the street
zapping people
with a ray gun.
(fascist culture is so cool, a
little light on liberation,
but damn does he look bad as all get out
in that leather rumble don't fuck with me
outfit)
Jamie Foxx on the royal carpet leaks
that he yodeled three tunes
at a pregame party for Jerry's Kids;
T Boone and the Big W among them.
Quick cut
to Jamie's
new movie
Rio.
(I wonder if its
about Mexicano's
crossing the river?)
Wealth
Power
the perfect
image of ourselves
take a pill
I am Limitless
a new movie?
I've seen this one before.
I think I'm watching it now.
Just Go With It
Adam Sandler,
Jennifer Aniston
Americas sweetheart
teamed with Americas
kosher jokester.
He looks hot
in his droopy
pretend
don't give a shit
orange sweatshirt
and acid washed jeans.
Jennifer's tits, legs
what can you say
about America's sweetheart?
I think Brad Pitt
made a big mistake.
Bill O
is next.
Posturing,
arm wrestles
with the Prez,
shadow boxes
with the Big O.
"Muslim Brotherhoods
Rendition
Mubarack goes off the reservation
knows where the bodies are buried"
OMG!
OMG!
(Do we really need a dose of Fox Fear?
Is there no escape from the pernicious harangue?
Don't they know its Super Bowl Sunday?)
Bill O's drive by continues,
"Obamacare,
why do Americans hate you?"
Great journalism by this Fox thug.
Bill O is
haughty,
arrogant,
disrespectful
a despicable bully
and a self serving blow hard.
(My bladder is busting.
Its a great time to take a piss.)
We escape to
the freshness
of Owen Wilson's
smiling face,
playing two hand touch.
His bent nose
shining
he trots about
Jerry's field
carefree as a child.
(Is this a pitch, pass and punt
contest for A Listers?)
Other stars
join the light fun;
goose cheerleaders
give the cabana boys
hand-jobs
and themselves
a well earned blow-job.
Its an orgy of photo ops
product placement
a sizzling collection
of dancing brands
prancing on the gridiron
of the New Cowboy field.
Ashton Kutcher
peeks over the shoulder
of a tweeting W.
I'm impressed
W knew
how to use
his thumbs.
Mrs. W's
permanent smile
was clearly visible
from the stadiums
cheapest seats.
Condie sat
way to the right
quietly stewing
lamenting
lost opportunities
of a gig as NFL
Commissioner.
On the stadiums floor
the frenetic dancing
of the
bumping
brands
fast
approaches
ecstatic elation.
Hollywood's version of
Whirling Dervishes; is
immediately stilled
as the solemn portion
of the program
commences.
The Declaration of Independence
is read by a bright galaxy of stars
accompanying armed service personnel
and other diligent American's.
"We hold these truths
to be self evident"
"United colonies
levee war,
dissolve bounds,
our day of allegiance
lives, fortunes and sacred honor
freedom is common sense,
free, equal, united"
CEO's
imprisoned
in Jerry's
luxury boxes
overcome
with
emotion
pound fists
on the glass
smearing
cocktail sauce
on the windows
of the suites.
Illegal
Chicano's
bravely
step forward
with rolls
of Bravo
and Windex
to wipe
it clean.
The focal point
of festivities
seismically
shifts like a
tectonic plate
almost as large
as Jerry's Stadium.
The stampede
of cheers
thunder like
canon shots,
the patriotic
ramparts of
militant
free market
capitalism
supplants the
shallow frivolity
of consumer slavery.
We are
compelled
to kneel
to celebrate a
Eucharist of
nationalism.
My partner explodes,
"Can't watch a football game
and view it for what it is,
a fucking football game."
The Fox
broadcasters
dedicate
this segment
of the show
to our military.
I squirm in my seat.
Sorry,
but the declaration is about
free people in free societies
not militarism.
Next up
dis old cowboy
Sam Elliot.
He knows
how to speak
the language
of real football fans.
Finally, a man of the people.
Sam introduced the cities.
He starts with Pittsburgh.
"Built on steel
a place where
terrible is good
these are the
enduring qualities
of this great American City."
The Steelers
make a timely entrance
onto the floor of the stadium,
as millionaires erupt
shaking their terrible towels.
Sam's
fuax
folkism
for
Fox Sports
continued.
"Green Bay is Title Town
the people never quit.
Crafty veterans are winners
exhorting all to greatness"
Images
of Lombardi's
toothy grin
fills my 72 inch screen.
A visitation by
America's Saint,
the sanctifier
of all competition
anoints the proceeding,
the quest to claim
the trophy named
for the games
very own
Archangel
of the
Gridiron.
The extended gig of
Lombardi's ghost
has haunted America
for over half a century;
has reportedly been seen
stalking the stage
on Broadway.
The anointed
Packers sprint
onto the field and
millionaire cheese heads
taking big bites out of life
erupt in cheers.
My hi def wide screen
made by Sharp reports
Battle of Los Angeles
opens 3/11/11.
The Chicago Code
premiers on Fox
sometime in March.
Walter Payton
Man of The Year Award
is presented
to an NFL Player
watching the game
with the troops
in Iraq.
The millionaires
don't cheer,
but the Fox announcers
are verklempt
overcome with patriotism.
Michelle Lee,
star
of Fox's hit show
Glee,
poses in front of a
sanitized choir
in blue uniforms to sing
America the Beautiful.
The beautiful song
is but an opening act
for the musical centerpiece
Star Spangled Banner.
The cameras cut
to a smiling W.
He can't get into Switzerland
but dammit, he won't be turned out
of JJ's OK Corral.
Christina Aguilera
takes center stage.
She mounts
the silver football
crowning the
Holy Logo of the NFL
to sing the hallowed
Star Spangled Banner.
She fumbles her lines!
She forgot the rockets red glare!
The Steelers are crying.
The Packers are angry.
Ice melts from the stadiums roof.
The foundations of Jerry Jones
new stadium shakes.
A fly over of 4 fighters in formation
appears to be unaffected by the flub.
The planes do not crash.
They stay in formation.
The pilots spare Christina
a strafing and drone strike.
The republic remains
secure for now.
An unfamiliar announcer
addresses TV land.
He offers an apology to the fans
who cannot be seated.
The fire marshals
have revoked
Jerry's seating plan.
Greed got the better
of this man of the people.
Cowboy Stadium
is overbooked!
What is happening?
Is this America?
An ATT commercial
arrives just in time.
ATT has a new plan for America.
They encourage us to live social
with the new ATT AG.
Free market solutions
always work best.
Michael Douglas
reads another
patriotic exhortation.
"United we,
see the journey
of Acme Packers
as our journey."
"We see the resolve
of US Steel
as our resolve.
Big dreams
believe the best
journeys are
celebrated together."
(I'm down with that.
Whats good for Jerry Jones
is still good for me.
Right On! Check this stadium.
Power to the people!
It may not apply to the people who
will not be seated but tough nuggies.
This is America dammit. Everybody
can't be seated at the table.
Even if they paid for their seat.
This ain't Red China.)
Neon Dion and other inductees
into the Football Hall of Fame
tosses the coin.
Steelers' call tails.
Heads it is.
At half time
The Black Eyed Peas
descend from
an upper Valhalla.
Still attired in
black fascist threads
The Righteous Peas
start wailing as
white metallic minions
dressed as
Imperial Storm Troopers
gallop to surround
their idols.
Precise formations
goose steppin bops
choreographic steps
the visceral porno
perfect counter-point
to swabbles of wiggling Peas.
Slash,
Guns and Roses
guitar hero
gunslinger
strode on stage
winging
this gal of mine
in choreographed
unison with
the leggy
Fergie.
Pumping it louder
the spectacle incites
the dancing
Imperial minions
quick steppin
and fetchin it
as Usher descends
in white unison
to leap and dance
over nasty
black peas.
The Gods
are descending
upon us.
Their words
have become
flesh.
The BEP's bleat
"kids are dying
wheres the love?"
Art does mirror life.
The neon hearts
of cheap
glow sticks
light up
the time
of our lives.
We are
cubed box heads
happily dancing along
the 50 yard line
answering China's
resounding drum
of frantic proletarians
bashing away
neocolonial disgrace
during the opening
ceremony of the worlds
greatest Olympian
display of
the pounding will
of an emerging nation
arriving on the world stage
with urgent insistence.
In America
we party on
every night
swiping
revoked
credit cards
for express lane
exits at the
local Walmart.
We are proud
highly personal
bar codes!
We refuse to be
marked down and flung
into discount bins at a
Tupelo Dollar Store.
Our light of life
flashes across screens
directing the trading pits
at the Chicago Board of Trade.
Each Super Bowl Sunday
souper bowl beggars
collect canned soup
for hungry Americans
at the local Shop and Drop
begging for larmen
boxes of Kraft
freeze dried noodles
and cans of Progresso
the feast of kings
A triumph
of the
Will I Am
BOOM BOOM
Says
Will I Am
I finish my bag of
Cool Ranch Doritos
and lick my partners
fingers clean.
Music Selection
Steve Miller,
Livin in the USA
2/7/11
Oakland
jbm
(WIP)
jimmymac, 16 january 2012
Epitath for Bull Conner
Bull Connor,
like the Dutch Boy from Haarlem,
put his finger in a hole
to plug a burgeoning leak.
But Bull Connor,
unlike the boy from Haarlem,
did not foresee
the raging torrents of history,
smashing against
the crumbling walls
of the porous dike
he sought to buttress.
His decadent heroism
held no moral authority
to sustain
his ungodly labors.
His savage dogs,
hungry for meat
bent on aggression
for a twisted masters bidding
were devoured
by the teeth
of a movement
hungry for justice.
His water cannons,
tiny water pistols,
pissed
into the mighty squalls
of a raging hurricane
that blew the stinking urine
back into his face.
The weight of history
moves with the just.
Untruth,
archrival of justice,
is blown away
like an expired candle
snuffed out,
blessedly extinguished
from the first breath
of a glorious new day.
Bull Connor
doesn’t rest in peace.
He stands on
the other side of the river.
He is the rich man
driven by
insane thirst
begging for water
from a comforted
Lazarus,
now secure
in the bosom
of Abraham.
Bull Connor
looks across
the chasm of fire
he knows
he'll never bridge.
Medgar Evers
and MLK Jr.
stand as keepers,
collecting tolls
for a heavenly passage
from the wages he earned
for his earthly work.
A forlorn
Bull Connor
forever searches
deep empty pockets
for fare
as Martin
and Medgar
patiently wait
with outstretched palms.
Music Selection:
The Soul Stirrers,
Jesus Gave Me Water
MLK Jr. Day
1/20/86
NYC
jbm
jimmymac, 16 january 2012
Nelson Mandela
I perceive
the shadow
of your
imprisoned
face
watching
eyes
peering
through
iron rods
that
cannot
contain
your
visions
of freedom
the force
of your
righteous
halo
frames
a
presence
of light
you are
a blazing
apparition
melting
the steel
cages
releasing
the world's
hostages
of justice
You Tube Music Video:
Gil Scott Heron
Third World Revolution
2/17/11
Oakland
jbm
jimmymac, 16 january 2012
Mountiantops
I'm truly blessed
to be counted
amongst the
trooping pilgrims
walking dusty roads,
negotiating rocky
Himalayan trails
on the way
to the mountaintop.
Together
as brothers
and sisters,
we traverse
precarious paths,
strengthening
each other,
bucking up,
getting a
second wind
to make that
final push
to scale the most
jagged boulders
that lie nearest
the peaks.
I'm heartened
to see
Dorothy Day,
Mahatmas Gandhi,
The Dali Llama,
Nelson Mandela
and Johnny Cash,
trooping along side me;
keeping me in step
as we press on to
the promised land.
If I get hungry,
Dorothy will
serve me soup
to feed my
spirit.
If I get lonely,
Mahatmas will
muster up a posse
welling deep within
the salt of the earth
to walk with me.
If I take a
wrong turn,
The Dali Llama's
smiling eyes
and sage
advise
will get
my feet
back on the
right path.
On this
tiresome journey
if my will begins
to falter and my
commitment wanes,
Nelson will remind me
to endure the trial
with the grace
of fortitude.
And if we enter
dangerous canyons,
filled with the
cacophony of
boisterous hate,
The Man in Black
will strum his
guitar to quell
the angry noise
and fill all hearts
with a loving harmony.
We're on our way
to Freedom's Land
and some believe
we're almost there.
We can see
Martin looking
over those last
jagged ledges,
he's got a prayer
of encouragement
on his lips,
and he's waving
Mrs. Liberty's torch,
showing us
the way,
guiding us
home.
Sweet Honey on the Rock:
Ain't Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Around
MLK Jr. Day
1/16/12
Oakland
jbm
jimmymac, 8 january 2012
Luna
Na zimno przesilenia
magnes aksamitu
magii Luna
ściąga
cicho wzywa
szeptanie
delikatne czary
w marzycielski uszy
przekonujące
kochanka
rosnąć
quixotically
bałamuctwo
go z
ciepły sen
z zimy
first sen nocy
ona wezwanie
chce kochanka
wzywając go
do naśladowania
jej wyraźny
pociągający światło
oświetlenia
samotny czerń
z ponury wszechświat
jej
uwodzicielski uprawnień
przekracza odległości
tysiąc przesilenia
jej
zdecydowane światło
pewny znak
szelki żadnych słabości
ośmiela pragnienie
kierowanie zaproszeni
nieprzewidzianych
miejsc
stojący
w obecności
moja twarz jest koloru
odzwierciedlone przez
Wspaniałe światło
moje serce
pieczonej
przez
dokuczliwy
blask
fali roiling
z zadumy północy
odpływa
jak mój
ziemnych cień
rozpoczyna się przejść
nad
niezatarty
biel
I świadek
moje ciemne oblicze
zaćmienie twoje światło
zanieczyszczając się
obawiając
na zawsze
oznaczyć
musujące srebro
z podłości mnie
bez wstydu
Twój uśmiech
allays mój strach
zrozumieć
Przewiduje się
wyrażenie
z moich
coy powściągliwość
słodki śpiew
śpiewa
nieograniczonego
marzenia
delikatnie
uspokaja
można tańczyć
przez wiele
księżycowe noce
z upragnieniem miłośników
tylko, aby powrócić ponownie
w biel dziewicza
przez
niekończące się cykle
czasu
wydany
ulgę
porzucając
wszelkich ograniczeń
teraz
Ja
przywołać się
moja ciemność
Twój biel
ras
zmysłowy
pomarańczowy
słodsze
następnie
otwarte mango
ona zasady na niebie
niebieskich monarcha
zmuszając do Mars
bezwolnym rekolekcje
komendanta
potężny Orion
do koła miecz
podczas
Wenus
kipi
z zazdrości
moja forma
zaczyna się połknąć
do linii
i
miękkie krzywe
moja ciemność
znika
w
zapraszając pęknięcia
należących do
ciemne zagniecenia
miękkie fale
słodkie pagórki
zmysłowa kraterów
place zabaw dla gejów
na ustach
tajemnicze kopce
chętnie zbadać
rękami i
limbered palce
Don Kichot Eros
zapach przypraw
pęcznieje w mojej głowie
wszystko
kopercie
jak
Duch Święty
figlarnie gier
w chowanego
promiennie ruchu
przez
zaciemnionym zadaszenia
z pięknego lasu
nozdrza wypełnić
z
tang przyprawy
zapach
Caribe
twarzą ukrytą
w grube warkocze
z szaleństwa czerń
coraz Unhinged
przez oczy mówiąc
tysięcy języków
jak szepczą usta
radosne płacze
cichy pocałunek
z pomarańczowym nocy świeci
wijące się ciała
płaskie razem
drapieżnymi wąsów
kształt opadający
poduszki chmury
drżącymi wargami
rozwijają się uśmiechy
alabaster pereł
ciemność mokka
samb przez
w nocy
ona oddycha
jej imię miłośników
Luna wanny
jej cynamon krzywe
w pyszne
mango światło
oferuje bardzo dużo
dollops
z brodawki
peeking
szeregowych
drifting
I zrzucić
na morze
świadomych snów
pitnej z
ciemnej otoczki
jak warkocze
jej
słodzone gniazdo
zwilżoną mój członek
w świętej komunii
na głodne usta kochanków
jej nogi tancerzy
cienki, elastyczny
nieograniczona
i otwórz
słodki smak
gładki
tak miękkie
w dotyku
pełni
naszych rumba
se los tango
con cha cha cha
lekkie kroki
blisko pieścić
kinetycznej zamieszanie
dziki śmiech
wypełnia żagle
śmiałych szkunery
Luna uśmiech
Polecenia
mórz
na falowanie
un poco loco
ola de feliz
los hablamos
un contrara
la estas
la esta
lawenda niebo
w godzinach porannych
zmierzch
inspirować
Szpakowników
zwiastować
dnia wschodzących
nadal
pijany swigging
kocha nektar
sen skrada bliżej
wyznając
małych żałuje
upadła
ofiara
do pasji ponownie
Luna
wraca
jej kochanka
zwierzęta piersi
z delikatnymi palcami
głosem
lekki jak powietrze
śpiewa
wiersz
do jego ucha
namiętnych nocy
piękna sztuka
pragnienie, aby wyrazić
szczere prawdy
Mango spożywane
Luna wraca biel
mój cień oddala
na nieistotne
nicość
nagi
Stałem
niestety świadkami
Dark Horizon
wyprzedzanie
moim kochankiem uciekającym
połykaniu jej
w małe kawałki
jak rano krople
ostatecznej welon
na twarzy
z obecnie
zniknął miłość
Wybór Muzyka
Grant Green, Moon River
JBM
Oakland
19.01.11
jimmymac, 8 january 2012
Luna
On the cold solstice
the velvet magnet
of Luna's magic
pulls
quietly urges
whispering
gentle spells
into dreamy ears
compelling
her lover
to rise
quixotically
coaxing
him from
the warm sleep
of winters
first night slumber
she summons
a willing lover
inviting him
to follow
her stark
alluring light
illuminating
the lonely blackness
of a bleak universe
her
seductive powers
transcends distances of
a thousand solstices
her
resounding light
a sure mark
braces any weakness
emboldens desire
guiding the bidden
to unforeseen
destinations
standing
in your presence
my face is flush
reflected by your
resplendent light
my heart
broiled
by your
vexing
radiance
the roiling tide
of a midnight reverie
ebbs
as my
earthen shadow
begins to pass
over your
indelible
whiteness
I witness
my dark countenance
eclipse your light
defiling you
fearing
to forever
mark your
effervescent silver
with the baseness of me
without shame
your smile
allays my fear
you understand
you anticipated
the expression
of my
coy reticence
a sweet chant
sings
unencumbered
reveries
gently
reassures
you've danced
through many
moonlit nights
with eager lovers
only to return again
in virginal whiteness
across the
endless cycles
of time
released
relieved
abandoning
all restraint
now
I
summon you
my blackness
your whiteness
breeds a
sensuous
orange
sweeter
then an
open mango
she rules the sky
a celestial monarch
forcing Mars into
a sheepish retreat
commanding
mighty Orion
to sheave his sword
while
Venus
seethes
with envy
my form
begins to swallow
your lines
and
soft curves
my blackness
disappears
into
inviting cracks
falling into
dark creases
the soft billows
sweet mounds
voluptuous craters
gay playgrounds
for my mouth
mysterious hillocks
eagerly explored
with hands and
limbered fingers
a quixotic Eros
the scent of spice
swells in my head
everything
enveloped
like a
holy ghost
playfully gaming
hide and seek
radiantly moving
through
darkened canopies
of a lush forest
nostrils fill
with
tang of spice
a scent
of Caribe
face buried
in thick tresses
of maddening blackness
becoming unhinged
by eyes speaking
a thousand languages
as lips whisper
joyous whimpers
a silent kiss
of an orange lit night
writhing bodies
splayed together
ravenous tendrils
shape sloping
cloud pillows
quivering lips
unveil smiles of
alabaster pearls
mocha darkness
sambas through
the night
she exhales
her lovers name
Luna bathes
her cinnamon curves
in delicious
mango light
offers generous
dollops
of nipple
peeking
baying
drifting
I cast off
onto a sea
of lucid dreams
drinking from
a dark aureole
as the tresses
of her
sweetened nest
moistened my member
in a sacred communion
to a hungry lovers mouth
her dancers legs
slim, supple
unbounded
and open
sweet to taste
smooth
so soft
to touch
the fullness
of our rumba
se los tango
con cha cha cha
light steps
close caress
kinetic commotion
wild laughter
fills the sails
of bold schooners
Luna's smile
commands
the seas
to heave
un poco loco
ola de feliz
los hablamos
un contrara
la estas
la esta
the lavender sky
of the mornings
twilight
inspire
Meadowlarks
to herald
the emerging day
still
drunkenly swigging
loves nectar
sleep creeps closer
confessing
small regrets
she fell
victim
to passion again
Luna
comes back
to her lover
pets his chest
with delicate fingers
in a voice
as light as air
she sings
a poem
into his ear
of passionate nights
beauteous art
longing to express
heartfelt truths
The mango consumed
Luna's whiteness returns
my shadow recedes
into inconsequential
nothingness
naked
I stood
sadly witnessing
the dark horizon
overtaking
my fleeing lover
swallowing her
in tiny bits
as morning drops
a final veil
over the face
of a now
vanished love
Music Selection
Grant Green, Moon River
jbm
Oakland
1/19/11
jimmymac, 7 january 2012
iBook of Jobs
i given nothing
i abandoned
i adopted
i dropout
i garage
i Apple
i NeXT
i Pixar
i Apple
i pilfered i
i invented i
i produced i
i market i
i retail i
i am i
i am
i
i tech beauty
i consumer fetish
i whom you love
i sleekest widgets
i Toy Story
i Macintosh
i macbook
i Lisa
iTunes
iPod
iPhone
iPad
i more
i rebel
i genius
i visionary
i entrepreneur
i world changer
i exceptionalism
i capital market hero
i bigger then business
i cool capitalism
i myth
i "the man"
i worker
i employer
i boss
i thief
i savior
i billionaire
i venerated
i vanity
i Buddhist
i prophet
i redeemed
i 1 in 300 million
i America
i sing the pathos
i am the creed
i define the ethos
i Steve Jobs
i amassed riches
i accolade crowned
i ingratiate world
i virtue
i success
i creativity
i favored
i Midas
i bedeviled
i tested
i afflicted
i retire
i human
i mortal
i succumb
i eulogized
i leave legacy of i
i am an MBA case study
i employed workers
i peddled intrepid product cycles
i subject of amusing anecdotes
i am heroic corporate folklore
i grew pods full of music
i incite kids to thumb phones
i captivate consumer imagination
i built rock solid balance sheet
i erected toxic Chinese factories
i enriched investors
i am the cool corporate brand
i inspired a million unused i apps
i hipster capitalism
i imposed my will
i insisted
i am that i am
i cannot take it with me
i leave blue jeans
i leave NB sneakers
i leave black collarless shirt
i will be asked what
i did with the time
i was given?
i did the best i could
i played the hand dealt
i parlayed it into a royal flush
i filled it up with i
i ask why
i am no more?
i leave the world
i am no more
Godspeed Beloved
Steven Paul "Steve" Jobs
(February 24, 1955 – October 5, 2011)
jbm
Oakland
10/6/11
Latest comments:
21 november 2024
Jaga
Gdybym ci ja umiała ;) Ale zanucić można jakby
21 november 2024
:))
20 november 2024
sam53
smacznego....
20 november 2024
nuty są? poproszę
20 november 2024
dzięki... :))))
20 november 2024
można się nauczyć ale po co...
20 november 2024
Teresa Tomys
Jest nas więcej...
20 november 2024
Jakieś przekłamanie w tekście i nie wiem z
20 november 2024
Mnie deszcz zawsze kołysze do snu :)
20 november 2024
Szkoda, że nie ma już podpięć.
20 november 2024
To ja.
20 november 2024
Tak :)) W ogóle, mosty NY są bardzo klimatyczne:)
21 november 2024
wiesiek
21 november 2024
Jaga
20 november 2024
wiesiek
19 november 2024
Eva T.
19 november 2024
wiesiek
19 november 2024
Jaga
19 november 2024
.
19 november 2024
.
19 november 2024
.
19 november 2024
.