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It's great to have all this stuff at home. But when you want to make it for real, there's still nothing like making music with a bunch of other great musicians in the same room. That's one thing that'll never change.

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All This Stuff I Have Put In My Mind

All this stuff I have put in my mind
From years of reading-
All these thoughts and their feelings,
And the endless connections made and remade between them

What do they all mean?
What do I mean?
What do you mean?
What does God mean?

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The Same Room

It was the same room,
The same favours,
The same rights as your feet.
Agreeing must take on mastery
Of beliefs and houses are kept.
To order heaviness creates disunited
Manners of a procedure,
The processes are the same,
We announce the names
That we master forming the goals
To enlighten the few who have woes
In the light and darkness.
Let trees found the beliefs
Of nature that steals nothing
From the one who owns property.

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The Same Love That Made Me Laugh

(bill withers)
Your love is like a chunk of gold
Hard to get and its hard to hold
Just like a rose thats soft to touch
Love has thorns and it hurts so much
Well then why must the same love
That made me laugh make me cry
Well now think of love as sitting on a mountain
Think of it of being a great big rock
Well I did it before you start to roll me down
Because once youve started you cant make it stop
Ill give it all I have to give
And if you dont want me
I dont want to live
Well then why must the same love
That made me laugh make me cry
Why you wanna make me cry?
Why you wanna make me cry?
Why you wanna make me cry?
Why you wanna make me cry?
Why you wanna make me cry?
Why you wanna make me cry?
Why do you wanna make me cry?

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The Same Love That Made Me Laugh

[Bill Withers' hit from 1974]
Your love is like a a chunk of gold
Hard to gain, and hard to hold
Like a rose that's soft to touch
Love has gone, and it hurts so much
Well and why...
Must the same love that made me laugh
Make me cry?
Well now you think of love as sitting on a mountain
Think of it as being a great big rock
Won't you think before you started to roll it down
Because once you start it, you can't make it stop
I've given all I have to give
And if you don't want me
I don't want to live
Well and why...
Must the same love that made me laugh:
Why you wanna make me cry? [5x]
Why you wanna make me lay in my pillow
Just cryin' like a weeping willow
Why you wanna make me cry? [4x]
Why you wanna make me mess in my pillow
I'm just cryin' like a weeping willow
Why you wanna make me cry? [3x]

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Patrick White

All This Stuff

All this stuff going on in my head all the time.
All my fixed constellations changing like fireflies.
All the burning ladders of my unsuccessful siege of heaven
lying down like crosswalks at the feet of the mob.
And the stars that seemed so aloof and untouchable
settling like dust on my eyes.
I want to go home but home itself is gone
and there is no one waiting for me.
I live in these nomadic tents of my breath
that the wind blows through day and night
and everything I touch
though I long for the will of a pyramid
turns into quicksand.
I observe the life within me going on,
this flux of intimate intensities
as if I were no more than the container
and sentient window of a stranger's house
looking in out of the darkness
of my uninhabitable homelessness
that has always been my last known address.
Nothing is ever what it seems
in this shell-game of themes and memes
that shuffles me around like a hard pea
gullible enough to deceive itself
it might one day turn into
the new moon of a black pearl.
But I'm chained by my vertebrae to a slaver
in a caravan of all my wild sides
being dragged like a jungle
toward these civilized coasts
that put everything asunder
that God has joined together
and brand what they sever
with the savage logos of an enforced belonging
that death is the only escape from.
My private cloud of unknowing
with the occasional black lightning bolt of insight
that sets my roots on fire
so that the whole tree becomes its own funeral pyre
and sheds me in flames.
And trying to fit me like a shoe
to the newly washed foot of God
is a vain waste of time for both of us
when you're life's got a hole in it
I keep patching with poems in the cold
or keep stopping along the way to take off
and dump out the pebble of the world
I'm walking on with a limp.
And it's as foolish for a river
to ask where its youth has gone
as it is for me to lament the passage of mine
that I sent on up ahead like water
to keep something flowing behind me.
I don't look for grey hairs in the wind
when it's as clear as grace
that time and space
don't encroach upon the stars like cataracts
and everyone we've ever been
lives on in each of us forever
like water waiting in the open mouth
of the frozen moonskull
for me to swallow and thaw
so that the blossom can flesh the dead branch again
that trembles and bends before the wishing well
that all men drink from like a bell
in this mirage of fire in a desert of stars
to taste the lightning-tongued elixirs of life
that frees the serpent from its scars
like a discarded straitjacket of skin and pain
to go witching for water in hell again.

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One Can Wait Forever/ For the Ideal Poem That Will Never Come

One can wait forever for the ideal poem
That will never come-

Or relent,

And write down the lines
That come as they come
Irrelevant, incidental, momentary
As one's own feeling of oneself is.

Like the breeze of these instants,
Like the shadows of the leaves
As they trace their motions
On the sun- touched ground,

Like all which is passing
Without any real evidence of its moment's remembrance
As dying as oneself is
Forever.

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In the spirit of Rumi - 50 - One Thing

Oh the pleasure, the happiness,
the delight, the joy, the bliss,
of doing just one thing above all!

When I was a child, I did many things;
thats right for children – theres the world,
go play in it; ask, what’s a horizon? but what
lies beyond? and why can’t I see angels
if angels can see me? …

When I was a young man, I did many things;
thats right for young men – which one will I love?
which one will love me? And when we’ve together found our love,
oh what then? and oh what then?

But now I’m older, there seems less time
for many things; they will look after themselves
without my help… so, what delight
to give oneself to just one thing
one thing at a time; and then
one thing

and it seems, it doesn’t matter what;
roses need an expert to collaborate
in dreaming up new beauty from an older stock;
dogs need exercise, and a two-legs to look up to;
grandchildren are born to love grandparents
in a special way..

and, duties done, and hearts served well,
one thingit might be poetry,
in which to say, look, all this
I’ve received: here’s recognition,
acknowledgement, and gratitude…

and the other things, like sleeping, eating,
become day by day like living in someone else’s poem;
someone else committed to one thing

and then one day, perhaps,
life’s curtain twitches; and some great being
looks in the window, the very moment you look out;
and ‘one thing’, in the most natural way,
becomes…

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Who Do You Want Me To Be For You This Week?

Who do you want me to be for you this week?
Someone conservative and works alot?
Or some thug who disrespects and cusses?
Like that guy who caught your eye down the street.
You know...
The one who has five kids with different women,
Who you say is so sweet.
Who do you
Really want me to be
For you this week?

Who do you want me to be for you this week?
Tonto, Baskins of Robbins or a preacher...
The one you say looks at you,
As he stumbles through his sermon as he is preaching.
And reaching towards you to fondle,
But you say...
Nothing has happened between the sheets.
Who do you
Want me to be,
For you this week?

Nothing I do seems to please you of late.
Except for showing up for another round of cold shoulders.
You want me to be superman, Clark Kent, Clark Gable
AND Denzel!
You want me to get butt naked,
BEFORE you tell me to go to hell!
Well...
'You coming soon, baby? '
Then you expect me to be tender...
To get you heated and wet?
I am no machine, baby!
You knew that when we met...
And I knew you.
It was exactly what you wanted then,
When you tempted me away from my mate and kids!
To do what I did to know what we've done!
Never got to be the fun we thought.

This is what you got when you wanted it to be caught,
AND kept!
And that is where we differ.
With no regretted memories.
But being 'kept' and not slept with
Isn't the right thing to do.
But you didn't know that then.
And nothing between us tells me you know that now.

There can only be one happiness under one roof!
And that's the one we, you and I should have shared.

And that difference
You have not found when comparing me,
And Whoever!
Once you put two and two together...
When it dawns on you...
That I know what it takes to make you moan,
And scream and tremble...
In bed.
Knocking the headboard like a bull!

You're teaching your 'playmates'
What is takes...
To make you moan and scream and tremble,
Out of bed...ours!
And out of your head...vacant!
Was it ever near capacity?
Was it always empty? Ever, was it full?

Going up side yo' head with crowbars, bats, bricks, rocks and lies!
Those are the ones you like to flirt, tease and hypnotize!
Who do you want
Me to be,
For you this week?
An insecure abuser?
Who knows just what to do to confuse with excuses.

In low down cheating good for nothing piece of street gutter meat,
Ways.

Who do you want me to be for you this week?
You don't have many choices left.
Loving you was the best thing I wanted to do at one time!
Now the best thing I can do is to help myself not let you
Drive me out of my mind!
Not now when I know where it is.

And you were beginning to like that...
As your final exclamation,
Once I made it identifiable.
You always made demands with preferences.
'I'm glad I did the crushing...first! '

Who do you want me to be for you this week?
And tweak that with some tears.
Sobbing about how we've been together all these years.
And you can forget to mention,
Those birds in the trees chirping when we met.
You can forget those during your dramatic presentation.
But make it as good as it can get...yet!
Because next week...
Baby, I am leaving your ass for good!

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The Poem Started To Be One Thing

The Poem started to be one thing
And became another -
It lost its way
And became mixed up-
To save it was to divide into two or three
But this was to lose it also-
Perhaps the mixed- up poem is the true poem
And the poem pure in one theme is only an abstraction no one needs -

The poem whose subject is its own writing
Is a minor poem
And one of lesser feeling-
I write this poem now as if I know
Even within myself
There are better, if less or more pure poems elsewhere

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When You Want Something You Can't Have

I can still remember all the pain that I felt, I can't believe that back then the thought of you, or sound of your voice could make me melt

I can still remember all the pain that you caused and how in the end my heart was the one shattered in pieces on the floor, but what I can't believe is that after all that I just wanted you more

It was like I was the stupid moth to your flame, and in the end I got burned and have only myself to blame, I knew I couldn't have you but that didn't stop me from wanting you, I guess I hoped maybe deep down inside you wanted me too

I knew from the start liking you was pointless, but that didn't stop me and in the end I was the one cleaning up my big mess

To make matters worse you knew how I felt all along, I pegged you for a kind, sweet guy but in the end I guess I was wrong

Back then it felt like the worse kind of pain and it felt like i couldn't go on, but looking back on it now, I realized it made me smarter and it made me strong

So in the end even though I was the that was one hurting oh so bad, I must admit as I look back on it I'm kind of glad, because you taught me a valuable lesson in what happens when you want something you can't have

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From the holy fire that should never die (rondine)

From the holy fire that should never die
men were send to sabotage, maim and kill
to poison, plant landmines with a deadly skill
until flaming rockets fell out of the sky,
rising up did burning wood and ashes fly
that made the glowing embers move and spill
from the holy fire.

Armed soldiers were not just driving by,
armoured cars came roaring over the hill,
screaming death until everything was still
burnt out did the last old white embers lie,
from the holy fire.

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In The Basement Sleeps A Serpent

An apple
on her moiré red silk
sits daintily posed,
awaiting to be stripped
unto her porcelain
and in the perfect time
an apple can brew
the perfect intoxication
and piquant poison

The keys
that we rummage for
and constantly hunts
like gilded silvers
with insufficient silhouettes,
sound, weight or sex
are the same keys
that shall unlatch
the doors it bolted

The doves and crows
wear different cloaks,
guffaw different songs,
and their gusts rev
different noises
in different immensities
but in the firmament's height
they are no different
as they both escape in flight

The stream, the ravine,
the moth, the hibiscus—
Everything suspended
in between the fences
of mad and holy
possess several floors
inveigling on the façade
but in every basement
sleeps a serpent.

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Signs That Will Never Change

Leaves come falling on a winter's day.
Robins weep and watch them sail away.
Floating on the water is autumns last farewell.
These are signs that will never change,
signs that will never change.
Rivers once were frozen now they're free
Showing winter's going rapidly.
Tadpoles turning into frogs in winter's last farewell.
These are signs that will never change,
signs that will never change.
The changing faces of the seasons
are those that cannot be compared
Except in love it sometimes happens
love grows but all too soon it dies.
Tadpoles turning into frogs in winter's last farewell.
These are signs that will never change,
signs that will never change.
signs that will never change

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Flowers For The Magnificent Liar That We All Love No Matter What

you ask for bread
i give my own bread
plus juice, i had one
cold in the fridge
pressed from fresh orange

you can take it
sip slowly as i watch
i can give you almost
anything
if you just ask

you do not have to fabricate
stories
i know each line

been there, you see,
been there, i keep telling you

you ask the world
my world

i am always ready to give
this world to you

i have no power over the stars
and the sea

but i can ask them
for you

you just ask, all you need to do
is just ask

there is no need for a lie
yet you did lie to me

will you ask if it pains me?

even before you ask me
i have already an answer
like a fried chicken on the platter

I've been in pain
there is always pain over my shoulders
you're the burden there

so how can i ever experience pain again?

you are a liar
and will always be
one magnificent liar

if you only ask
we can always give you

the answer: we will always love you
just the same

know that. you must know that.
we have all cried for you
we want to save you

perhaps, these flowers will tell
that all....

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To Flourish Encouraged to Nurture on the Same Turf

Experimentations...
Dictating choices of temptations,
Explored, teased and tried...
Are not carried in a mind satisfied,
With re-occurring denials.
They are known.
They have been shown in limitations outgrown.

Run or walk around a block a few times.
The confines within it may be renovated,
And the changes fresh...
With the same steps taken made.
That 'space' still remains the same,
Unchanged!
Revamped temptations...
With updated entrances to dismiss memories.

Follow...
The same mind that allows them,
To keep them safe and from going away!
Introduced by new excuses replace them,
As if the old ones did not exist!
But they are there remembered.
To sit in reminisced places.

Façades are what they are...
And journeys without their presence as reminders,
Are the most difficult to take...
When left behind to embark on unfamiliar ground!
Unchartered frontiers can be found,
If one is willing to give up the notion...
Motivation to move forward,
Requires outside intervention...
To set this in motion.

Leave behind what 'is'.
Leave behind falling tears where they fell!
Without announcements to mention.
Inspite of promises and offers to please...
Quicken a hesitated pace to face real change!
Regrets may come to visit,
But one is not obligated...
To have them stay to produce sorrow,
Season after season...
To flourish encouraged to nurture on the same turf!

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Voyage around the Square Root of Minus One

I often heard
that while the sciences concern themselves
with objective truths
the arts deal with subjective phenomena.

Many years ago I held the same view,
but later came to the conclusion
that this is just a well-combed popular myth.

It is an untenable credo
because the sharp separation
of the arts and sciences is a rigid
and arbitrary mandate, full of holes.

Although all subjects have their specificities,
at the same time they also share
many common traits with each other.

There is art in science and science in art.

Artists, for example,
apply geometry to represent
a three dimensional scene in a painting,
which is a two dimensional surface.

By using ‘objective' geometrical perspective,
Renaissance artists, among them Alberti,
Brunelleschi, Uccello, Leonardo and Dürer,
developed in Europe the ‘subjective' illusion
of perceptual realism.

Later, in the Dutch Republic of the 17th century,
Johannes Vermeer applied expensive pigments
to the canvas and conducted
pioneering research in optics that enhanced
the supreme quality of his work,
imbuing his paintings with sublime,
otherworldly light.

In the 19th century
the Romantic painter John Constable
prepared detailed studies
of the landscape and weather conditions
of England, before transcribing them
into images of stunning accuracy and grace.

Following the closing of the Weimar Bauhaus
by the Nazis in 1933, the artist Josef Albers
moved to the USA, where he worked at
Black Mountain College and at Yale University.

Albers is credited with the discovery of
the gravitational laws of color interaction,
which he expressed in his minimalist paintings
of "Homage to the Square".

Yet painters are not the only artists
who use science in their work.
Writers and poets often incorporate
scientific themes into their novels and verse,
making more than once
important contributions
to the development of science.

A giant of German literature,
the poet, novelist and artist
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe was also
a pioneer of scientific phenomenology.
His myriad accomplishments encompassed
explorations in the metamorphosis of plants
and insects. Besides, his research interests
extended to geology and meteorology.

Moreover, in 1810 Goethe published
his "Theory of Colors", an influential opus
that inspired the painter J.M.W. Turner,
the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein,
as well as many others.
In many ways Goethe's color theory
remains valid even in the 21st century.

Shakespeare's work, too, may serve
to illustrate the links between art and science.
His plays are sprinkled with profound insights
regarding the psychodynamic processes
of the human mind and soul.
In the role of an early neuroscientist,
the bard can teach modern day physicians
a great deal about the mind-body connection,
about physical symptoms originating
in emotional disturbances.

Or take William Wordsworth.
This great Romantic English poet wrote
about nature and nurture,
"The child is father of the Man", he said,
a century before Freud formulated
his psychoanalytic theories.

And then, in a long prose poem,
titled "Eureka" and published in New York
in 1848, Edgar Allan Poe's gave expression
to his intuitive vision of the universe.
His work anticipated
cosmological discoveries
of the twentieth century.

Packed with bold conjectures,
the poet describes in "Eureka"
the concept that astronomers today call
Cosmological Black Hole.
Poe envisions here a pulsating universe,
evolving in an endless series
of Big Bangs and Big Crunches.

Now, let's bear in mind that
while science promises to provide us
thoroughly objective research products,
in the end it fails to deliver them.

Consider, for instance, the Queen of Sciences,
our most exact subject: Mathematics.
This powerful and noble discipline serves
as an indispensible tool for every branch
of science, as well as for common errands
that we carry out in all walks of life.

However, the astonishing success
of mathematics remains a baffling enigma.
For, how we can accomplish so much with it,
despite its inherent inconsistencies
and its uncertain relation to nature,
defies rational explanation.
Mathematical equations are embedded
with mysterious forces
and their uncanny power transcends
the cognitive faculties of the human mind.

A case in point concerns
a highly effective but bizarre
mathematical concept, the imaginary number
of the square root of minus one,
marked with the humble symbol, "i".

This number is a precise mathematical idea,
and at the same time a poetic celebration
of absurdity, because it hails from
a genderless state of an outlandish kingdom.
"i" is neither positive nor negative.
It exists in spite of itself,
percolating through the faulty filters
of remote stars of another galaxy.

And then there is the bizarre case of zero.
A central pillar of arithmetic, the naught
is a stringent figment of the imagination,
a number used as a symbol
of both nothing and infinity,
by which you can multiply,
however, never allowed to divide.

Now, a careful examination
of the pivotal hard core sciences
of physics and chemistry reveals
that their cardinal notions, such as:
space, time and matter, numbers,
molecules, atoms and particles,
with their quantum probabilities,
are actually elusive figures of speech,
sophisticated abstract metaphors.

Consequently, physicists and chemists
don't really understand their subject matter,
although many of them pretend
that they do.

Mind you,
the sciences are not superior
to music, poetry or painting.
Their epistemological status is equal.

For, the creative genius of Archimedes
does not surpass that of Homer;
nor do the swings of Galileo's pendulum
controvert the rhythm of iambic pentameters
on Dante's keyboard.

Similarly, the shining jewels of
Euler's magnificent mathematical equations
are not more brilliant, or more meaningful
than the triumphant melodies
of Vivaldi's masterpiece, "The Four Seasons".

Nor does the aesthetic splendor
of Cantor's transfinite sets
eclipse the majestic beauty
of Mozart's symphonies.

The earth revolves around the sun
surrounded by inexhaustible mysteries.
Still, Newton's infinite abstract space
is no closer to reality
than the adjacent concrete sky of Rembrandt.

And thus, in the final analysis,
Einstein's glorious Theory of Relativity
does not reveal more ultimate truths
about the transcendental cosmos
than the paintings of Picasso's universe.

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Patrick White

One Star In The Dirty Window

for the occupiers of Wall Street

One star in the window and thats enough to see me through the darkness for another night. Trying to weave a flying carpet out of a snakepit. Toxic wavelengths of mind. Poison arrowheads that make it worse to be wounded than killed outright. And all over Perth tonight I imagine there are bruised hearts like mine and yours turning cyanotically blue from having drunk from the same tainted wellsprings of life like fish that have no choice. The apples of October have been laced with the razorblades of Halloween by the psychopathic tree that hands them out like treats to the children in the doorway of an upright coffin. And the leaves are burning up in a fever of arsenic. Spiders work the loom like the strings of the system that hooks us by our gills in its seine nets until the great wild seas of our awareness and the dangerous freedom to look for new ungovernable continents within us so we can flee the corporate corruption of this one is reduced to the neurotic dimensions of a fish farm. If you are poor. If you’re worried about how to pay the rent this month. If its winter and there are harpies and sprites and ghouls threatening to turn the gas, the lights, the elements of life off like trolls under the bridge your money built to bilk you until it collapses from lack of repair. If you don’t how you’re going to manage to buy your kid a birthday present this year and you’re even more afraid of Christmas. If you’re poor and your prospects are as bleak as this deserted street tonight now all the ladys-in-waiting, princes, jesters, and warring kings have called it a night and emptied their street court like a bar. If you’re chronically tortured by the rags of dignity with the blood of a lost cause upon them like something that cost your mother and father their lives to fight for. And you’re ashamed of the straitjacket you’ve been forced to wear in order to have some overseer raise a spoon to your lips three exact times of the day like banking hours and GST cheques. If you smoulder with rage like a underground cedar fire burning in your roots like fuses of lightning afraid to explode. If you’re poor. If the weight of the world is on your back heavier than any cross the spiritual spin doctors of the complicit church and their political henchmen encourage you to carry like a virtue all the way to a fabricated heaven on the installment plan, but you can’t bear the load as a volunteer stretcher-bearer anymore, carrying your own corpse to the grave, while they rave in the wealth of what they have deprived you of here and now. If you’re poor. If you feel like a subliminal archetype of guilt in the collective unconscious of a society of quisling theosophists and weight-concscious c.e.o.’s sitting down to salads of money they eat out of the skulls of the children they’ve starved to death. If you don’t make enough money in Oregon to appeal to hypocritic oaths that sit on decisive committees to see if your son is worthy of a kidney transplant. An education. Piano lessons. A future that isn’t always an echo worse than the voices we heard yesterday protesting to the vampires that without a free blood bank they didn’t stand a chance of surviving the contributions they’re expected to make at night. If you’re poor in a chilly apartment in Perth tonight and you’re being eaten alive by the eggs that have been laid on your forehead like the living host to sustain the young of the killer bees that have sewn their nettles in the honey of life like the military-industrial complex of the hive. If you’re poor and you don’t get one year’s free subscription to satellite radio on the bus you have to take to work every morning surrounded by ads for the latest Ford-150 pick up truck ready to do a man’s work at the dropp of a hard hat and then go hunting in the country, and the new black paint is trying to imitate the skin of a naked woman, because your sex life depends on what you drive, and the sumptuary laws of the lies you’re allowed to wear like a Roman triumph are too stringent to get the dirt out of the dowdy greens and browns of your serfdom long enough to get laid by the calendar girls who sit like mermaids on a brand new truck, but have never sung to you. If you’re the poor wretch sitting in the doorway of the Bank of Nova Scotia across Foster Street in the small hours of the morning like a bird that gets to pick the parasites off the back of the hippopotamus that keeps rolling over on you in your sleep. For a fee. To hold up your end of a symbiotic relationship whereby you’re expected to eat shit and call it your daily bread. Eat humiliation, a ration of rat meat, and call it a just portion. Eat your education like bitter food for thought when you see how the fascistic ignorance of antediluvian fat men and their gold-digging wives are dignified by the juke-box of the news as if the point of view of a maggot on how to turn base metal into a gold butterfly it will never become were worthy of the same air time they give to eagles. One hundred news outlets with the same six slug lines like the top hits of the day. Catastrophe du jour. With rescued puppy stories for the trimmings. Eat information like the news. Its Chinese food of the mind. Not very filling. With a fortune-cookie and a fat tape worm of better things to come wrapped around your bowels like the noose of a downed powerline that spared the cost of the rope to lynch you by your large intestine. If you’re poor and you’re always the falling leaf and never the apple. If you’re poor and its always autumn to judge by the banks of junkmail and bills that are swept up on your doorsill at all times of the year. If you’re poor and you’re punished for being out on the streets after curfew for having dropped through the cracks of your caste by a neocon leper colony privatized by the messianic lobbyists of free enterprise with one finger on the scales of equal opportunity because there isn’t a feather’s worth of good in them when they go before the jackal god of death and their grubby hearts are found wanting. If you’re poor and you’re listening to the North Carolina state legislature discussing your extermination in the civic minded tones of the Pied Piper of Hamlin and you’re eating your self-respect like the plague rat of why the rich suffer. Because in their creationist myth your womb is the enemy of the state. And you the infectious carrier of the pestilence. If you’re poor and sitting by the window on a warped floor behind the heritage field stones of an upstairs ghetto apartment in Perth feeling like the second coming of the Irish potato famine with no where to emigrate this time to be third in line below the Scotch and English on the food chain. If you’re poor. Tattoo this on your forehead like an Egyptian destiny you and your eyes will live to see fulfilled. Its not your fault. Even if you’ve given up. Even if you’re gaping like zero, like absolute nothing, between two hissing sibilants of a serpentine medical symbol unravelling. And the dragon’s lost its wings. And the physician doesn’t care enough to heal himself because he’s lost his faith in oaths. Or dangerous hope has given way to futile despair and they’re both siblings of the absurd. Its not your fault that you were born into a society where even the mirages in this desert of stars are bundled and sold like real estate. That illusions and diseases apply for patents of ownership. That even the constellations have become the work of surveyors not shepherds on a hillside and the poor are being foreclosed and evicted from the signs of the zodiac because they can’t pay the rent or the mortgage on the house they were born into. Or the hydro on the stars. Even if your spinal cord tinkles like the burnt out filament of a dead lightbulb and the shining’s gone out. Its not your fault if the universe that was airlifted to you at birth as your portion of life with nothing missing was intercepted and sold at prices that eat their own on the black market of free enterprise for the poor, or they couldn’t afford it, and socialism for the rich because they couldn’t survive without you. You might be like the sea in the lowest place of all but all things flow like rivers down into you. And the depth of the valley of shadows and death you’re walking through alone is a function of the height of the mountain that digs it like a grave it will be buried in. When all the grains of sand like stars come together they make a sea of waves where life thrives in the here and now spontaneously not a pyramid for the sake of a single capstone whose happy afterlife is founded on quicksand.
Saw a huge spiderweb once under a streetlamp at Carleton University thirty-six years ago. Six spiders, their abdomens obese as lightbulbs, six tumours ripening on the panicked cells and neural networks of more frenzied insects drawn to the light out of the dark than their webs were meant to accommodate. The webs were ripping under the weight of the horrified fruits of their gluttony stuck in the powerlines like kites and running shoes and treacherous parachutes. The dew spangled veils of the morning were being torn off like consumerist dream catchers to entice the mob to the artificial radiance of the light that drove them crazy. But the spiders were too satiate to move. And they were being pulled down along with their prey under the massive superflux of their immensely successful catastrophe. Pleonaxia. The disease of more and more and more. And all the insects had to do because the conglomerate spiders were too immobilized by the obscenity of their gigantism to stick an ice-pick in the back of Trotsky’s neck in Cuba was to keep a cool enough head to extricate themselves puppet string by puppet string, spinal cord by spinal cord, straitjacket by straitjacket, wing by wing from the web. But most were paralyzed by their own fear waiting for the fatal moment of the ruinous agenda to come like a budget cutting knife to end their nightmare. And after all these years that terrible insight still provides me with blood-freezing metaphors into the present economic system that preys upon the poor by beading the foodchain with black thoraxes as if they were the ninety-nine names of God and it were a rosary we could all say our novinas on pleading for more lifeboats and happier lifelines than the rigging of this ship of state thats going down with all of us aboard as the captains of industry jump like rats in Genoa back into the year 1348 when there were corpses galore to feed on.
If you’re poor. Come to the revolution but leave your guillotine at home. Come to the revolution but leave Lenin in Geneva. Come to the revolution like Wat Tyler but don’t believe the promises of the king. Come to the revolution like Spartacus but don’t put your faith in pirates to provide you with the means of escape. Come to the revolution like Toussaint L’Ouverture in Haiti but first drive the fer de lance out of your sugar-cane so that no innocent bystanders get bit as an off-handed matter of population control. Come to the revolution like Aung San Suu Kyi ready to sit down in the teahouses of Burma to pry the fingers of the junta off the throats of the people like the petals of a flower whose time has come to let go. Come to the revolution like Ghandi walking all the way to the sea to turn the pillars of British imperialism to salt without all the fire and brimstone of Sodom and Gomorrah. Come like him to the revolution as a leader who knew how to follow his people. Come to the revolution like Helen Keller who stood up to the Rupert Murdochs of the age who were more in need of signage than she was on behalf of the rights of the working people and declared Oh, ridiculous Brooklyn Eagle! What an ungallant bird it is! Socially blind and deaf, it defends a system thats intolerable. The Eagle and I are at war. Come to the revolution like Nelson Mandela to an international rugby match in the uniform of a Springbok scrum half to show that over-rated hatred can’t make a comeback over the jubilation of people in play with one another in time enough to win. Come to the revolution like Victor Jara and the Chilean art brigades and bring that guitar and that voice he left us that you’ve been wanting to play for decades with a compassionate feel for the sorrows of others right down to the tips of your social democratic fingerprints as if you weren’t born too late to celebrate a lost cause with a Cinderella story right out the social pages of the mid-sixties into the front page slug lines of msnbc news today. And remember its better to sing sincerely than well when you’ve got Bob Dylan for a voice coach. Come to the revolution like Tuwakal Karman of Yemen like the first coffee flower of the Arab Spring to raise her voice against Ali Abdullah Saleh in the name of human rights and freedom of expression. Come to the revolution like Martin Luther to the church door in Wittenburg and post your thirty-three articles of protest but don’t think because you throw inkwells at the devil thats the same as writing your name in blood on the marble of Wall Street or a war memorial for the dead of Vietnam. Come like George Washington to the American Revolution ready to lay your power down as a sign of complete victory over what satisfies the industrial complexity of the generals’ hearts. Come like Barack Obama to the wellsprings of a cleaner watershed than that which flowed like the corrupt ditches of the tainted bloodstreams of Eden like the four rivers of the running sores of the trickle down economics of the political food chain that ran before him for office by putting a carrot in front of a donkey and all your eggs in one basket in front of a rampaging elephant. Come to the revolution like Emmeline Pankhurst to a hunger strike in a game of cat and mouse with the government who’ll catch you and let you go to fatten you up and keep you from being force fed before they arrest you again for throwing your weight around like Emily Davison at the king’s horse in the name of wanting to run like a candidate at the same race track without the handicap of not being able to vote. Come to the revolution like Dolores Jiminez y Muro with a political plan to give Emiliano Zapata a Mexican classroom of political reform worth dying for. If you’re poor, as Kurt Cobain said, come as you are. And if Jesus doesn’t want you for a sunbeam then come as a cloud. Come as a mountain. Come as a full eclipse of the moon or a loveletter that someone sent back or come as seven come eleven and trust in your luck when the dice are not loaded like skulls with no eyes against you.

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My Feelings For You Remain the Same

After all that has been said and done,
My feelings for you remain the same.

'Sooo...
That's a relief.
I too have changed.
I am glad you have forgiven me! '

Who is talking about forgiveness?
Didn't I just say...
After all that has been said and done,
My feelings for you remain the same.

You're going to have to do,
Some jumping through some hoops!
Roll over, bark!
And make me a good cup of coffee.
Hop on one leg...
And beg in Chinese!

'But I don't know any Chinese.'

LIES!
We use to have it once a week.
You use to order the 'Goo Goo..
AND the Wonton with the General Tso.
Who do you think you're fooling?
You haven't changed at all.

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The Room That Was Locked

we talk about nothing last night
and for the past few nights about the room that was locked.
long time ago, even the mere mention of that room
they remember, the old folks always reminded us
of the penalties, for the mere use of words,
and there was fear and there was the suppressed silence
that eventually bothered each of those who thought about it,

except for one man, who one day, with all his anger,
got a bit piece of wood, the one left by the termites,
and hit the room that was always locked, and when its
door was broken, they all went it, to know what secret lies
inside the abandoned room that was forbidden.

to their aghast, there is nothing there.
except perhaps, the mere fear about its being forbidden.

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The Distance Remains The Same

Time where have you left me
Here without a heart
Without an answer
I tried to open my eyes
I tried to see the song
All things considered
This much remains the same
Hit that wall again
The same old barrier
Time after time Ive tried
To glimpse the other side
Oh and time surely made me see
I was taking your love so carelessly
Now we know
Though it doesnt do much good anymore
I still feel the old familiar pain
It could be that love is blind
I was blind to all your reasoning
But at the start you were blind to me
Now I guess you could say were even
Isnt that what we always wanted to be
Putting our souls on the line to win this game
Im feeling the strain
Ill always love you
Through all this distance
All these barriers
Trying to erase the pain
Erase the pain
Erase the pain

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