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As long as there are musicians who have a passion for spontaneity, for creating something that's never been before, the art form of jazz will flourish.

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There Are Many Who Have Left Behind This Activity

Can't you taste tomorrow's freshness?
Is it not apparent,
That which is stale.
Can no longer prevail on its present course.
And that beating a dead horse,
Will not revive a survival of that which has died.

And a flipping back through pages,
Seeking direction for which step to take.
Is not advantageous,
For those choosing to keep up with a forward pace.

Although some will continue,
With a beating of a horse done.
There are many who have left behind this activity.
With an acknowledgement that a past once lived.
Is clearly not meant for those living.

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There Are Those Who Have Known Daily Horrors

THERE ARE THOSE WHO HAVE KNOWN DAILY HORRORS

I have had a relatively easy life-
There are those who have known daily horrors
Beyond those any human being should ever have to imagine
I think of the last generation of survivors of the Shoah
Slowly dying out now
Taking with them their memories of loved ones murdered before their eyes
Of incredible tortures and cruelty
Of horrible partings and endless humiliations-

I think of these people my fellow Jews
And wonder why God allowed it to happen to them
And what it all means-

I certainly don't know-

I have had a relatively easy life
With of course my own griefs and sorrows and failings
But nothing at all like what they went through -

Oh God what is this whole thing about anyway?
And why did You let the Nazi Germans and their Austrian Polish Lithuanian Slovak Romanian Hungarian Dutch French helpers
Do it to them?

Why families with tens of members murdered
Why the children?
The incredible cruelties and humiliations and horrors
Why?

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There Are Those Who Are the Exception

Do you honestly believe,
That saying things derogatory
About anyone...
Will suddenly be erased,
With a few apologies?
And a forgiveness done that is forgotten?

Let me introduce myself.
Since your approach to life,
Is a little different from mine.

How many things have you done,
That were 'unconsciously' intended?
None?
Me either.
In fact...
I doubt if that is possible.

So often,
Apologies are expected to be accepted!

That's why my approach to life,
Is to snap someone awake...
The moment my toes are stepped on.
And I do my best to inflict similar pain.

This 'turn-the-other-cheek-business'?
I'm just not into.
People know exactly what they do,
When they do it!
Under the influence of alcohol.
Or flying high on weed.

So often,
Apologies are expected to be accepted!
And there are those who are the exception.
They have feelings connected to emotions...
That are at stake.
And mistakes at their expense is not for-give-able!

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Simple Observation #125 - There are none who are farther or......

There are none who are farther or closer to God in proximity
except for those perhaps who are realising their own divinity.

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You Are Who You Are?

Everyone is beautiful in their own special way,
some have a sense of style, humor, beauty, and caution...
And then there are some who have no sense of style, humor, and no type of caution,
but at the end of the day, you are what you are... and you're beautiful.

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There Are Those Who Stimulate

There are those who stimulate,
Just by the ignorance of their agitation.
And others seeking attention,
To compensate for their lack of talent...
Will annoy until someone responds.

And still there are some,
Who hate themselves so much...
They seek forums,
To announce their agonies....
With a self infliction,
Too obvious to dismiss.

Even their cries for help,
Seem to irritate.

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There Are Those Who Try Hard To Convince

Someone living a life lived,
With a lesser experience...
Could not assess with a depth that qualifies,
A probing of one's life spent...
Being challenged and unafraid to become diversified.

Even though there are those who 'try' hard to convince,
They are the creators of intelligence.
And market common sense...
Whenever someone happens to accidentally visit,
The exclusiveness of their comfort zones.

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There Are Those Who Irritate

in the same manner
there are those who are not irritated
they know how to maintain
poise
despite the storm
to be sensible despite
the plagiarism
they become more of themselves
as others
go beyond their nature
they are silent when you speak
they remain silent
even if you are silent too
oh, they are just themselves
despite the
volcanic eruptions
oh, they remain calm
even if
all are screaming
running
even if the world is dead
they remain
growing like moss
like lichens
like cockroaches like flies.

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There Are Many Who Are Talented

There are many with gifts,
That are relevant as presented.
There are many who are talented,
With a seeking to reach heights.
And there are those who were born,
For the purpose of igniting thought.
And doing this without a challenge...
Since a naturalness given to them,
Is unselfishly offered to others brought.
However...
Hopefully an attention sought is caught!
Or it would defeat the purpose of a reach.
And nothing delivered sinks in as taught.
With intended depth remaining surfaced.
And a leaking occurs few see as a need.

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There Are Those Who Wait Years To Write A Poem

THERE ARE THOSE WHO WAIT YEARS TO WRITE A POEM

There are those who wait years to write a poem
The fruit slowly ripens inside and then as with Rilke
It suddenly falls -

There are those who write a few lines
And come back time after time
And find the poem after many efforts-

There are those who cannot wait to write a poem
And once conscious of it must write it down as fast as possible
Before it is lost-

And there are those who only in the present writing
Find the poem -

The page suffers many methods and modes

But what truly makes a poem worthy
Is another question.

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Sonnet: there are some who…

There are some who can’t afford one square meal;
There are some who run from pillar to post;
There are some who for their fellowmen feel;
There are some who never would like to boast.

There are some who are humble to the core;
There are some who exhibit great kindness;
There are some who are ready to give more;
There are some who die for righteousness.

There are some who always think of others;
There are some who are shelter less all life;
There are some who sacrifice for brothers;
There are some who love God despite all strife.

There are some who earn their Heaven on earth;
There are some who are, God-blest by birth.

7-30-2002

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There Are Many In Relationships Still Waiting For It

Trust is a creation that is developed over time.
Anyone believing it should be found immediately,
Should scratch that off of their list of preferences.
And 'demanding' that to be a priority.
Trust developed comes.
Like a respect that is given that becomes understood.

Even though a trust is wished...
There are many in relationships still waiting for it.
With a keeping of it away...
In the hopes that it comes to display itself,
Without them putting forth any effort.
And these are the people who mostly deceive.

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Often there are players who have only football as a way of expressing themselves and never develop other interests. And when they no longer play football, they no longer do anything; they no longer exist, or rather they have the sensation of no longer existing.

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Patrick White

I Miss You

I miss you like a burn victim misses his face, misses the sky he used to wear like skin. I think I'm dying tonight; Friday night, wandering from unfinished room to unfinished room, trying on coffins, looking at death in the shedding mirrors, wondering what my life has amounted to, a raindropp in the desert, trying to green the hourglass time raises to its lips, twin goblets, drunk on sand. I want to bleed like a bell for the unfathomable reservoirs of human pain that have yet to be endured as the original tears of life, the rocks weeping, and even the mountain eventually burying its proud face in the hands of its valley. I have heard the stars weeping, and been crippled by compassion for the wounded rose of blood, all the petals and eyelids and tongues that have tasted themselves on the thorn. If I have ever been a lantern on the road, a star you could follow home like a river, a tree that stood over you for the night, a shadow that summoned you into the light, black honey buffed with the flowers of revised constellations taking their seats in the revolutionary parliaments of the night, now I'm a kind of indecipherable braille hanging like black holes and severed chandeliers of pleading cherries beseeching wicks and filaments from astringent space. Look at what life has done to me; look at what happened to the candle. O just once more to yearn like the moon for a beginning, for an eyeless passion that hasn't seen itself out to the end like a ladder of worn thresholds ribbed like a man. I have drunk from the fountains of great teachers, great spirits, enormous suggestions of the soul that have emptied me like the echo of the world into a vastness as impersonal as the first word of creation and I have tried to be brave enough to see deeply into the night in my voice, the clarities and luminosities that have their seasons in the high fields, the wells that lament the aging of the morning brides torn like tents, the cocoons of the light abandoned like the exhalation of a last breath, I have tried to add my understanding like a planet that could thrive like a torch in a mansion of secret wines. I have tried to say whatever I was becoming without wringing the moonlight out of the tide. I have not lied about the poppies in their dream gowns of evanescent fire; or transgressed the humble shrines of the grass, or forgotten the progress of the girl robed in swans and willows in the eyes of the crone. And I have been withered too much by suffering to be flattered by the tendril of my name growing like smoke on the lips of the seeds. I assumed my throne like a pauper where the fire burned the clearest, and established the realm of my seeing in the crumb of a dream I rubbed from my eyes whenever I awoke to the illimitable domains of my nothingness. And I have counted the prophetic skulls of the demon moons as if they were a forbidden rosary that pearled the darkness, and been amazed at my affinity for the hopelessness of their vilified freedom. I sleep with an eyelash like a sword between myself and evil, one fuse unlit, one world that hasn't gone off like a rocket at Halloween. But when I consider true goodness in others, cooling like sweet bread on the summer starsills of their openness, I am always left feeling dangerously intelligent by contrast, and lacking, as if all modes of virtue were the happy sluglines of compromised yesterdays I use to start fires in an iron heart on a winter morning. Though I be condemned to the subtleties of the most intimate torments, incommunicable agonies of erosive condemnation, there is still a lie I won't tell myself to be worthy of heaven, because I will not dust the earth with my wings, I will not corrupt the integrity of the suffering of my humanity with any paradise that isn't born of its substance. I will not fail the rag of my poor flesh even on the eve of defeat, the tattered sail of blood that turns this boat of bones into the wind to come round again in a salvo of ferocious defiance. A gesture of the air, no doubt; a lethal folly, but the plank of my nature. So keep your angels away from me until I am a peer of the struggle, until I have won a parity from intensities I could never defeat. Until my humanity is an indelible word in the mouth of God, an ink, a wine, a thread of blood, that stains the lips of God with the inexplicable mystery of my contradictory existence. So much undergone, so much of becoming and transcendence embodied and dissolved in the shapes of shadow, blood and water, and love through it all, tears and laughter, the mingling of illumination and eclipse, one firefly of the spirit thawing glaciers and fierce eras of brutal evolution, one thought snuffing the stars like an eyelid. I love the heresy of vaulting the horns of the moon, the first and last crescents of the dilemmic parentheses that enclose me like an aside to an actor prompted offstage by the whisper of his own understudy dying ambiguously in the very next scene. What's a flower, what's a life, but a play on tour, directed by the cuts and takes of the wind and the light? Everyone in the audience, alive and wounded, sentenced, is on death row where every star that shines through the bars is the sprinkling syringe of a fatal injection, or the motherlode of the mystically deranged.
I miss you. I could love you so perfectly; even the errors in harmony. I could be the pillar of a temple of water; I could be sufficient for your sake, a curtain of shadows on the moon to cool the hot swan of the light that sails through a window wide as space. I could be something more in your presence, something I've never been before; the whole cosmos out to the most estranged star, hanging like a dropp of water from a heron's beak, a witching-wand that trembles with watersheds everytime it divines you. I think of gently taking the moon in my teeth, of kissing you on the neck behind your ear, of the season in your hair, the supple concession of your lips, undoing the star yokes on the beast that draws the wagon of this corpse to wander off road in the bestial freedom of its ecstatic vagrancy. I could know you like a fish knows the moon, underwater, could swim to you from here, or rise to your hooks as if they were stars, and swallow, or be a dragon heaving off its lake like a robe of water with wildflowers and the open eyes of the rain shaken from the folds of the eclipses and eras of its wings. You could empower me to risk an excruciating excellence of devotion; an eloquence and exquisitivity of perception that would compel my eye to turn the light around and look inwards like a black hole for the firefly in the casket of its telescope. However far I walked through a desert of lunar salt, excoriated by ferocious purities like a bone with the wind for marrow, no two footprints of mine would ever be the same, nor would the moon, so much like the heart, ever drink its own commingling of light and shadow from the same cup twice. I think of the things that could be; the air saturated with light trying to fall like rain; the blood efflorescent with poppies, with gypsy profligates, outraging the startled goodness of the wheat by dancing lasciviously with fire. Out of the air, out of space, out of time, living on nothing, I can almost make you happen before me like an event so intensely imagined the curtain had to open on a troupe of improv stars on tour among the constellations. The abyss of an eyelash away, I can almost touch you, taste you, feel you reach out for me like a bay of space, hear you call my name like a homing bird sliding like love-letter under the doorsill of the wind. Grief can call people like that, but it is love that is the gate-mouth of my answering, it is love that conjures you out of this galactic cauldron where I cannot pull this sword of light from the stone of my heart like a letter without bleeding like a crimson sea of candlewax to verify the seal of your enthronement in the kiss of every impression. The truth is too brief, and the lies are too long to be the suitable luggage of love. I'd need something like a seed, a cocoon, an eye, a lantern, a star to travel radiantly through this darkness as fragile as a kite held aloft by a feather of fire, my spinal cord in your hands, or strung across the musical snakepit of a lifeboat guitar like a powerline, or a clown riding the bicycle of his glasses. The seas once gone from the moon, love alone can keep the whisper of water alive.
I saw the full moon in the window through black winter branches, and I thought of you in sadness and love, and wondered if your eyes fell upon it like rain as mine did.

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It Is Enjoyed

Just because some things are made to look easy,
Doesn't mean they are.
Because someone enjoys what they do...
Does not mean it is easy for them.
It is enjoyed...
And that is the difference.

There are those who do things and complain.
It may be something simple.
But still their attitudes remain the same.

And there are those who profess to 'like' something...
But the want someone to show them how it is done.
In fact...
If they can find someone to do it for them,
The need for work has been overcomed.

And yet there are those who do things just for a dollar.
That is all they do things for!
And the more money they make...
The more they profess a thing they do is enjoyed!

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The Flowers Of Guatemala

I took a picture that Ill have to send
People here are friendly and content
People here are colorful and bright
The flowers often bloom at night
Amanita is the name
The flowers cover everything
The flowers cover everything
Theres something here I find hard to ignore
Theres something that Ive never seen before
Amanita is the name they cover over everything
The flowers cover everything
They cover over everything (amanita is the name)
The flowers cover everything
Dont look into the sun
Dont look into the sun
Theres something that Ive never seen before
The flowers often bloom at night
Amanita is the name they cover over everything

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People Who Have Prioritized Them As Waste

It is easy to make fun,
Of the odd one out.
Isn't it?
Especially in an environment,
That seems not only to condone it...
But solicits a provoking of this behavior.
It is a condition that is taught...
And learned very well.

Then it is wished a unity is done.
But those that have become alcohol abusers,
And drug addicts...
Social misfits and psychopaths,
Appear to have other agendas.
And to express a vacancy of love,
Is not one of them.

And the people who have prioritized them as waste...
Can be observed, examined and witnessed,
As being the real victims!
They are the vagrants adorning false masks.
Since they've invested their time...
Ensuring their own kind were driven out of their minds.

And they wander about,
Making sure this task is successfully done.
Or they 'hang' in there...
Despairingly.

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Patrick White

Seeking The Shadows Of What You Are

Seeking the shadows of what you are
you miss who's standing in the light.
Eternity with its tail in its mouth
can't taste much else in life but itself.
Where did these words come from
just a moment ago out of nowhere,
and if it were to rain, would that be
shallow or deep? And maybe a labyrinth
is just a snake that's swallowed its own head
and is wandering aimlessly in despair
through its own digestive track
like a salmon leaping upstream
through a waterclock with self-similarity
on its mind, oviparous replication,
the material immortality of genetic time.

Nothing's irrelevant or inelegant
if there's nothing to choose from
so everything shines in every mystic detail
as if it had never come unglued in its solitude
and bifurcated its unity into the subject
and the object of its awareness just to have
someone to talk to, an intimate familiar
it could rave at or serenade in a manic love affair
it was having with its own creation
like an artist talking to his masterpiece
with the caress of every sable-haired brush stroke.

Insignificant for the long haul, or famous
for fifteen minutes, either way,
you wouldn't know it by looking
at the fossils we didn't bring back from the moon
or sifting the grain from the chaff
from the ashes of the wheat
the wind scorched like a dragon
on its way to bring rain. Why
drive a nail through your third eye
and delude yourself into believing
you've been crucified, the king
of the waxing year sacrificing
your body parts to ensure a good harvest?

You want the virtues of your noble enemy?
Slay yourself and eat your own heart.
This is your nagual, your tulpa, your mirage,
your nightmare, your doppelganger,
your reflective familiar, your shadow
holographically projected in 3D by the pineal gland
of your third eye tattooed on the skin of a black hole
that is neither an ignominious exit through the grave
or the celebrated entrance into a secret garden,
and it can't be any more empowered than you are,
and there are no walls to walk through
if it wasn't you that built them to keep the poor
from vaulting them to steal your apricots
like the hungry ghosts that haunt
the orchards of your abandoned thoughts.

Savage homeopathy, perhaps, a holy war
of starmaps torn out like pages of sacred text
against the leaves who think they're responsible
for keeping the whole tree they both spring from intact.
The autumn burns like an heretical apostate
that's fallen away like faith in itself.
What nonsense, when they'll both end up
doing a ghost dance on each other's graves
where neither the dead nor the living
can be reunited in peace at the same seance
because the flame of life is duelling with its own candle
like the branch of a spear with the flint-knapped blossom
of the point it's trying to drive home through its own heart.

A lethal waste of energies for echoes
to seek the destruction of their original voice.
When the waves of the light, the sea, the mind
bare their necks and swan
for the double-bladed axe of the moon
that separates things like conceptual consciousness
as if it were cleaving water, and heads come off
like the leading rose-buds of multi-cephalic hydras
that bloom the more they're pruned like zinnias,
even death considers the slaughter an abuse of time.

If you want to live in the house of life as a martyr,
a bodhisattva, a spiritual mujahedin who
blows himself up in the temple of the money-lenders
and discount dove merchants, or even a poet
who enlisted in the ghettos of the Chilean art brigades
like Victor Jara, or Archibald Lampman's
warrior minstrel of the forlorn hope
dying of a heart attack in Ottawa at thirty-six,
or Emily Dickinson listening to a fly buzz when she expired,
the only blood on the blade you fall upon
you should ever taste is your own if you
want to speak to a big-hearted bell of enlightenment
without the forked tongue of a perjured witching wand
or the self-defeating absurdity
of seeking clean water with dirty hands
or trying to reach out to touch the stars
when they're pouring through your fingers
like the sands of an hourglass remembering
all its past lives gathered around the village wells
like telescopes looking through the wrong end of themselves.

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There Are Walls There Are Ceilings

there are wall here and there are ears who listen so well
and eyes who see too clearly
you,
there are ceilings too
there are limits to what you can do
there are floors
between
you
now the cup has overflowed the dams break out
a flood
will cover you, the floor meets the ceiling and you are sandwiched
like a witch,

see..how you crumple?

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A Purpose To Be Validated

I suppose...
As long as there are those
Who are seeking someone
Qualified
To lead them out of darkness...
They will always feel their lives,
Have a meaningful connection
To one another.
With a purpose to be validated!
And the willingness to follow,
Kept undenied.
Since an observation solicited,
Provides a confirmation
That a participation has occurred.
And should be duly noted.

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