Month: June 2005

  • i.


    the tree fell for no reason at all
    it did it just said “goodbye”
    and dropped over dead
    with a thump as I looked on
    and shuddered with dread.


    ii.

    a group of three lightning bugs
    convened last night.
    how do I know?
    they lightning-ed (no thunder)
    though.


    iii.

    (?) ever notice how tombstones’
    birds sit (thereupon) perched,
    tails extending over polished edge
    —so innocuous, until down the sides slides the bird
    shit, i’ve noticed (this repeatedly) that tombstones are
    manure magnets for the foul
    of fowl and I do think they do
    do it intentionally.


  • The Tigered Cage


    The circus done, the circus train
    pulled out of town in the wind and rain,
    across the plain, then into hills,
    and higher yet, into mountains with thrills.


    But when the tempest broke out along a mighty front,
    the train in the mountains was but a runt
    of a toy on trick tracks with which the storm played,
    and strained wheels screeched as cars were swayed.


    Yet with the circus opening the very next day
    in another town still far away,
    the train pressed on with reckless speed,
    not heeding the danger, obsessed by need.


    Thus it entered into the trestled pass
    whipped with gusts and going much too fast,
    and at the turn that screamed for ultimate *slow!*
    it lurched and leaped in lost control.


    Though metal strained insanely as it sideways flailed,
    the circus train did not derail.
    Yet the chains on the flatcar clangored, snapped and zinged:
    the tigered cage had broken free and taken to wing.


    Toppling and twisting down trellis and slope,
    this tripping cage did now bring new hope
    to the tiger tired of old iron bars
    and riding endlessly on flatbed railroad cars.


    End over end and bump upon bump,
    the bars bent a little more with every thump.
    The tiger roared as downward it hurled,
    awaiting its moment to rejoin a free world.


    Two endings, choose one:


    1)


    They found the cage, sans tiger, of course.
    and for the loss of the tiger they felt great remorse.

    Now that tiger roams free in the forest at night
    reinvigorating its world with burning bright fright.



    2)


    They found the cage, sans tiger, of course.
    And for the loss of the tiger they felt great remorse.

    But for Tony the Tiger is was a great break
    as he's now spending his life eating Frosted Flakes!


  • According to many global warming climatologists and a CIA-sponsored scientific study, at the current rate of global warming, the Artic will no longer even be represented by a solitary ice cube floating in the vast swishing-swashing landless Artic Ocean soon.  How soon?  Very soon.  Earliest estimate is 2075.  The ‘best’ case scenario is that Santa, the Eskimos, and polar bears can hold onto at least a chunk of ice in the winter (they'll have to bob all summer) until 2125.


     


    Many of us won’t be around to witness this final ecological demise.  Unless, of course, it gets accelerated.  But I feel, nonetheless that we should start planning now for the relocation of the Inuit tribes, Artic animal populations, and unique Artic-climate dependent flora to a location where they can continue to flourish in niches as close as possible to their native habitat.


     


    But where?  Where else?  Antarctica.


     


    Now there will certainly be many unknowns and dangers in this undertaking.  For one, the introduction of exotic (non-native) populations to the Antarctic risks exposing the Antarctic ecology to disruption and partial destruction.  What if the Artic polar bears kill all the southern penguins?  What if the Inuit piss all over the pristine polar ice because they’re pissed off about having to move away from their native lands?


     


    On the other hand, there are new risks for the populations getting introduced, too.  It’s historically been much colder in Antarctica than in the polar north.  So unless Antarctica is warming appreciably, too, as the northern pole is melting, there’s a risk that the pissing Inuit may get frozen, pants-down, in the act.  And maybe the penguins down south, pissed about getting predated by prowling polar bears, will take it out by stamping on the heads of baby northern seals who never seem to catch a break anyway.


     


    There are, of course, many species that we will not be able to relocate.  The 100 million migratory birds that reside in the Artic north during our current summers will probably never find their own migratory way to down below the equator.  Same goes for a lot of marine life that depend on the cool thermodynamics of the current Artic outlay for survival.


     


    But, at least, we should try to do what we can do: plan feasible relocations; test with pilot samples of gatherable or volunteering populations; provision the Antarctic by international treaty for new use and Inuit ownership; get prepared to fall-back the populations to alternative non-polar locations (reserves) should Antarctica prove too much or not enough.


     


    Ice: the 21st century’s most endangered species.

  • Happy Summer Solstice!


    Solstice comes from the Latin (sol, sun; sistit, stands). For several days before and after each solstice, the sun appears to stand still in the sky—that is, its noontime elevation does not seem to change.


    (summer began today at 2:46 A.M. EDT)

    How am I spending it?

    Preparing for the next pandemic.

  • As the rest of culture becomes more aware of the scope and prowess of blogging, a lot of good things are happening. But more and more bloggers are also finding themselves in legal trouble as a result of their activity.

    The goal of Electronic Frontier Foundation’s just-released (June 13th) Legal Guide for Bloggers is to provide a basic roadmap to the legal issues confronting bloggers, to inform of basic blogging rights, and to encourage all to blog freely with the knowledge that legitimate speech is protected.


    Especially useful to bloggers who report news gathered from confidential sources is the EFF's Bloggers’ FAQ on the Reporter’s Privilege.   The Bloggers’ FAQ on Media Access can also help bloggers who need to get access to public records and government meetings, as well as secure press passes to help with newsgathering.

  • the beauty that I know (o how the sun does glow!)


    -of relationships, upon even a dream once of midsummer-


    i’ve never found (fully) in a relationship


    (boat, boat, boat your row.)


    it is more my reflection (narcissus so gazing) upon a reflection,


    my soulful (echo deep listening) insight into souls


    that intensifies (to begin to begin)


    again my heart and casts me out


    (outcast that i am)


    to compose by poetic arts.


     


    “Always the beautiful answer, who asks a more beautiful question.”


     


    loner, loper, loser, lover. 


    a progression of mid-consonants


    (like Pangaea the mid-continent)


    all consorting together,


    all orgied into one.


    so gathers massively the beauty that I know


    (to erupt, pour forth, playfully flow)


    of relationships I speak (softly dancing in the sun)


    ‘tis (no wonder) i am a conundrum.

  • I can see beyond the limitations which I pose for myself
         the light, your shadow,
             and your delicacy interceding there between.


    But this vision is soundless and shameful
        since I watch but cannot touch,
            I lurk but can't take heed.


    You notice my desperation and hasten to barrage me
         with unrelenting mouthed insistencies,
              while motioning intrepidly
                  salvationary glyphs of meaning.


    And almost can I read your lips,
         as almost surely I would taste those lips,
             if I only I could loose my grip and slip
                 into the light with your shadow.

  • Further contributing to an image of posing as robber barons who conduct their business in backrooms while smoking fat cigars, the Bush administration now seems to have exercised some heretofore unpublicized influence in having Justice Dept. lawyers slash by $120 billion their demands from the tobacco industry as part of a major civil racketeering trial.


    In response to congressionally-expressed concerns over professional impropriety and wrongdoing in this case by government lawyers, the Office of Professional Responsibility will now begin an investigation.


    Gladys Kessler, the federal judge in Washington who is hearing the case remarked of the government’s abrupt and unexpected change in demands, “Perhaps it suggests that additional influences have been brought to bear on what the government’s case is.”


    Additional influences? Hey, who do you think is providing those fat cigars for the good ole’ backroom boys?

  • I pegged my fate to Michael Jackson’s trial outcome today.  If he had been found guilty of anything, I was going to forego running (in Dreamland) and submit to additional evening manual labor.  If he was found innocent of all charges, I would run free instead, enjoy a beer, and blog.


     


    I’m singing in the rain (my sweat).


    Corona.


     


    The sunbeams benumb me.


    The bumblebees buzz the budding blossoms.


    The birds (being the little dirty dinosaurs they are)


    bellow species-conquering ballads.


    A north korean stalinist sparrow screeches steely in a gum tree afar.


    While a neo-hitlerite hen wails (yet) of thousand-year henhouses to come.


    The osama bin lark lurks hidden in scrub brush,


    emitting taunting tones of future bird shit attacks.


    While the bird in the Bush chirps like a cuckoo that the sky is falling,


     and all risks (except environmental ones) are code-red imminent.


    It’s okay.  I’ve got plenty of birdshot.  And I pray to Minerva.


    She’s a t-rex descended predator-owl, you know. 


    And she sucks bird blood.  Real good.  And without a sound.

  • These are rough times. 
    Stay true to yourself.

    Tuesday afternoon, running 5+ miles around Dreamland,
    sun-beaten, in 90+ F. heat, I envisioned being on a 1930’s Alabama chain gang and having to pound big
    rocks into little ones the day forever long. 
    Natural enough an association, no? 
    Given the oppressive heat and the sense of hard labor that was invading
    my en-scorched psyche.  Though it was something I never self-imaged before.

    Well, Wednesday morning I got a request for assistance.  Dr. Margie (psychiatrist-type) begged me to
    come over later in the day to help her recover some half-foot thick sidewalk
    sandstone slabs that her city had replaced with concrete and which the city
    would haul away if she didn’t quickly claim them.  So guess what I ended up doing?  At the very same time the day before that I
    had imagined myself chain-ganging rocks for the boss man, I ended up sledge-hammering
    4 x 6 ft. sandstone slabs into four 2 x 3 ft. manageable blocks and hauling
    them to the site of Dr. Margie’s future patio. 
    Let me tell you, with each of the smaller blocks weighing about 200 lbs., it really did constitute a chain-gang type ordeal.  2 tons? 
    3 tons?  I’ve no good grasp of how
    much stone I dragged, wiggled, lifted, rolled, wheel-barrowed, and wagoned in
    the same unrelenting 90+ F. heat.  I was
    literally raining sweat off of my skull with every step I took.  I was shedding, showering so much (precious
    bodily) fluid that I felt like my own mini-thunderstorm leaving trails of
    wetness wherever I turned.

    The Human Shower!  Is
    there such a Super-Hero?

  • It’s called the solar anesthetic.  A powerful narcotic, not for the weak of heart.  It tends, in extreme doses, to drive its subjects to ultra-hysteria.  It
    consists of an energetically imposed state of total bodily possession
    wherein the Sun beats down so hard that mindlessness alone would
    constitute a heroic act of genius. 

    Unlike other anesthesia that numb all sensations, the solar anesthesic allows one to continue to feel.  But only one sensation: absolute inner desolation. 

    Solar anesthesia quickly numbs the capacity to think, the ability to relate.   Common
    comments by those not yet fully under its influence and still able to
    muster a last thought and articulate words are: “It’s as hot as hell.”  And, “It’s so damn hot that I could easily die.”  But most often, onset is so rapid that only disconsolate, disconnected thoughts and words are forthcoming. 

    An unspoken yearning for a fantastic element named "water” invariably occurs.  At this point, some subjects have been reported to mouth a word or two that sounds something like “mother” or “wawa”.  In
    either case, this is clinically viewed as an obvious ontological lapse
    back into a pre-birth safety suit of long-departed micro-oceanic
    friendliness.  In any case, this hope for the miracle
    of “water” is soon abandoned with the final, awakening realization that
    anything as delightful as “wawa”, under the circumstances, must purely
    be self-delusionary.  A classic instance of, one seems forced to concede, "that if it sounds to good to be true, it just can’t be."

    Yet
    if one remains aligned to the solar anesthetic (that is, not
    counteracting its effects by tripping-out in some mundane WaterWorld or
    similar surrogate), fulfills the rite of passage, and
    survives its stripping rigors (like a satellite barreling toward the
    Sun in order to be slungshot out to the remotest reaches of space), it
    ultimately transforms its own effacing effects within body and
    self into a heightened realization of post-solar energetic
    synesthesia. 

    Experience or just imagine: Beyond the commanding baptismal dessication of the blinding Sun, the
    whole world opens up as never before.  A newly-revealed tidal
    cosmos influx, commendations soaring true, returns one to a
    watery darkness.  One begins to
    re-constellate fluidly in deep post-birth to new
    meaning-place and purpose.  Rebirthed by fire, with but
    a single drop of that remaining magic water within, one yields to
    all that is greater with the unifying concession of "Tat twam asi"  - That is thyself.

    Every summer, running deliriously in the Sun, I seek this solar anesthesic.  To the destructive element I submit.  I choose this death.  Because the reincarnation awaiting is pure merge with a reclaiming ocean, a sacred abyss beyond dimension.

  •  Earth weather is weirding again.  It is the change before the change before the
    change.

    Already summer and finally tornadoes appear in America.  Hey, that’s not a complaint!   But
    parts of Australia
    have been seeing tornadoes aplenty while we have had our dearth of them.  And some of those Aussies have never ever
    even seen them before until now.  And they’re
    blaming us!  Hey, don’t fuck with us Australia.  Don’t fuck with us.

    And wasn’t it just a couple of months ago that the first Pacific hurricane ever known to landfall in Costa Rico occurred?

    Shake it up, baby.

    Question is: what’s next?

    A hot, droughty summer that lasts until October?

    A hot, rain-drenched, tropical forest-like summer that last
    until November?!

    Two hurricanes hitting the east coast in overlapping,
    synergistic simultaneity?

    A gyrating storm system that delivers golf-ball sized hail
    to NYC ten days in a row?

    A day when the whole continental US is 100+ degrees without
    exception coast to coast?

    A tornado system that takes out the parts of the Pentagon,
    the Capitol, and the White House forcing George Bush to declare tornadoes a
    terrorist co-conspirator?

    Just remember: The life of a Repo Man is always intense.

    Me?
    I set a goal last Monday to run 40 miles this week.  I just, sweating under an unrelenting
    90-degree-type Sun,  accomplished that
    goal.

    May the blessings of beneficient weather forever fall upon all of you.

  • What a kick-ass beautiful weekend it has been so far.


     


    So nice, in fact, that fair artists have returned to Dreamland (aka Lake View Cemetery, aka Cleveland’s Outdoor Musuem)…


     


    In the shade.


     



     


    Or in the sun.  It’s all good.


     



     


    Strangely enough, the artist above suddenly above got up, disappeared, and simply left her work in the field.


     



     


    Proof that artists are truly impulsive,

  • I’ve run four ¼ marathons this week.  A combined course embracing 36 times up (and
    down) a ridge that rises above the tops of the trees below. 

    Every day this week during a point in the course I have felt
    lost.  Strange feeling.  Immediately after
    feeling lost, I have felt free.  Even
    stranger-feeling consequence given the antecedent feeling.

    Ritualistically afterwards, every day I have leaned against
    the Villas obelisk (atop the ridge, facing northwards with a view of Lake Erie) and done what I’m doing now.  (Left to your
    imagination.)

    Normally when I run, I keep perceptually apprised of the
    most significant things in my immediate surroundings.  Today, however, I found myself peering into
    the deepest furthermost recesses of the views availed me—searching, awaiting
    the appearance of…?

    Something fun.  I’m
    looking for something fun to do.

  • This community, this xanga-thing is like a mini-spiral
    galaxy hologram to me.
    Run around it, I can, like indians once
    did in circling stagecoaches.
    Or like I do my Dreamland. 
    Or turn my head at an angle and change its axis of rotation.
    (I can.)
    Or ignore it, bump into it, and not even know its there.
    (Sorry.)

    From a distance its just a dizzy, spinning thing.
    If I gaze in, I can see details of some of you unhappily trapped.
    Some of you undismally untrapped.  Some unaware of the difference.
    You’re all little miniatures of
    yourselves—“yini you’s” to me.
    Or is that “yana you’s” of the
    Hina or Maha variety?
    Lingums and yonis are
    centrifugally entrained in this vivid projection:
    Guys and gals floating their
    affairs, I take it, floating their affairs.
    Some are protected, others
    projected, most just neglected.

    So sad the rotational mismatch of
    so, so many.
    The searching, beseeching many.
    So joyful the gyrating enlightenment
    of the fleeting few.
    The far-flung, exceptional fools.

    But more than just a visual
    modality, sense now the synesthetic:
    The swirling of it all cascades into
    a creaking.
    The creaking from within emits bright,
    slashing lasers.
    The lasers melt in my (your) mouth,
    not in our hands.

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