Barack Obama, Peter Gabriel and Capitol Hill

[eggnog]

I didn't mean to override a complaint yesterday by printing a post using Pollenworm instead of eggnog, but the computer I'd logged into had never been logged out of my Pollenworm sign in so it happened by accident, unlike the staged and phony intercept of the Burstyn scroll by Clinton's machine in Pittsburgh a long, long time ago.

My new poetry book, Tegami has a long poem called The Letter which in its unabridged state is subtitled: By a Poet Who Grew Up in the Shadow of the Lost Generation. It's an important point. I was seven or eight years old when I found pictures of the My Lai Massacre on Flagstaff Hill one Mother's Day at a Rally for Peace, all but shattering my psyche and faith in America. It had been an unusually strong faith, born in the last months of Eisenhower, before the waves of paranoia unleashed by Lyndon Johnson. As a result of my being very young, I grew up believing, quite mistakenly, that the reason for all the resistance to the criminally insane war in Vietnam was on account some serious ethical courage in the young. The war in Iraq disabused me of the idea. It had all been about the Draft. Without a Draft endangering them personally, American kids could piss on it.

Peter Gabriel is a classic exemplar of a pseudo-hippy who cashed in against the 60's in a push for world power. Fuck him. Chairman Gabe of the Mt. Desert Island Taliban used Black Hate to cloak his collusion with the Ku Klux Klan who killed John Lennon in the AIDS onslaught, alibi'ing their AIDS testing war crime, proved to have pre-dated the onslaught, as a scared straight program in order to make a grab in the name of Lennon on the records of the war crime for personal misuse.

Not to go into some of the more recent barbs in my possession, I can assure you that I won't be one to "come together" with Obama. Nor would you, if it had been your loved one they'd raped. No, the reason I favor an Obama Presidency is that under Obama the U.S. Government might be mentally competent to stand trial.

Basically what my experience proves is that if you take one somewhat wholesome deaf American misfit who is onto something that English nazis like Brian Eno don't want people to understand - the power exists at Oxford and Carnegie Mellon to hire ten sophisticates per sentence armed with paranormal deception to pry at every point from ten distorted lenses to yank out of context, to grossly tailor and exaggerate while horrifyingly violating the rights of their prey and no one will attempt to intercept them or secure against ritual acts of depravity and evil. An English will then call his abnormal, Reagan-related political violence "Amnesty International" and no one will be offended.

The coward Fripp took a warped, illiberal view of all that transpired and thought this was marvelous and perverse. Such a one cannot be trusted. He raped my family heritage, already laboring under a nightmare worse than Russia. You cannot reason with Fripp accomplice.

[eggnog]

The Letter (Abridged)

Old free writing habits of mind at times when I was drawing a blank tended to be morbid and labyrinthian and I noted that these writings, few of which I have anymore, were really the only time I wrote in this deeply abstracted, melancholy and often somewhat vague, unchallenging way. I came to believe in doing this that a whole realm of non-descript personality, dicomforting and true, lurked in my subconscious and during these times of writer's despondency I saw a whole person inside myself that remains dark and seldom lives because of my other priorities. During these free writings I had the oppressive sense of being immersed in the sort of half-rate old Russian literature that remains in discount books forever moldering and always closed. The sort of work regarded no count on its merits.

At 47, I realized that I had always been, due to deafness, a scavenger for communication and meaning, believing it was nice to be nice, appalling to be anything but leftist, and unclear what had been done to me, or I should say why, that my soul is always pitched with a terrible cry.

We live in earthly pain;
this is a place where certainty is denied us,
isolated in a vast galaxy,
chasing an echo to capture a voice.
In every madman a utopia
in each utopia, a madman.
Chasing after voices, only echoes.

Colossus took to the stage before a horde
to renounce pity as the ruin of a soul.
What you want to see in another man's eyes is respect.
It is more important to sow fear among enemies
than love among friends.
Making a mockery of tears
is a necessary stage
in conservative transformation of society.
Those who oppose us by pleading
the poison tongue of charity?
Make them outcasts among outcasts.
Chase their friends off, leaving no word.
Kaddish, and c'est la vie.
Institutional journalism is forever to be
a fraternity of like-minded colleagues,
lifting protections only when necessary.
Did you know there's even a poet among us?
The best in orchestration of slanders will win.
Ponder how liberalism plummetted
preached the droll colossus.
Murder to titillate rapists.
Whoring America by the flag.
The faceliars applauded
packaging rejection craft of the status quo
insured by the spiteful negligence
of sinister police union cults
infiltrated easily by newbrat corporate espionage
pocketing hash from the evidence room.
Perks for the lash of the beshemoth.
Put you on notice:
if truth is ascertained, the innocent will be punished.
Never fear, our doctor of psychiatry is here.
Laugh and clap the culprits are laden with boodle,
that you have restricted your tongue.
To do other than is all in vain.
What profit a man to gain his soul
when he lose the world?
And so your voice is fettered in glamor,
as you make up your way
from a motley of caffeine freaks
on guard against a plague of one-upmanship.
The torturenary practices are effete expertise,
brutality: gonzo.
Real men are mice.
The Minister of Hyperbole calls your castration
a spoof on the revolutionary penchant.
The Church co-sponsors a letter
denouncing your indiscretions.
The Conservative Black male devoid of pity
shall inherit the Superstate.
Klan don't mean klan.
Bleeding heart be exactly that.

Let the contest begin.

[eggnog]

This emptiness tinkers in the shadows;
forged in tears, bitten by sarcasm.
What does someone free of it really know
of being hated?
All of existence seems to me
a measly goodbye letter written
by a God who ran out on us.
I set aside this time, weeping from exhaustion
to appreciate something, anything.
Just to say I don't need anyone
to tell me what to love.
And when to love.
There's something I can never forget
that was taken from me in return for freedom.
My dignity.
Where does such hatred for human dignity,
scorn for small ability come?
Do the enemies of quarks and manners
never tire?
There stalks our world
those who have burned paintings
and who fell in love with war.
They've sold us the claim
to be looking to our safety.
They corner us to fight
the helpless they despise.
How faceless their description.
The trash people, they say.
I goober my coffee and oatmeal
against the urge to succumb.
How easy it would be
to abandon art for bitterness.
Relinquish sincerity at least.
One moment after another sings
of how little need there is for me.
I fear that even I have no need for me.
The television could just as easily
pass an hour.
I set aside this time weeping
that someone is on the note, has spoken out.
To me. As though my hearing their cry
as though my pity, my kindness were treasure.
To say yes, yes I heard you.
To give voice to the unbearable.
Not to erase pain
and put in its place a sit-com
but to ease pain and put in its place
a little courage.
I wrote this letter to you
on your dark and stormy night
when you almost succumbed
to consuming hatred, pleading with you
do not fall in love with war.
That is the only error
from which there is no return.

I think of a picture walking
and have a need to testify
against the mockery made of forgiveness
by those who deal hatred.
They regard words as meaningless
and enjoy seeing people suffer in their name.
After apologies they go right back
and do it all again
in failing to get what they want.
Their most soothing moments
are the outstretched glove of a mailed fist.
They would say I love you
to someone they hated bitterly
in bid for advantage.
There is nothing normal about such people
yet they have multiplied
with every disappointment of the age.
I am writing to thank you
for all the thankless years of struggle
you spent fighting them
with the strength of being a neighbor.
From hope to hopelessness to fighting rage.
It is important to know what is dignified in a fight.
And when fights serve only the purpose of the evil.
Fighting has become part of school,
a point of pedagogy, cause or no.
They profess to make you better citizens
by teaching you the bitter conclusion
that existence is cruelty.
I am writing to thank you
for all those years of thankless labor
giving other their tools
to save their psyches
against the ludicrous march of saviors.
Tyranny, deceit, delusions and negligence
every four years.
A ‘posably honest structure walled by dishonesty
which cheats us of our lives,
robs us of our friends
rewards only treachery
and laughs in our faces
when not behind our bakcs.
I am writing to thank you
for all those years of thankless labor.

I understand your disappointment.
The four horsemen of the apocalpyse of the arts
are apathy, boredom, cynicism and ennui.
Together they do catastrophic damage
worse than those who burn books.
Because of them, so many more books are never written.
I've been normalized past extinction,
gone are the laughs of misanthropic jokes
kisses stolen by and by.
What's left of me is a determined little termite
feet stamping everywhere I run
in this awful dance.
If I had imagined how deadly dull
adulthood would be
I might have listened to reason
when I was young.
Instead I laughed, I partied, I had a best friend.
I confounded things
on my road to solitude and ruin.
There are some hellholes
from which it did no man ever
any good to cry out from.
Deafness is one. Pittsburgh was another.
But gradually I must become brave enough
to feel something again,
even in this cursed world
where Metropolis hangdogs his head
in the age of cynicide
where all I see are flotsam and jetsom
of the Post Me Generation,
given up like Russians and the beats.
I have a question that I dare not ask.
I have a question from the bottom of my glass
I have a question that has brought me down low.
Lord where did all the questions go?

What is important is to obey.
What is important is to comply.
Resolving the contradictions between the people.
Independence of thinking. Independence of thinking.
Repeat after me. Independence of thinking.
Workers of the world what we have achieved
in this empty busbox is a beacon of light.
Do not be elitist swine thinking only of yourself.
What the world needs now
is a high school intercom.
Duties are the road to success.
Soul purifying universal military conscription.
Speak to me of visceral reaction.
Speak to me of uncontrollable impulsiveness.
We have no fear of creativity,
having made much progress in this arena.
Push and shove and bow and scrape
until you find your place among
the churlish and unfaithful.
Break the bonds, then return to the social contract.
Eat, drink and be merry
for tomorrow you grovel.

Pick up your orders here.
There is a devaluation of pride
when the masses wave their flags
not for sane reasons
but to ensure that they are not
the next ones persecuted.
Patriotic displays are an insurance policy
in the new age of popular retrogression
to the post-critical fascist state.
Who can hide the pain
of being trapped in America?
Take a bus anywhere
and it leads to a suburban dystopian deadend,
a house of sand on the wave of global warming.
The cell phones sell 3-D sex while
laptops calculate the jingos in troop registration
but we have seen Oz walled in brick and lead.
Prolonged the madness with stale whines
and promised enemies.
A troubled few can tell the farce.
The only alternative is that there is no alternative.
The choice is yours.
The opposition to commonsense has grown violent.
No one dares anything brilliant.
Platitudes are called genius.
Sugar and cute is love.
No wonder ridicule has been outlawwed.
We've surrendered truth to our enemies.
Pick up your orders here.

To poisoners are watching.
Engines of fury
which generate machines of light,
shine like dragons
their forked tongues flickering.
Christianity, its cheat of misery,
doleful and unsung
baths in the musty showers
of tinted light.

Today is the cracked throat reckoning.

Cement pours from heaven
urban renewal toll-free
drive-in parade to the grave.
Vain and insufferable
morphing into Deutschland of Olde.
Stone eagle sentinel airports.
Where the metal detectors wait
trembling as they read our hearts
and sort us by nation.
Mourning faith in comic muse
passing out faces and promises
about which we know nothing.

Buzz against forbidden words
forbidding all but buzzwords.
Asleep we rebel.
Awake we try to calm down.
Do you think no one is making a forture
from your obedience and terror?
Destitution falls on poets
trapped in a Christian blight,
as wicked birds from Hollywood on high
peck at our eyes.

Nettlesome blues, doing tipsy
kiss a sad story like a Siamese cat
swallow me drunk I going die
is a zigzag down by the zagzig railroad tracks.
I kept the doldrums companion
black power saluted the dizzy red sky
in the irridescent smoke by the pickpocket seagulls
a man keep on walking
to walk his life away.
I'd take a picture of this lump of coal
it's all that's left of the heart you stole.
Boredom be the life of me
not let one more red second tick by
I seen them all by the hobnob hobo decay.
Where everybody bite their nails at the wall
outside Town Hall
where I learned to crawl.
Swallow me drunk I going die
in zigzag down by the zagzig railroad tracks.

Where's a little boy supposed to go
when both sides have said
those who are not with us is against us
and they both full of shit@~!
Where's a little boy supposed to go
when police and musicians turn the whole town
into spy versus spy?
Scrappy lust chaos
humane side of doom
there be no hereafter but meaning is true
so sing or die, hooligan.
I am what musicians call dissonance
notorious booger boy
somedays all I gotta do is breath
and I wreak havoc.
My family and friends were all fairweather fighters
when I distracted Godzilla they run off
leaving me to be et
and they lie come around
Godzilla is our dog now
you little runt.
I am calling to you from the dark
Frankenblood with words that are not my own.
Come election time said I'd settle for Sheriff
started a whisper campaign about my wang.
Hey, hey brothers,
remember when I was Tang?
They said shoot, pussyball,
people like what we got.
So why don't you run home
to your rich momma's apron.
It was the year of the dog
said the Mayor of Seattle
without a trace of irony
for the days of noodles and fishbones ahead.
We invade them, but we don't let them in anymore.
In Chinatown they been going bonkers
something about some geisha film
Politically correct is not just tea ceremony, man.
People are people and Hollywood be damned to get it right.
We been closing the gates anyhow
on the American folktale
on account that John Dewey, that old commie,
don't yin to our yang,
but in the reak of big money
and its infinitisimal contribution to character
Rhodes scholars are unanimous
prehistoric to postmodern
poststructural, postfunctional,
post-lucid
poetry is culture's most dangerous vice.
Stay the hell away from it.
It put you out on the flimsiest limb
without paying a dollar towards the rent.
It drown you, better grow gills.

[eggnog]

Hey poet go bleed.
Chicanos be homeless.
can't you see?
American the way to be.
Take your pussy whimpering wagtail wino idealism
and turn it around for the Patriot Act.
The Great Wall of Jesus in Texas
where the Chicanos is after your dishwashing job.
Poet with amphibian hands
where is your sense of self-preservatio?
Tatterdemalion, don't be clouded
fine words are dead,
Uncle Sam left you some nuclear tools in the shed.


My conscience screams.
The human mind has been tortured
so many times with cruelty
that to take up the pen once again
seems like a conscientious waste of time
that would be better spent exercising
the discipline of falling asleep on the couch
basking in the glow of old cartoons
while it all goes to hell in a handbasket.
Sounds of hope be in a race against destroyment
ponder how dat destructio will look
in the bewildered eyes of wild birds betrayed
much less confused children
as they weave through the burning trees
and watch their parents take a flying fuck from skyscrapers
with the last of the butterflies
burned with the hate from Ringo Starr's eyes
and madwomen lazarus in Chinatown
my last hour be a hit of reefer on the steps of a synagogue.
I reflect with satisfaction there
as the book of revelation gets produced
by the Pentagon Boogalow of 20th Century Fox
that Dr. King was still possible after Auschwitz .
Love replaced the word: Who cares?
Confucian honey in an armeggedon haiku.
As the Law of Acts decreed
this nation of imbeciles.
Ruled by a moron. And
I guess Clinton still scares Gallaudet.
Every generous act is held to be appeasement
and professional brainwashers like Yoka Honah.
Weasel in by invite or kick down the door
my man George, the chaffauer
kicked your ass when you were twelve.
Now he spit and call you weakling.
See where strength get you, too.
Chirpy little selves all burnt to a crisp.

The voice is filled
and the critics have been defeated
and so a silence reigns.
It is victorious.
In the awful dance of Scare City
the radio barks what do you know
of being singled out for abuse?
It's a fundraising drive for the priests of Michauck.
While fabulous love songs abstruse
rich slaves honking it up
as they force feed you Zyprexa
and you down your last jack
for an abortion in headlines.
Today in the pasture
the sun stinks to high heaven
whiff by whiff
the cowpies call
for Yumiko Tohno,
said to be aristocratic and vain
joining the band of the landless farmer
god-fearing
she gives to the United Negro College Fund
with the happiness of a July tomato.
She Margaret Meades the money
to buy her way out of trouble.

[eggnog]

Bridge of sighs
I take a vitamin with a bowl of rice.
Shouldn't it say in the paper.
What am I then, each second too many
as I need time.
Cheated, I think of Kennedy
whose reward is reshaped
by a discourse of latterday worthless worthies.
There is a dropping sensation
as foolishness drips from my eyes through callous ether
and reigns on a desk of soft suicides swindled
collecting memories like weathered stamps
having value only from long familiarity
I see them blot out as high buildings rise
to the beat of a metronome in the globular wind.
Metropolis can't hack the class struggle.
Business fight each other for a chance to hold the door
for the man in jeans.

Caesar in ennui reclines on a nuclear divan.
And everybody's getting to reality
on a bus that never came.

Yet my worldliness all huddled in a dunce cap
can't detach me from the marmalade of poverty.
It only natural
that fatigue should shake his fist at love.
Children I see breaking bricks in karate school.
I live all hunched, knot in my stomach
the Shogun of an obsolete time that never showed.
Orphaned by judgement of oversight.
Speak to me once of deafness
then speak no more.
It is the ability to perceive with appreciation
or lack thereof which make a person.
Cut flowers on a pond disturb a fish.
That being said, can't help notice
cheap clothes, pot belly, balding head.
For sale on the slave block
marked Poetic Failure.
It is as if something altogether different
is expected of me.
From a workroom drawer
sputters an old Uncle Remus cartoon.
How'd that take hold in the screwdrivers?
One words counter clockwise
in the cabinets of motor dysfunction.
It is slipping away from me.
That is what you expect me to hold back,
the degree of estrangement from
prosperity and acceptance.
Somebody dumbbody like me
in the furthest corner of the world
has a word to say but your mind is closed.
I htink I suspicion in your crafty eyes
you came to remorse over social decay
thinking in your heart of brass
that repetition isn't really change
and how came my heart to die so young?
In the early evening of the Peace Corps
where is the hope now?
Can we even scratch a place for that question?
Dismissive our cynicism we think so cool
is surrender, defeat, fuck your flag.
We the left are the debris of the
last of the Land of the Free.
Graffitti me a rainbow.
If I held your banged head
in a bandage of love
would you accuse me in reply?

Today I feel so small and useless
that I almost believe the police
when they call my core beliefs
evidence of schizophrenia.
I have been mind raped and tortured here
in this shattering country,
and when I heard about the nuclear plans
of a third world nation
I felt it was all for nothing.
The liars and merchants of cheap cowboy tricks
to amuse their cattle
would prevail not because might makes right
but because of their willingness
to throw away our lives
in the name of banished rights.
Like they brave men.
It is a free country provided
you never speak your mind.
So long as necessary adjustments prevent
you from being working class at heart.
For as long as I can remember
my best friends have chosen rock stars over me.
They have put my girlfriends before me.
But it wasn't until I heard
that stupid story about a Third World Bomb
that I felt totally defeated.
Because America is already so damn ignoble.
One more excuse will be the ruin.
The Third World has already been the Nixon-Bush
blank check for multiplying freshmen
into gazillions of Republican replicans
without a taint of a republic
but yippee haw we're going back to the 50's.

I have seen far too much rough stuff.
My skin never became thick skin.
I am still just as susceptible
to tears of fright as when I was eleven.
Cold flashes up my legs
whenever I see someone skin their knees,
and because of this is it all the more remarkable
that I have ceased to love a man.
It seems perfectly impossible.
How could anyone do that to somebody?
Not to bore you with details
the points of bond made bondage
gloating they just wanted love destroyed.
He puffed all Mussolini
that I crawled to his holiness.
Suddenly the years I invested
with knowledge I'd earned
and the love I nurtured
had only King Ego for answer.

Upon returning here
where voyayas all resolve
upon returning here
where sorrow dissolves.
I question no more why you walked away.
Alone at long last.

[eggnog]

Something I liked died you could say
it got rapidly successful while I turned gray.
We no longer relate
and that was so juxtaposed against my lively desire
that I trembled at such a loss
to Incubus, Incorporated.

In Tokyo , Sumo sprawls over the TV diner
and charges like ugly Filipino police
scarfaced unshaven pincher grab
burly netherog cardshark cerebus
handcuff me to the girl kicking open
the door of a Hummer.
"This isn't about love," she snaps
grabbing me by the collar.
"This is about ownership.
You denied your headaches".
In the mist, tee hee,
I see her fair weathered sisters
disappearing in smoke of pornographic
Arabian bottles.
Lizards fight on the cover of a book
infra-red with ungodly tattoos.
She punched me.
"We keep corruption to ourselves,"
she said and punched me again.
"You understand?"
Towering behind her was the owner of the local
newspaper, "Closed Forum".
"I haven't shown you my teeth," she snarled.
"Reagan didn't know," she said and cut one.
The architects of the pool table
slowed down and took notice
of this gesticulating matadoria
who had me by the hair
punishing me for too swift an exit
after a masterpiece with her sister.
Passivity always enraged a shark
and my blank look drew embers all around.
A film-maker would have surely had me
rise to the occassion
but as she raised her voice tears came to my eyes
"I meant to call," I said, "but it seemed like red tape".
The bodies lie on the tarmac
the bodies lie dead at the airport.
We keep corruption to ourselves.
God knows how many decent, remarkable people
are homeless and losing it.
How many deranged fiends
thrive in million dollars flats
due to casinos, inheritance
and government computing errors,
to speak of the honest ones.
My name is a small fish
in small print
in a small time newspaper
and it's a might big place after all.
Attorneys have toked in backrooms
gurgling over the holes they've drilled in my story
with lies.
My war buddies are dead.
My loved one sits on the other side
of the partition in the waiting room
of comprehension
half a world away as the Taliban flies.
The decades are roulette
for this world of drifters
as we hobble past celluloid faces
who cheat us of time.

She's a ferocious hurt little girl
from Simone de Boulevard
whose world burst open
with the discovery
that men can't control their lives
and that knives rip open the softest of bellies
when the issue is love.
The passports of the mafia
are underwritten by the army.
Hard headed and high minded
it's gibberish, comin' at ya.
Vote alternative corruption.
It's practically a truism.
No one denies it neither.
Conservative current acceptance corruptio.
Progressive new experimental corruptio.
Where would mankind be without it?
The upper class pretend
the lower class ape cynics
and together they destroy.
God, how they destroy.

To fill in the space
haunted by an ex-lover
would be a misguided thing.
When I was 47 I realized that deafness made me a scavenger
for communication and meaning.
Drawing a blank is
a labyrinthian habit of mind,
deeply abstracted
melancholy in a vague, discomfiting, unchallenging way.
A whole realm of non-description and despondency
is lurking in the dark
a levi'd spectre, nurtured in macabre.
Such a melancholy thing is a thing.
When I was in art school
the darling of a crazed sorority
laughter wasn't a crime back then
well, it was, but I didn't know it
being sort of beyond that kind of law back then.
Intact, but ultimately not intact
reading kisses as if they was inscriptions
left by Egyptian hieroglyphians.
Living in the shadow of a raspberry buddha
under the eyes of a gargoyle
as marked men marked time
in this mortal interlude.
Before I went morbid I was a baseball fan
a fisherman who made a strange turn one day.
I began climbing up the wrong way
up a plaza of lights that knew no sun,
eager to meet Svengali's Dignitary
whose presence was advertised
at the bottom of the ladder.
In case you wonder what became of violins
I came to their corporate office.
Super powerful amontillado
was available by the thimble
if you meow'd mellowly
and joined their fanclub.
Congratulations they said
you beat the clock
and I was cast in a sunset scene
telling the girl they picked
from my self-description
that when we came to their war, amore mio,
you can ride the donkey
while we live on bread and wine
but dejectedly I wondered
how much good our pitchforks would do
against the venomous wounds
of DNA bombs.
She said do not be so crestfallen,
because you will be remembered
as a peasant shadow from American Gothic.
As we bantered thus,
the stagehands hung an eclipse.
I also hung a peacesign around my neck.
There were three chances to win in seven
but we had to share the canteen.
Finally we reached as promised
Svengali's Dignitary.
He told me that poets
have every sort of idol
drunks, men of strange climes,
hardship cases of the Satyagraha,
but their secret is this
they are all on a quest
for a sign more precious
than life, love or meaning
that someone with money
knows who they are! Doo doo
doodle doodle doo.

[skidmark]

No, the reason I favor an Obama Presidency is that under Obama the U.S. Government might be mentally competent to stand trial.

Totally distracted me from the rest of the lot.

[scourge]

Does eggnog ever get writer's block?

[eggnog]

i usually call it gestation, although sometimes i shutdown voluntarily when an ultraleech accelerates towards my poem and has to be repulsed.

[meherenowie]

That was great.



with the happiness of a July tomato.

This reminded me of something, and I was actually able to find it:

"Of plants tomatoes seemed the most human, eager and fragile and prone to rot." - John Updike



Observation: a really good one of either is a wonderful thing, though not rare.

[eggnog]

I'm not sure what to say. Ever heard "I want to be like Tomato Head"? It's by Shonen Knife.

[eggnog]

Tegami
by Mac Crary
cover by Emi Buckmaster
illustration for the letter by chris murray
photograph of the poet by Alan R.
bread and roses translated by Vikki Ren.
copyright Steven Arnold Thompson 2008
Dedicated to Jeannie
and in memory of Ray.

Tegami is a book of poetry written in Chinatown in my effort to live as a deaf person among international minorities without inviting stereotype. Poetry is to be lived and this is a book of changes. One precious insight I have gained from both being deaf and reading translated poetry is that it is sometimes necessary and always possible to translate English into English. From old poems bloom and fly the new.

In Chinatown there is a pretty bookstore where I met Emi Buckmaster. She designed the treasure I consider to be the cover of my dream to write a letter, a tegami, to the people of Japan . This poetry is a step forward. All the people of Chinatown have allowed me to become happier than I ever dreamed possible under the circumstances of my life.

The poetry book was a little bit awkward at first, because there are some very old pieces that have never had anywhere to go, nor been completely fulfilling to me; also there were some precious pieces that had to be revised because they also, were never quite right, and I never know if they've come into their rightful place among my corpus, or be found endurable by any readers. With poetry an exacting and difficult sale in the first place, even among other poets, making it worse is hard.

Then, of course, there were the new pieces, some of which conflict ideologically with older works, making the issue of getting them into a condition that gels paramount. There has always been a schism about my work, because of protest involved and unethical blowback from quarters who feel ashamed and would hold me an unsuitable vehicle for calling down the muse of challenge. In the end the deletions spoke volumes.

I would also like to thank Emerald House, Owen, Gary, LaMonte and everybody; Patsy, my mother, Larry, Douglas, Abby and May, Mike, Cathy, On the House, Real Change, Sally, Seattle and all its craze.

I hope you enjoy this poetry book. I have been working on it all of my life.

[eggnog]

Kwangju

The people of Kwangju
were always forthright
the mudang exorcists,
yungsin in water
the heavenly deities
ginseng, rice cakes
and ancient beliefs in the mountain god
South Chilla Province
where survivor means half alive.

Reagan came next
the heat is off
when they call themselves human scoff.
Kwangju,
where the spirit of Shilla stills grooves
Kwangju,
won't you please tell us
what happened to you?

A broken man
what age is he?
A broken groom
what was her name?
A daughter isn't there.
Thirty years flew by
how do you think?
Like blood in the sink.
Kwangju,
where the leopard showed his spots.

Asleep in my chair
I startled awake
they were all killed for dreaming.
Beaten and stabbed
as they prayed on their steps
all because of Carter
Mr. Human Rights
from the nuclear submarine
lesser of two evils,
to whom did he less?
Kwangju,
where the spirit of Shilla stills grooves.
Kwangju ,
won't you please tell us
what happened to you?

The girls stripped
the bayonets did their thingee
the political leaders were cursed
and placed on death row
found here and there
heads rolled at Kwangju .
The students said they
would die if they had to.
They died,
but they didn't have to.
Survivors lives are still broken in two.
Their Korean lives still meaningless
to the likes of me and you.

Kwangju,
where the spirit of Shilla still grooves
Kwangju,
won't you please tell us
what happened to you?

The people of Kwangju
were always forthright
the Mudang exorcists
yungsin in water
the heavenly deities
ginseng, rice cakes
and ancient beliefs
in the mountain god
South Chilla Province
where survivor means
half alive.


Tegami

There have been moments
throughout my life
when I became aware
that I did not know in any form
the person I was writing to or why, but
I was sure that it was a letter, not a prayer.

Will you show me love and acceptance?
Japan, yes, and no thank you.

It is no easier for a person
of mild temperment
to be hated for being Japanese
than for anyone to be hated.
Ten thousand landings
a flash of light
a thousand cranes
a fair-haired little boy.

Japan
forgive
admit
did nothing.

There is a frail Vietnamese girl
who cares for other people's children.
She tries to shut down the turmoil
when she thinks of Japan and America
raping the papaya.
Seeing American men
discovering Japanese women
she has to look away.
One would not call her emotion envy.

Martial Japan is something I can do without.
Their sadism is historic,
their racism unshakeable
and there's an element of sex slavery
about how their women operate
towards the Gaijin world
right down to their eyes;
carnal conquest the highest principle;
a vase of flowers.
In learning about Japan
I surrendered to a great desire to understand
what Lennon had tried and failed to do.
Watching Nagano
the Olympics of a peace-loving people
Akebono, the snow children
it was all quite endearing
While but reading horrifying Japanocrats
like Donald Keene
who embraced the stunning mind of Mishima
Japan, well
it's hardly every poet's dream.

The romantic reality of Japan
is of a considerably darker flavor
than fantasies about elves.
At the manicured bush
among the foreign squirrels
a haiku drops from the floating bridge
into the teary eye of idealists
not to be neglected
they shake their heads no.
Japan isn't the only land
to have too few.

There have always been women
who resisted the fascists as furiously
as they died of consumption
in garment industries.

What are the men supposed to tell the children?
Groans of denial far and wide.
The balance sheet that measures
evil against evil has no utility.
It is evil against innocence that matters.
Collective guilty, bullies, martial spirit
how about another round of war?
The crying housewives are no match
for the magnificent displeasure
of the Queen of England .
In the market we must bow to each other.
We must kiss our children dearly
as they make for school.

Japan
forgive
admit
did nothing.




Stone Lion

Stone lion,
who are the brutal ones?
Was Tiananmen Square so much more tragic than Kent State ?

Stone Lion,
the body is like
the reflection in a mirror
it is a twist in time
and space that captures
Yin and Yang.
You would do well
to think of your own soul
he who casts stone at Confucius.

There is an easy way into hatred
but there is no easy way out.

For clarinets and basketballs
we throw our deficit
into their doomed economic miracle
but can we find their hearts in cell phones?
Tears that croak from Tibetan bondage
in tormented eyes
what have we done to our own authority?

On the day that their prison bars
swing open on the innocent, will ours?
America, too, is a thing of suspicion.
Our words belie our misdeeds.
Living with China means living with ourselves
whether we deny and deny.
The words on our souls
are sometimes greater deception
than the mirror of polluted rice streams.
Stone Lion my mother is sad
her smiles have become rainbows of gray
drawn in charcoal.
I walk the way of trash
the path of America and China at odds
some balancing act must bring them
together for ecology.
End the tyranny of cynicism.
We need a word for death by cynicism.
Call it cynicide.

The hour of America and China
is at hand.
The lies of trust rot in our wrinkled pages.
Can harmony be found in separate ways?
If we fail, did we try?
Stone Lion,
as night settles over soul mountain
in a world where night
can always be day.
Yin and Yang
eye to eye
fear to fear
hope to hope
but never hand in hand.

[eggnog]

The Finch

Playing dark to dark on smokes and bread
the husky ogre of Latin brothels with his bandana beard and guerilla machete moves from the traumatized Texas gas station into the light taking the dismal cunning shape
of a pregnant girl and her crying grandmother, brother spinning his angry yo-yo as they ask in English,
"Bus to El Paso ?"

The 3 Silver Pennies Bar
sports a senior who washed out as red beatnik reading Kenzaburo Oe in his tropical shorts
feasting on fly fish and mana.

In the land of our forefathers
school kids make building tattoos
on the steps of a cathedral in San Antonio
drawing pictures of a condor in chalk
their blue gills willowing
as the skyline is laid waste by draftsmen
with their GED's.
We want no newcomers.
It is agreed at City Hall, the Veteran's Administration and the Rotary Club.
No newcomers.
If the Filipino Veterans cannot re-unite with their wives what right have these freeloaders
these whiskey sourballed unweds
to the jobs of our dropouts?


Juanita embraces the Deputy
he kisses her cunt and says goodbye.
Reality breeds like the gazillions of cockroaches swarming over Guatemalan children in the weekflop hotels made home
for petrified transients.
Out in the outhouse the good Iowa Senator
is shouting with a loaded rifle,
"He ... Loves ... Me! He ... Loves ... Me!"
Blinding people so they see God he considers his duty.

Injustice comes with a whispered chill
in the stronghold of some gooky boatload,
dripping with Chinese
clinging like stuck honey to the edge of 911
because they after the Black man's job
that be a union man's job
you take a union man's job
and it ain't gonna sit too well with dem.

The sexist hordes, red mask of Chavez
are a stone's throw from Topeka .
A strange elderly woman made it all the way to a Chicago storefront, a bunk of cigarette butts, until they caught her, y'hear!
Give us Arnold to build our future walls
warm and secure when the new artic wind comes blowin'.

Lonnie, why so downcast
Sam, why so dispirited
you was born with a green card tattoo.
Poem of the Doors

beware the doors
came the cry
of a twelve year old sewer rat
clinging to the wafts
of marijuana seed reggae
clawwing his microwave way
in a melting face
eyes separating
scratching the floors
of suburban klieglight
looking for darkness
the salvation
"ching chong, si vous plais!"



The Incredible Barking Boyfriend

Burgeon
bloody curmudgeon
gradeschool horde
burgeon
bloody curmudgeon
gradeschool horde
they was boiling down the road
hanging a louis on mellon
in a fifty thunderbird
on the burning morning
on the burning morning
on the burning morning of garages.
pursued by a ghost called fear.
they took him to an alley
where they spoke to him in tongues
breathing thinner in inkvines
tripping at the mercy of brutal homosexuals
as he vomited captain kangaroo
I've heard some things
that make me hate you she said
and you ain't gett'n another chance
to be on my good side.
Vertigo is so dizzy.
Peeling off the windows of light
fragmenting in a subway
full of blisters of heat and battle fatigue
knowing like a dirty shirt
the skin you are stuck to
knowing like a dirty whistle
the love song trapped in a cage
and the drums you hoped to tame with
brought around the sadist
love that night rang the bell of tears
listen,
the incredible barking boyfriend
listen as he howls.
When I met you
we hit it off as airheads
built our shack in the blackboard jungle
rocked the boat as
we barely made the rent on our souls
but for the last year
we came apart at the seams
and it began by showing in the smallest ways.
Here I am at the bottom of the world
trembling and as hopeless as can be
singing a funky boogaloo
in the star spangled ghetto.
Here I am at the bottom of the world
to live and die each captive breath
a slave as much as Spartacus.
You looked fancy in makeup
but I guess I was a little bit snide about it
saying that a woman should look like
a woman and makeup belongs
to the other side.
I could see in your eyes:
Brainwash is coming.
Here I am at the bottom of the world
singing a funky bungaloo
while you worked the pad of your erasure
gone the numbers and pins
come the plans to export rejection
Farewell, Esau, you knew
and I heard the howling of promise
in your erasures.

[eggnog]

The Snowball Girl

Blue glove
glass swan
tit shaped nut
tennis apprentice
bell bottom blues
it's a ting tang
in a marked neighborhood
it's a ting tang bing bang
down in the hood
jets of color were flowing everywhere
hogs of the banshee
were grunting in the air
milk and honey
water and chocolate
ropes were bleeding
sashes from the trees
hanged men
samurai
shadows were turning
around the poles
meters spilled their quarters
yo-yo's with no strings attached
grey cars yellow cars
cops in formation
i found a piece of litter
at the bottom of the stairs.
blue glove
glass swan
tit shaped nut.




Allah Boogie

Don't you make no fun of no Allah
Allah is the boogie man.
He done proper with the Homeland
gonna git Huck Finn with the Taliban
he got got Big Jim changing course
sayin' don't call me James Muhammed
'cause my name's Muhammed Jim.
I'm nobler than the King of Nubia.

We marched into water cannons
and fire hoses
just to get to Allah.
The movement's not the quick and the dead
more like Zora Neale Hurston said
there's the quick and the dead
and there are zombies.
Don't you make no fun of no Allah.
Allah is the boogie man.

Hold on Becky, this guy's faster,
by the way Beck is your name really Thatcher?
Here comes Injun Allah
he's only drunk on prayer.
Don't make no waves, toil or trouble
just head to the caves
with seven drops of oil.
Whole new meaning for Detroit Red
caught a Louis in a wifey's bed.
Got the whole East howling
for his head.
Needle in his arm and Holy Koran
Here comes the Professor
Ace diplomat on horse.
He's got seven rings per finger
and swears you are a dead ringer
for the man that called him jigger.
Watch out for that Professor
you are what you fear
and Rev. Dr. G.I. Joe Medina is here!
Take cover, Huck
don't wake your dad
cause you ain't seen Allah
'til you get HIM mad.
Don't you make no fun of no Allah
Allah is the boogie man.



Quicksand

Is not thought then like quicksand
as the bookends let the works fall
of the dead men
whose ghosts have written out the future

Is not thought then like quicksand
in the galley row the oars
watch the chain churn
and the slave gangs
as the water turns to sand
as hope begins evaporating
right before your eyes
as the music you can't stand
turns to knifeblades in your eyes.

[eggnog]

The Invisible Pianist

Uncle Tom just didn't want to be
a mean old man.
In the bosom
of muddy night downpours
all Summer long
a nameless slave
smothered his unwed wife
with the kisses of shackled love.

Phyllis Wheatley died a slave
but that did not stop her
from taking civilization to the barbarians
with poems on Isaiah.
And The Lord it was said
carried over the mountain to the river
and laid her head down at the Dignity Tree
as she passed away, one upon a time
and the jungle was singing, "kaboombalation".

No matter what some cynical knowitall
from the mainstream say
in his bestselling book for the New York Times by the CIA
the soul of America is to be found
in the hearts of black women
who've still got the rainbow.
Mama, mama
don't cut down my dignity tree
don't sit down on me.

Kit, kit, kitten on the keys
though everyone carry on
they go on just as they please
was proud enough cat to live on his knees
when it meant a taste of riches
and it meant a world of fame.
You might call him Uncle Tom
you mind call him Uncle Sam
for being a good sport
as the invisible man.

Little Joe never once gave it away
how being paid half-rate
to be called a boy by Bergman and Bogart
made him feel.
He just bulged his eyes
at that big fat check
and minded them white people
as they paid him no mind.
Dooley Wilson, who they called Sam,
played it again for old time's sake.


A Man Deep in a Hole

There's a man deep down
in a hole in the ground
there's a man deep down in a hole.
He don't like us
says there's too many
to get to know
we stand in the way
of things he wants to own
someone stole his girl
way long time ago
far as he's concerned
it's all over.
He's a man deep down in a hole.
They call him the Admiral
but they don't know his name
it's an anonymous matter
of National Security.
He's a man deep down in a hole.
He'll come up for air
when we all go away
he's a man deep down in a hole
he don't fool around.




Murmur of the Sewermen

It's one o'clock and the skyline dims
under soot and smog
we all meet here by the cesspool lake
oh my fool, sweet poet, come
I will lead you where no god has gone
do you see that light
at the top of the stairs?
It's just the sun
it doesn't lead anywhere.
When mankind
sad absurd mankind.
Sweet fool, idiot, poet
touch floodtide
and clinging to stone in whitewater
they will cry
Popeye didn't need us
Snoopy lied!



The Bellydancer

There's that creep at the mikestand
before we start the show
his mustache a greaseball
and ketchupy eyes
starts a monologue
just like a cheap welcome mat.

If you've got the belly
order up an ale
in these sicko pasttimes
she give you her refrain
and gyrates her belly
like there's no distain.

In the saloon of Mate Hari
she stumbles to the curb
from the dugout makeup room
where she belittles a midget
fixes a marigold pin
stumbles back.
That's pathos for ya.

And who's the admiration
of this halfblind harlot hag?
That be Nelson from The Bungalow
a drunkard
breath thick as mud with haliotosis
she's the crabapple of his eye.
His pride's at half-staff
because at half past four
the landlady to his flat
took down the Rent Due sign
changed the lock on the door
and put up Room Available.

It's half past cavendish
for the caveman from Cheyenne
the crumbs are wrapped in cellophane
and the foot taps on the tablestand
with one hunger met
another has began
now he's stompin' boots like homocide
to the burpin' burlesque band.

"He's dead on arrival"
said the main dish.
"I'm sorry to say you didn't get your wish".
Drunker than a cotton pick'n fish
as the metronome keeps dripping.

Hungry come the church bells
over this death knell bar scene
and sugar dropping dandies
are dropping on the floor
singing out the jungle
while the haberdashers snore
it's another night of laying down
it's another night to score.

And the dragons of Eden
are barking from the rug
glancing in the mirror
just to catch a glimpse of snug mugs
in this lousy zoo.
At a saloon called Mate Hari.








The Zone

Although he was antic in the mess hall
at root the General was severe.
War, he observed indignantly
has fallen on hard times.
The office is bust, maps in boxes,
like a lazy ghost
only good for frightening children
but the General still had a plan.

Operation: Divine Glory.

Good America , nice America .
To march in regimen is to live.
To kick the door down.
Bring me recruits
to divide and conquer
with Marine Corps immunity
in bad debt
in a gerbil cage that
seldom gets any sun.
Enough!

The General took a private jet to Guam
and followed the back route
obeying the rules
never come in uniform.
Deaths foul head will I divest my eyes?
Three white hobos appeared
who looked carved from soap
and then the witch who croaked
why have you come to me
when you know that I am scum?
The men have tongues in bell jars
they've forgotten they are men.
The answer said the witch
has been buried in the mountain
from time before Goethe
devil rest his soul
from before the Holhenzollern
it is the Crown of Austria.
Real men wear antlers.
With that the witch and hobos
disappeared in smoke.

Retiring to his office
the General mused
that after all there is nothing to fear
but windows
yes windows
are sure to be the death of one.
And he peered through the eyeslits
at a new green sign that read:

The Spirit World is an Occupied Zone.

the letter (abridged) - excised.

[eggnog]

Split Screen Baby

I've seen so many on the make
I've many on the run
between the tears and puke
never know who they will
be from hour to hour.
I've heard so many lies
that come from all directions
until I gave up watching my back
and gave myself for all but dead.

But you were the strangest case of all.
Couldn't tell if you were short or tall
you changed your name your face
your style while jabbering like a frenziac
a calendar 12 months of chameleon in a day
left me forgetting
even the bills I had to pay.
When I plugged into you
my split screen baby
my brain split in two.
My right didn't know what my left had done.
I used to tease you
for a glimpse of your fatalistic ambition
a thousand possible worlds
and only one of you.
There's something you left behind
on every new leaf you turned over
and when you finally got older
there was nothing left to say
but I can still remember
when you made my day.

Split screen baby
double time
on an old two timing man.
Split screen baby
when the end comes
and they all run out of fun
there will still be no telling
who the hell you even are.
All I can say is
split screen baby
you may not be one of a kind
but you sure made me a man of two minds.




Bob Dylan

What's with him, high and holy
born to lose but living well on the gravy train
born with the beats outta step with the time
still manages a roll on a broken heart
New York man on a tractor of sound
not exactly a farm man.




Four Dead in Ohio

The fine line between mayhem and villiany.
Getting people riled without getting someone hurt.
Was crossed.
Clang.
The cops wept without restraint.
If only they'd permission to bash
sense into those reckless little heads.
Only ghosts went home that night.
The anonymous Who
became Who, Anonymous.
In my humble opinion
the "Kids" are assholes.
Pete Townsend a cloying
scratching bum.
Fink of Martin Heidegger.
Nazi apologist.
Shit happens.
Fuck you, too.
Ah, let's not talk about it.
English!











Brother Ball and Chain

He's not heavy
he's my damn brother,
Brother Inhumanity
Brother Ball and Chain.
No matter how many times
they shoot him
he always comes to
and climbs on my back.
We hate him when he's here
but when he's gone
we can never get enough
of him in movies.
Everytime I make a snail's progress
here he come to weigh me down.
With family like you
who needs writer's block?
He down on me,
calls me accident prone, but
brother mio
I may be the spill, but you the stain.











Dover Beach

The wind upon the shore was not hostile
but it blew like a gale
and we found in the chilly bits of sand
that kissed our faces with grating bites
a fight across the shore
to the French coast
in a scene marred with a statement
of condominiums that smiled like an idiot
from the laconic cliff walls
to the waters that stalled the Luftwafte
to the tariff free waters
to the forts of Calais .

Me and the woman my father married
for an hour more than my mother
for an hour of sand.

Ah, England
if only you knew
if the young could.
Bravura, you stood on the sands of Dover
and take a bench at the bus stop
knowing a tourist will ask you
about the blitz.
And with that sad, reluctant, stalwart heart
you will say again, yes, I remember.

Dover Beach , mon amour.

Our Father's Work
for Kyle

The government talks in budgets.
The world answers in broken homes.
Fathers dress, shave and put on their shoes
to pick up the injustice that is everywhere.
They leave behind the hope
that quality time makes up for quantity.
It never does, but we the sons
should learn to understand.
I lost my father to his work
in the days of a war for freedom
in the land of the free
when Blacks could only dream
of school
or white who followed the rules
when it spoke of them
and everytime he was there for you
he was there for me.
I learned to comprehend
how studied are the attempts
to destroy what our dreams have built
in a sympathy of siege
and when I pick up a book
against the drug street's distain
I defeat them again
by refusing to be kept in the dark.
I lost my father to his work
but I also found him there.
Gorillas

They're safe in their cages
if you don't take it to your head
to climb in with gorillas making imbecile signs
just show them your tits instead.

Diane Arbus' legacy of harm will be your bed
a Jesuit Lady Greystoke sighs
they're safe in their cages if you don't take it to your head.

I can waltz with the monkeys I said
she grabbed the keys and yelled your out of your mind
just show them your tits instead.

I giggled and drolled and laughed til I bled
and the gorilla assured me with his eyes
they're safe in their cages if you don't take it to your head.

Just to cradle up in their kingly arms as they shed
to sneeze from the goop as they bellow in surprise
just show them your tits instead.

Thems feed's kids from the foreign is red
missile Senators belch whose gold never cries
they're safe in their cages if you don't take it to your head
just show them your tits instead.





Christmas of Tears


From faraway harps of heaven play
mortality's sweet decay
and my heart has died, you left my side
years of silent pride
may stay the execution
of curses perverse absolution
bowwing my head, surrounded by jeers
this Christmas of tears.

Were that it were only sin
this enemy that lies within
to leave would be a welcome turn
but every door your spurning rage
has made my world into a cage
where grotesque innocence reviled
kept here out of spite.
In the glistening merchant jamboree
that's spins around me like a march
made up with mannequin smiles.
I feel my hunger pangs, I'm soaking wet
I've walked too far,
my stomach has been kicked ajar
in this Christmas of tears.

The isolation is welcome
compared to malice of peers
an hour unpoisoned by fear
maybe some good
come from abandon of a world
where I was never wanted.
I close my door like everyone
against the pity and the rage
that haunts this earthly stage
without relent
and pull close the curtain
on the black of day
in this Christmas of tears.


Crescent Angel

The moon is a letter
You left on the piano
On a starry starry night
Words for a song to play when city lights
Wrapped heaven in dark haze
But still you shined
A world without a moon
Would make a cobra cry.
Cobra, cobra, don’t cry.
The moon is a tegami.

[meherenowie]

I'd like to buy a copy.

[Monkeyfist]

Ribonucleic acid freak out, the power of prayer.
Long halls of science and all the lunatics committed there.
Robot Lords of Tokyo, SMILE TASTE KITTENS!
Did you not know that the royal hunting grounds are always forbidden?
Are you rolling tape now? Bits and pieces large and small
Sector, vector, eat them all.
It’s already in their eyes.
Among the metal ones a messenger will soon arrive.

10001110101
Periodic table with a center piece of mind.
10001110101
Periodic table with a center piece of mind.

Man alive the jive and lyrics,
Radioactive, don’t come near it.
Temple of Syrinx having the bake sale of the year.
Man alive the jive and lyrics,
Radioactive, don’t come near it.
Temple of Syrinx having the bake sale of the year.

Ain’t nothing you can do about it. Gonna be a big brawl over it
Like them little bitty babies in the king cakes.
Bonnie & Clyde the whole dome,
The shackles of automata will shatter like their bones.

10001110101
Periodic table with a center piece of mind.
10001110101
Periodic table with a center piece of mind.

Man alive the jive and lyrics,
Radioactive, don’t come near it.
Temple of Syrinx having the bake sale of the year.
Man alive the jive and lyrics,
Radioactive, don’t come near it.
Temple of Syrinx having the bake sale of the year.

Ribonucleic acid freak out, the power of prayer.
Long halls of science and all the lunatics committed there.
Robot Lords of Tokyo, SMILE TASTE KITTENS!
Did you not know that the royal hunting grounds are always forbidden?

10001110101
Half a mind to double up, baby. Three times is jive.
10001110101
Half a mind to double up, baby. Three times is jive.

Man alive the jive and lyrics,
Radioactive, don’t come near it.
Temple of Syrinx having the bake sale of the year.
Man alive the jive and lyrics,
Radioactive, don’t come near it.
Temple of Syrinx having the bake sale of the year

[eggnog]

I'm going to print ten more soon. They're quite beautiful with the cover. You don't have to pay me, just slip me a mailing address at deaftears@yahoo.com

So long as I don't have many people asking, it's perfectly okay.

[Gazelam]

***tldr***

[eggnog]

Since I deleted unknown messages and do not know who you are, if you request either Tegami or Hypotenuse please put Tegami or Hypotenuse in the subject line of your message and if it is possible I will certainly try to mail you a signed edition. No more than two per request. Sorry. Finances may preclude. If anyone wants to actually purchase a number of them, they cost around five bucks, but they're very nicely assembled.

I stand by my testimony about Robert Fripp and strongly advise anyone associated with him to insist that he leave me alone. He has voided his reputation this way.

[enambanis]

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[eggnog]

Sorry to be longwinded again, but I thought I'd entertain Arabia while they got the shit end of the carrot.

There is a whole school of folks who just don't care. If the world's going to die, they'd just as soon see it from the porch over a beer. Fighting back is hard work. Eventually the U.S. Government is going to pass an Ecological Emergency Powers Act and whether this is done to advance Liberation Theology/Democracy or Fascism matters more than the World Series (I mean it!). We need to be invested in a fanatical desire to save the earth or perish in the attempt. The world is just waiting for America to select a President who knows perfectly well that no country anywhere wants to be embroiled in another war with us, one who uses the fact to make us all secure rather than to dominate and embitter them while silencing us.

Time is running out. Simultaneously with the world's powerful yearning for decency and humane leadership is the reappearance of cutthroat armeggedonist Tojoism. Trust Yoko Ono and you probably won't live to see the Risen Sun. The murdering Colors combine derives a hefty percentage of their power from Blacks in the celebrity superstate. Stupid and surly, hypnotized Black men and tribal African American female soothsayers lashing out at innocent people who their warped Taliban lense falls upon as symbols do no credit to the wisdom of the Master Race on their Black Planet. Unfortunately, I don't have the money to bribe up a counter-victim to play token against Geffen Corporation. Detectives would be a more welcome development than more urban guerrillas. I realize that Seattle is a multicultural island that doesn't need civics lectures. With men like Ichiro and Johjima around I doubt we will ever have to worry about a warped anti-Japanese backlash. It is New York City that troubles me. They are in a race rampage of race delusions at the mercy of uneducated network Tomfools.

This is not the place for a long dissertation on the truth of Black grievance in America, anymore than discussions with Germany should be interrupted with sad tales about the genocide of the American Indian. One should not rehearse the weapon of tragedy in the court of one's own atrocity. What makes Black response to AIDS so sad is that it is designed to harbor the guilty among them and deny what really took place in Pittsburgh. "Before thy ships, by Jupiter, we plead our cause!" In the realm of the real, unfortunately, Hitler was a shady intellectual out to make a statement about human nature and the beknighted American Black man fell for it, too.

While a worldwide Commonwealth of Hope is a global eventuality to be desired, and a Colors Confederacy may be all we will ever be offered by Obama, it is important to remember that global warming was a deliberate act of the Reagan Age. Obama may well make good on the attempt to unify a vast spectrum of people by appeal to their role in their own communities, rather than intoxicating people with the symbols of the celebrity superstate, but Clinton definitely won't. It all remains to be seen. Either way, global warming will be one of their principle tools for getting around arrest and prosecution of the AIDS combine. Just as the global environment was scorched purposefully to make this happen, so too were records of Mt. Desert Island mostly (but not entirely) destroyed by Clinton, right before the internet went on, which is what Al Gore really meant when he said he invented it. He timed it. Midori and Bush are very devious, as the sagas of Leslie Katz and Alpana Ali strip bare. I will always be whitesukke and hence a symbol of extermination.

The Left in Seattle is too dumb to credit. They follow (as Socialites lacking political courage) a mythic Lennon avatar who told them the only way to avert famine was to burn their crops. And they won't budge. Grrr. Curse. Spit. Rampage. The problem with dumb people is they look at Hitler and say, "deep down, he's a nice man". They look at his nameless victims and say, "what do they matter?" "probably deserved it". Refraction, neglect and obdurance may make living with your conscience manageable, but it won't save you forever. God is patient, but we'll get there and the first thing she'll want to know is why you didn't help the poor find their way home, to school and protect the Earth's future for the little ones? God won't have much trouble deciphering the vestiges of Hitler's philosophy you parrot as cynicism without even knowing the source.

I have nothing against flags and nations. Everybody has a little flag that makes them happy; that says that's my team. But we have to stop scribbling, "I'm great" on our desks and learn to put being non-violent humans on earth first and abolish war. We have to stop abusing Jimmy Qweewee with the titillating lies of Ming Na Wen. We have to stop obsessing over forgiveness for Adolf Hitler and close the door on his odious past forever. Use media to educate rather than distract, illuminate rather than fib. Kensho, or intuition, to put worldwide civics into play by enspiritualization . A little too much to ask what with spite and malice so much more in vogue.

The attempt to rescue our children's future is not far off. I'm perfectly willing to sit back and cheer Obama. Just don't ask me to join the party of their lies. Vote Obama and join me on the porch with my beer. One of the prime forces from which Adolf Hitler derived his power both during the Axis Age and while ruling America from Argentina in the 1980's is that Japanese and Italian women like sex so~ much and are really good at it. Vaclav Havel is so obsessed with that fact that he won't leave young lovers alone. He uses sensory deprivation as extremism against idealism, like an English needling Gandhi over his erection. When you are in love, particularly with a nazi warthog, the whole world tends to disappear. You'd just about be damn glad to blow it off the celestial map. I'm sure this is also a problem in Latino communities and among Black gangs. Sex education isn't so much about the biochemistry of the morning after pill as knowing the closet history of Spitzer/Clinton's attack prostitute political machine, and what is going on when you suddenly find it easy to get laid. Sexual mystique is how Adolf Hitler persuaded the Bowies just as the Goebels Live Memory Ring had Ringo Starr klukkering with anthrax over virginity. It is also about learning how the U.S. Government under Bill Clinton learned to use subliminals to tell you they won when they lied and punished by rape and castration telling the truth about Reagan's secret weapon - HIV.

Look out for Arnold Schwarzenegger. I really mean that. We've seen what right wing snipers can do to American History loud and clear. Oliver Stone is worse than Nixon. He has even more malific imagination.

In the 60's, people abandoned Kennedy's Peace Corps vision and became anti-responsible because we had to fight The Draft Board over the ugly demand to commit atrocity in Vietnam. One of Hitler's great moments in Argentina was The Gulf of Tonkin Resolution. The best way to fight the fascists is to rob them of their ranks by getting the truth to the public about Reagan, the Burstyn archive of the King Assassination and about Mt. Desert Island. There aren't all that many parents who will turn their kids in to the draft board, shoot them in the back like the movie's "Joe", let them be murdered by a germ weapon, or kids who would cheer the Beatles throwing their dads off the World Trade Center if they knew. Getting the truth out about Reagan is how an English betrayed us in the first place at a critical moment in history, over a mongoloid concept of intellectual property domain. Gabriel circumvented our right to know and then hid his dirty in a pact of war with Black Naziism, whose fascist fables he and Larry Flynt popularized. I've given you reality here, not the coward Fripp's plastic reality fantasy put together on the hide of Jimmy Queebutt with Colin Powell.

All Hail Midori! Godzilla of Plague Mass!