Lake Ontario
Saturday, December 13, 1997 Oakville
I
The sounds of poesy are found amidst the sounds of your breath!
Could the force of the moon have pierced our souls?
Language was not necessary to intimate the warmth
Of the moment, two entities coalesced into one wave;
The spirits soared amidst the sighs of ecstasy,
You surrender your mind to the waves of the lake,
Your body transforms the landscape of the shore,
The wind moans among the light of the moon
Only to be absorbed by the oscillation
Of our thoughts that transcend the wind, the waves, and the shore.
II
The waves embraced the shore like the warm, sensuous fringes
Enbraced our spirits, the warm hands that proffer understanding
Grasping for new summits, the firmament offers truths
That the human
Eyes
Cannot transcend or fully fathom.
The silver masts will enlighten the nautical travel through this
Journey of discovery
Into the depths of an intangible and inarticulate consciousness,
Into the depths of your inner being,
Into the depths of your quintessence and into the depths of your river!
III
Are the scents, the silky shapes, the hummingbird’s sighs all part of a dream?
Has my reality been transfigured by this sensitive hummingbird?
Do i wake or do i sleep?
Is the lake murmuring its secrets?
Do i sleep?
Do i wake?
Are the bards with us on this silver twilight?
Is the nautical traveller aware of Aeolus’ powers as these passengers...
Travel
through
Aphrodite’s channels?
Cognizance will proffer growth into a new realm,
A realm that will trumpet...
the golden fruit,
A realm that will continue...
this waking
silver
Dream.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Dawn to Dusk (or beetle)
Dawn to Dusk
The day awakens
But which day is it?
Evening is upon us
What time is upon us again?
Which day is upon us...?
Saturday? Sunday?
All is strange... all is irrelevant
Walls
Yawps
Everywhere.
White... white walls are surrounding him...
me...
him...
Which day is it again?
Noises pierce my space
Where does time travel...
The bell begins to toll yet it does not
toll for me
Immensity... in awe of the immensity
The bells, the countryside, the green
Green pervades here... moments of freedom
Walls, white walls...
Iron bars are suffocating him
The white is blinding
Who will tell us if we can break
the chain?
And jump...
beyond...
In order to find the yellow of the lemons
But his return is always
confronted with
chaos
The ant-like meandering
In the labyrinth of the Minotaur
If only a window
Would allow him to
See the light ...
of the beetle
The day awakens
But which day is it?
Evening is upon us
What time is upon us again?
Which day is upon us...?
Saturday? Sunday?
All is strange... all is irrelevant
Walls
Yawps
Everywhere.
White... white walls are surrounding him...
me...
him...
Which day is it again?
Noises pierce my space
Where does time travel...
The bell begins to toll yet it does not
toll for me
Immensity... in awe of the immensity
The bells, the countryside, the green
Green pervades here... moments of freedom
Walls, white walls...
Iron bars are suffocating him
The white is blinding
Who will tell us if we can break
the chain?
And jump...
beyond...
In order to find the yellow of the lemons
But his return is always
confronted with
chaos
The ant-like meandering
In the labyrinth of the Minotaur
If only a window
Would allow him to
See the light ...
of the beetle
Corners or The Great Canadian Moose
Corners
they sit at corners ... they solicit pedestrians, “Spare some change?”
How many of us recognise their need? as they sit at corners. . .
but our mayor has organised better activities for our cherished citizenry
The great Canadian Moose: they have noble colours...they stand at corners!!
While others sit at corners... who will be their companions? who will see the sadness in their eyes...
they sit at corners...
Lakeshore and Spadina once offered us squeegee kids.. some still stand at corners...
i couldn’t understand what the outrage was all about... they used to sit at
corners...
Instead Toronto is now adorned with the great Canadian Moose... they stand at corners!!
the municipal bylaw forced them off the corners... they no longer sit or stand at corners. . .
Toronto cultivates the “good”... the great Canadian Moose stands at corners now.
.___________________________________
Aristotle, Plato, and Socrates would be proud of our corners
Our polis is cultivating the “aims and pursuits that aim at the good”...
____________________________________________________________
but they sit at corners. . .
The activity of the soul is a noble pursuit...
they still sit at corners somewhere. . .
What is the philosophical view of Toronto’s politicians? What is their view of happiness? The good? Is it equated with the virtue of the soul?with the good?
Oh! oh! by the way... they still stand at corners somewhere. . .
we should sit at corners sometimes...
they, the politicians, should sit at corners... somewhere... sometimes...
what if i might be sitting at a corner somewhere. . .? one day. . .
at a corner. . . somewhere. . .
corners...
corner...
Bloor and Bathurst...
the canadian moose, you, and me... sitting... at corners…
one day… homeless men and women, squeegee kids and me…
-The Great Canadian Moose standing proudly-
at
corners…
you
and
me
they sit at corners ... they solicit pedestrians, “Spare some change?”
How many of us recognise their need? as they sit at corners. . .
but our mayor has organised better activities for our cherished citizenry
The great Canadian Moose: they have noble colours...they stand at corners!!
While others sit at corners... who will be their companions? who will see the sadness in their eyes...
they sit at corners...
Lakeshore and Spadina once offered us squeegee kids.. some still stand at corners...
i couldn’t understand what the outrage was all about... they used to sit at
corners...
Instead Toronto is now adorned with the great Canadian Moose... they stand at corners!!
the municipal bylaw forced them off the corners... they no longer sit or stand at corners. . .
Toronto cultivates the “good”... the great Canadian Moose stands at corners now.
.___________________________________
Aristotle, Plato, and Socrates would be proud of our corners
Our polis is cultivating the “aims and pursuits that aim at the good”...
____________________________________________________________
but they sit at corners. . .
The activity of the soul is a noble pursuit...
they still sit at corners somewhere. . .
What is the philosophical view of Toronto’s politicians? What is their view of happiness? The good? Is it equated with the virtue of the soul?with the good?
Oh! oh! by the way... they still stand at corners somewhere. . .
we should sit at corners sometimes...
they, the politicians, should sit at corners... somewhere... sometimes...
what if i might be sitting at a corner somewhere. . .? one day. . .
at a corner. . . somewhere. . .
corners...
corner...
Bloor and Bathurst...
the canadian moose, you, and me... sitting... at corners…
one day… homeless men and women, squeegee kids and me…
-The Great Canadian Moose standing proudly-
at
corners…
you
and
me
Sonnet to the Anemone
Sonnet To The Anemone feb 10 ,2000
Blue is the scent that it articulates,
Blue is the esssence of its inner core
Lavender to purple-blue are its mates!
The wind summons its foliage evermore,
Anticipate the golden silky head
As it awaits the spledour of the sun!
It is Manitoba’s floral mead;
With the late summer its foliage run
Into your intellect and silky beauty.
i witness your inner patience; ponder
the marvel of your blue scents, your lobes
and the silky grace of your blue flowers.
Your inner core exudes the blue silky seeds
Which enable a soul to grasp the meads.
Blue is the scent that it articulates,
Blue is the esssence of its inner core
Lavender to purple-blue are its mates!
The wind summons its foliage evermore,
Anticipate the golden silky head
As it awaits the spledour of the sun!
It is Manitoba’s floral mead;
With the late summer its foliage run
Into your intellect and silky beauty.
i witness your inner patience; ponder
the marvel of your blue scents, your lobes
and the silky grace of your blue flowers.
Your inner core exudes the blue silky seeds
Which enable a soul to grasp the meads.
Amidst Magnolia
November 18, 1997
Amidst Magnolia
Language articulates an inappellable and mysterious essence
Just like the olfactory resonance of the Western Coast Magnolia.
A creature’s being dictates its essence... existence...?
Amidst the greenery of this platanus acerifolia
We seek shade from the sun’s luminescence.
Yet the inevitable resin that resides from its pale cups effaces melancholia!
And this intellect is capable of clearing a sentinel
Through the plane trees in order to trumpet this flower’s porcelain pink tolling bells .
Ontology is as intangible as the mystery of this flower’s true quintessence.
The quest for being is as axiomatic as the quest for beauty
Yet how does one arrange the various levels of one’s essence?
The sweet chambers of this flower’s mind are as incredible as the immutability of Juno’s beauty
Which quest proffers one to a path of illuminating relevance?
Are the elements of the earth exposed to chance, doubt, viscosity, and mutability?
O, Ariadne weave your golden porcelain thread to open my conscience’s chambers
Guide the scented pale cups, language, ontology to their ultimate bowers.
The harmony of the pink hue announces this saucer’s bouquet of aroma that articulates your cognizance
Of the world, the branches of this inner cove exudes a precious essence.
Amidst Magnolia
Language articulates an inappellable and mysterious essence
Just like the olfactory resonance of the Western Coast Magnolia.
A creature’s being dictates its essence... existence...?
Amidst the greenery of this platanus acerifolia
We seek shade from the sun’s luminescence.
Yet the inevitable resin that resides from its pale cups effaces melancholia!
And this intellect is capable of clearing a sentinel
Through the plane trees in order to trumpet this flower’s porcelain pink tolling bells .
Ontology is as intangible as the mystery of this flower’s true quintessence.
The quest for being is as axiomatic as the quest for beauty
Yet how does one arrange the various levels of one’s essence?
The sweet chambers of this flower’s mind are as incredible as the immutability of Juno’s beauty
Which quest proffers one to a path of illuminating relevance?
Are the elements of the earth exposed to chance, doubt, viscosity, and mutability?
O, Ariadne weave your golden porcelain thread to open my conscience’s chambers
Guide the scented pale cups, language, ontology to their ultimate bowers.
The harmony of the pink hue announces this saucer’s bouquet of aroma that articulates your cognizance
Of the world, the branches of this inner cove exudes a precious essence.
Prelude to a Winter Carol
Prelude To A Winter Carol
Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita\mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,\che la diritta via era smarrita.
Dante, La Divina Commedia
Flakes, flakes, o, flakes... why are you crying? why are you lamenting?
This grey white season, too, shall pass...
What? Pardon? What is it? Are you brooding?
Flakes, flakes, o, flakes... why are you crying? why are you lamenting?
This grey hooded man, too, will cease ...
What? Pardon? What is it? Are you pondering?
Flakes, flakes, o, flakes... why are you crying? why are you lamenting?
This chaotic pounding, too, will efface...
What? Pardon? What is it? Are you ruminating?
Beads, beads, o, beads... what is human nature? why is it roaring?
These trees have signaled the obliterated path. But ... but...
Why? But why are they here? Why? o, why, o, why...
Flakes, flakes, o, flakes... why are you crying? why are you lamenting?
This grey white season, too, shall pass...
What? Pardon? What is it? Are you brooding?
Beads, beads, o, beads... what is human pride? why is it mocking thy mother? thy father? thy father?
These trees have signaled the obliterated path. But ... but...
Why? But why are they here? Why? o, why, o, why...
Icicles, icicles, o, icicles...what is human obtuseness?why is it incapacita- ting him?
These trees have signaled the obliterated path. But ... but..
Is this a question for Thanatos? where is hades? who has summoned the
Minotaur?
Icicles, icicles, o, icicles...what is human vanity?why is it suffocating him? These flowers have enunciated the grey toll. But ... but..
Is this a question for Eros? where is Apollonius? why did Lycius elapse?
Lamia, lamia, o, lamia... why have you come hither? why does your aura
petrify him?
These serpents have imprinted an indelible stain on his soul. But...
Is this a question for Apollo? where is Juno? why did she not sing her hymn?
Tundra, o frozen tundra, o frozen tundra... why have the melodious swallows expired?
These horses have sealed an indelible stain on his mind. But...
Is this a question for a child? where is justice? why do his tears turn into icicles?
O Lucifer, Lucifer, Oh, Lucifer... why have your rings come hither?
These rings: Caina, Antenora, Tolomea, and Giudecca have liquidated his soul!
Is this a quandary for philosophy? where is the blue cave? why do these images -Here- manifest themselves akin to Cocytus?
O Francesca, o Francesca, o Francesca... why has Malatesta come here to slay this child?
This mound emanates not one atom of charm! But... but... why are these barbaric horses thundering at him? This child...
Why have your charms evaporated from these statuesque faces?
O,Plato, o Ariadne, where is the golden fleece image to reveal the sentinel to these barbaric , oscillating horses?
This hammering resonates through the walls of his cerebral hemisphere!
Does this quest transcend this child’s precious temporal lobe sphere... ??!!
Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita\mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,\che la diritta via era smarrita.
Dante, La Divina Commedia
Flakes, flakes, o, flakes... why are you crying? why are you lamenting?
This grey white season, too, shall pass...
What? Pardon? What is it? Are you brooding?
Flakes, flakes, o, flakes... why are you crying? why are you lamenting?
This grey hooded man, too, will cease ...
What? Pardon? What is it? Are you pondering?
Flakes, flakes, o, flakes... why are you crying? why are you lamenting?
This chaotic pounding, too, will efface...
What? Pardon? What is it? Are you ruminating?
Beads, beads, o, beads... what is human nature? why is it roaring?
These trees have signaled the obliterated path. But ... but...
Why? But why are they here? Why? o, why, o, why...
Flakes, flakes, o, flakes... why are you crying? why are you lamenting?
This grey white season, too, shall pass...
What? Pardon? What is it? Are you brooding?
Beads, beads, o, beads... what is human pride? why is it mocking thy mother? thy father? thy father?
These trees have signaled the obliterated path. But ... but...
Why? But why are they here? Why? o, why, o, why...
Icicles, icicles, o, icicles...what is human obtuseness?why is it incapacita- ting him?
These trees have signaled the obliterated path. But ... but..
Is this a question for Thanatos? where is hades? who has summoned the
Minotaur?
Icicles, icicles, o, icicles...what is human vanity?why is it suffocating him? These flowers have enunciated the grey toll. But ... but..
Is this a question for Eros? where is Apollonius? why did Lycius elapse?
Lamia, lamia, o, lamia... why have you come hither? why does your aura
petrify him?
These serpents have imprinted an indelible stain on his soul. But...
Is this a question for Apollo? where is Juno? why did she not sing her hymn?
Tundra, o frozen tundra, o frozen tundra... why have the melodious swallows expired?
These horses have sealed an indelible stain on his mind. But...
Is this a question for a child? where is justice? why do his tears turn into icicles?
O Lucifer, Lucifer, Oh, Lucifer... why have your rings come hither?
These rings: Caina, Antenora, Tolomea, and Giudecca have liquidated his soul!
Is this a quandary for philosophy? where is the blue cave? why do these images -Here- manifest themselves akin to Cocytus?
O Francesca, o Francesca, o Francesca... why has Malatesta come here to slay this child?
This mound emanates not one atom of charm! But... but... why are these barbaric horses thundering at him? This child...
Why have your charms evaporated from these statuesque faces?
O,Plato, o Ariadne, where is the golden fleece image to reveal the sentinel to these barbaric , oscillating horses?
This hammering resonates through the walls of his cerebral hemisphere!
Does this quest transcend this child’s precious temporal lobe sphere... ??!!
The Blue Abyss
The Blue Abyss
The liquids of the core release the pain of the inner chamber,
The atoms are colliding with the fifth dimension.
How does the chariot surpass the clouds of smoke
Where are the philosophers to aid in the dialectic?
Whitman, Keats is the truth found in the blade of grass?
Oh, offer me thy altar so that we may enter your bower’s mass!
Oh, Whitman why is it difficult to sing of myself?
Oh, Keats sleep is ripe within my atoms.
Wait,the chariot looms in the fathomless dark,
The dunes have released the blue melody,
This blue sings of poesy and its powers.
Oh, how we sollicit your powers!
Are you from the chambers of that dark passage?
Will you offer a blue melody for us to pipe?
Are you seeing the blue notes that linger over that pit?
Do you hear the blue grass that whispers its melody?
Are the blue passages within your reach?
Can you reach the chariot form the blue grass?
Are your feet asleep? Has the grass intoxicated your senses?
Do you ever wish to be released from this sleep?
The liquids of the core release the pain of the inner chamber,
The atoms are colliding with the fifth dimension.
How does the chariot surpass the clouds of smoke
Where are the philosophers to aid in the dialectic?
Whitman, Keats is the truth found in the blade of grass?
Oh, offer me thy altar so that we may enter your bower’s mass!
Oh, Whitman why is it difficult to sing of myself?
Oh, Keats sleep is ripe within my atoms.
Wait,the chariot looms in the fathomless dark,
The dunes have released the blue melody,
This blue sings of poesy and its powers.
Oh, how we sollicit your powers!
Are you from the chambers of that dark passage?
Will you offer a blue melody for us to pipe?
Are you seeing the blue notes that linger over that pit?
Do you hear the blue grass that whispers its melody?
Are the blue passages within your reach?
Can you reach the chariot form the blue grass?
Are your feet asleep? Has the grass intoxicated your senses?
Do you ever wish to be released from this sleep?
To the Almond Flowers
To The Almond Flowers
The greyish -black chariot ascends and disseminates its putrid fumes
But only to be consumed by the Autumn perfumes
Which linger, oh, ever so ethereally!
Oh , i wonder does humanity pipe ever so exuberantly?
Could the blessed tree impart an axiom ...?
Could the first day resound a communion ...?
Are the stealths of steel dazzled by the white-greyish clouds of smoke?
i hear the smell of chestnuts which are within the reach of my vision!
The symphony of the floral almonds could invoke
An aid through this autocratic labyrinth of a confused mission?
Could the debate of the fox be a dream?
Could life’s high meadow evaporate this putrid misty stream?
O, unique almond flower you have uttered a fragrant and liberating song, Will you succumb to the powers of this dong?
The greyish -black chariot ascends and disseminates its putrid fumes
But only to be consumed by the Autumn perfumes
Which linger, oh, ever so ethereally!
Oh , i wonder does humanity pipe ever so exuberantly?
Could the blessed tree impart an axiom ...?
Could the first day resound a communion ...?
Are the stealths of steel dazzled by the white-greyish clouds of smoke?
i hear the smell of chestnuts which are within the reach of my vision!
The symphony of the floral almonds could invoke
An aid through this autocratic labyrinth of a confused mission?
Could the debate of the fox be a dream?
Could life’s high meadow evaporate this putrid misty stream?
O, unique almond flower you have uttered a fragrant and liberating song, Will you succumb to the powers of this dong?
Invocation to thecNectars or A few Lines to Wolfsbane
Invocation To The Nectars\A Few Lines To Wolfsbane
i
i am on a plain surrounded by dew
and the dark, purple hue of the monkshood.
Or is its colour such an euphoric blue?
Can the mind be awakened and find itself trodden?
Is the green an intricate fraud?
The purple flowers of the wolfsbane
Articulate a paradoxical trodden
Nature; we, in turn, are sod for its brain
and the dried roots hold the key to this pain.
ii
Oh, Aconitum, oh, pure Aconite!
i offer my yelp to your analgesic
Elements; could there be an untold fight?
What holds the secret to thy roots of magic?
i smell the purple and blue hues of this analgesic!
Will this cup hold me in your chariot?
Or will the juices guide me to thy tragic
Toll? Are you enough to aid these nocturnal fits?
O, woe is the touch of your blue, moist lips!
A Few Lines To Wolfsbane
iii
The green leaves engulfed by the bower
Have cultivated the elixir seeds
As i trekked the Brevent and stole its flower.
The North Wind slowly approached the meads
And disseminated the narcotic feed;
my inner chambers absorbed its honey!
Oh, if i could only attain that mead
But for one more moment of ecstasy
As that successful creature of a bee
iv
Pervasively hovers from bower to
Flower! It seems to sense the intrinsic risk
with those black anteriors of that hue.
Is it sentient amid the white mist
As it ascends to eulogise its verse?
It has succeeded the trek to Mont Blanc
Eschewing the golden analgesic glass.
Every year aroused pilgrims are drawn
to the zenith ; but how many are pawns
v
To the true power? And Koh-i Baba,
the Dinaric Alps, the Sulaiman Range?
What bustle is tantalised to their barbara?
Yet the world is focused on the t.v. cage
observing the lifeless Arkansas mange!
While the downtrodden are immersed in pain
The babel on the spermary gauge
count is relentless; yet i must drink the bane,
sleep amid the dew, and forget the forlorn pain.
vi
Oh, the intoxicating golden bee!
Its song resonates in my chamber
As i approach the purple honey
it circumscribes its terrain forever.
i must battle with its sting and be, be!
A voice utters from a chariot, “Courage!”
Is the bee aware of the clutter?
am i cognizant of it? and its rage?
Bee, Kosovo and me? express our page
vii
To the empty souls of the world to hear.
The Tutsi and the Hutu abandon
the ideals of peace and love because fear
is their vernacular; humans pardon
sins as grains of sand hear the world beckon:
“Rwanda and Uganda are foul with blood
While the powers of the world abandon
the post-colonial hands; cast in mud
and streams are breeds that will no longer bud”.
i
i am on a plain surrounded by dew
and the dark, purple hue of the monkshood.
Or is its colour such an euphoric blue?
Can the mind be awakened and find itself trodden?
Is the green an intricate fraud?
The purple flowers of the wolfsbane
Articulate a paradoxical trodden
Nature; we, in turn, are sod for its brain
and the dried roots hold the key to this pain.
ii
Oh, Aconitum, oh, pure Aconite!
i offer my yelp to your analgesic
Elements; could there be an untold fight?
What holds the secret to thy roots of magic?
i smell the purple and blue hues of this analgesic!
Will this cup hold me in your chariot?
Or will the juices guide me to thy tragic
Toll? Are you enough to aid these nocturnal fits?
O, woe is the touch of your blue, moist lips!
A Few Lines To Wolfsbane
iii
The green leaves engulfed by the bower
Have cultivated the elixir seeds
As i trekked the Brevent and stole its flower.
The North Wind slowly approached the meads
And disseminated the narcotic feed;
my inner chambers absorbed its honey!
Oh, if i could only attain that mead
But for one more moment of ecstasy
As that successful creature of a bee
iv
Pervasively hovers from bower to
Flower! It seems to sense the intrinsic risk
with those black anteriors of that hue.
Is it sentient amid the white mist
As it ascends to eulogise its verse?
It has succeeded the trek to Mont Blanc
Eschewing the golden analgesic glass.
Every year aroused pilgrims are drawn
to the zenith ; but how many are pawns
v
To the true power? And Koh-i Baba,
the Dinaric Alps, the Sulaiman Range?
What bustle is tantalised to their barbara?
Yet the world is focused on the t.v. cage
observing the lifeless Arkansas mange!
While the downtrodden are immersed in pain
The babel on the spermary gauge
count is relentless; yet i must drink the bane,
sleep amid the dew, and forget the forlorn pain.
vi
Oh, the intoxicating golden bee!
Its song resonates in my chamber
As i approach the purple honey
it circumscribes its terrain forever.
i must battle with its sting and be, be!
A voice utters from a chariot, “Courage!”
Is the bee aware of the clutter?
am i cognizant of it? and its rage?
Bee, Kosovo and me? express our page
vii
To the empty souls of the world to hear.
The Tutsi and the Hutu abandon
the ideals of peace and love because fear
is their vernacular; humans pardon
sins as grains of sand hear the world beckon:
“Rwanda and Uganda are foul with blood
While the powers of the world abandon
the post-colonial hands; cast in mud
and streams are breeds that will no longer bud”.
Ode To Autumn
To Autumn
Autumn anticipates the tumultuous winter cycle
Yet the Japanese Anemone does not subside
To the Northern Wind, its beauty radiates like Psyche’s.
Just as the Day Lillies’s golden hue that resides.
I wish I could stand as firm as the juniper!
The cedars never relinquish their splendid colour
In the midst of such extraordinary Autumn powers,
Among the chorus of remaining flowers.
Oh, sweet nymph, how I long for your euphonic melody!
Although there are flowers that have returned to sweet Mother Earth
Amidst these cascading silver drops that nourish my body
I can still, oh, I can still, hear your melody amidst the silver
breath.
Oh, I can still see the tree that proffers the golden, sweet, fruit amid this phenomenal change,
Oh, I can still envisage dreams in those majestic caves where
Autumn’s Temple celebrates its season’s ripening range.
Autumn anticipates the tumultuous winter cycle
Yet the Japanese Anemone does not subside
To the Northern Wind, its beauty radiates like Psyche’s.
Just as the Day Lillies’s golden hue that resides.
I wish I could stand as firm as the juniper!
The cedars never relinquish their splendid colour
In the midst of such extraordinary Autumn powers,
Among the chorus of remaining flowers.
Oh, sweet nymph, how I long for your euphonic melody!
Although there are flowers that have returned to sweet Mother Earth
Amidst these cascading silver drops that nourish my body
I can still, oh, I can still, hear your melody amidst the silver
breath.
Oh, I can still see the tree that proffers the golden, sweet, fruit amid this phenomenal change,
Oh, I can still envisage dreams in those majestic caves where
Autumn’s Temple celebrates its season’s ripening range.
Gaia
Eros…… what is it ?? my goddess…. The goddess with the earthenware locks
I smell chestnuts… and their ephemeral brown colour… .silky brown locks… as the silk worms weave….. your locks weave themselves into
My soul… my spirit…
The sweet hazel eyes……. That guide me into your inner being….. that convey
A mystery of life…. Only your eyes are able to unlock Pandora’s scented box…
And suspend my suffering, my pain,
My existential angst…
Oh, oh… the Sweet… sweet …Nightingale. … who evokes the sweet… sweet… Lillies of the valley…the peonies… and the manna ash trees…
To love you…
wholly…
completely…
Without reservations… to unravel the mysteries of
Time…
Space…
Ontology…
…
space…
Space… I wish to be in your sweet..
Ash brown… chestnut … chestnut space…
The space you inhabit makes me whole…
One…the Tao… that I need… that I solicit…
How do I break the silence…??? How do I weave through this chestnut labyrinth…
The earthenware maze weighs on me… on us…
It is everything about you that magnetises me to you:
Sea
Lakes
Sky…
Mountains
All hold a mystery…
Eyes that pierce my soul…
Your valleys…. That plunge me in a whirlwind of melodic flower beds…
O your waters so sweet.., the pinkish-reddish hue… so perfect… so goddess-like
Cliffs… chestnut-brown rocks… they make me shiver..
Peaks…delicate but strong…
Meadows… I have not witnessd as sweet as yours… that make me long to embrace them… to caress them…
Your scents…. So hold me.. so entice me… so envelop me…..
And the inner chambers which speak intangible axioms…
Time… reason…. How can I continue… without you… ???
Time… how do i measure your essence??? Existence???
How do I manage time… how will time manage us… how will time treat us…?? …
How does time permit me to break this burden of silence????
Black… more black… black weighs its arms upon us… the abyss of time and space…
A distant time… space… a time that will destroy us both… before we can revel in the warmth of our bodies… black release me… release us…. Before we drown in the depths
Of the winter… seasons that will destroy us… love that will destroy us… the truth…
Love is suicide… love is suicide… love will drown us… love will entomb us…. This love will only be tragic…. Silence must remain… the silence must free us… Silence must
Bury us…. Silence… one truism… one axiom… love can only enslave us….
We must engage in something good.. we must free ourselves… we must engage the world…in a revolution…. We must revolt… falluja, rawalpindi, darfur kandahar….
We must rebel… and engage in a world praxis…is it love…??? We are only ephemeral spirits in a material world… how can we engage the world in a revolution…????
The ice holds us… it calls out to us… but no one beckons its toll…it is alive
Alive… alas Alive…
It has a message…. Yet it is clouded in arcane arcane…(Dante’s second sphere- his phantasmic realm -awaits us… Minos I solicit truths…)
“Arcanum…” is his response, Mortals do not understand…..
_________ _____________________ ________________________ ____
We are immersed in a new world Order… China, the EU, India, the –Stans… a multicultural
Order… multi-power
Order
How does this Order affect our atomistic lives…???
I would like answers form the barbaric yawps of this
Order…
An order which has engulfed us…
I need you to liberate me form this order…. Gaia… O Terra….!!!
Offer me chaos…
Destruction… the Dionysian rhapsody….
Babel…
Babylon… Falluja… Karbala… Kisumu… Naivasha.. Rawalpindi… Dakota…
Oh, my sweet chariot… can you help me transcend this Order….
I no longer have bullets… ammunition… ICBMs to change… challenge… this World Order
Oh,my Chestnut Sweet Chariot…. Can you solicit the Gods… Goddesses- oh, how I have
Foundered… fragmented… fractioned… my self…- oh how I need a
Fragrance to usurp my soul..spirit…
The Rift Valley implores… craves the burden of the light.. beseeches my fragmented self..
Oh, how I wish I had a modicum of truth… the Cartesian rift – between body and mind-only enlarges the gulf among McWorld and Jihad…
Sartre… Camus… Merleau-Ponty … Marx…Where is my revolutionary praxis….???
----- ------------------------------------ -------------------
All of you… all of you… have
Only offered Cold… Dry flowers
Flowers… flowers… scents… blues… for the damned…
NOT the sweet …
YET
It iis the SWEET Uranium that you have all bequeathed
Isotopes 232… 282 are for the saved… THE CHOSEN ONES …
The disenfranchised….
Ophelia affirms , “There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance..” but did she also assume an antic disposition…???
A new pedagogy is required for the oppressed and… the oppressors…
If I only had a pen… a few scraps of paper… I would compose the verse.. the prose
For this new revolutionary pedagogy… A Pax Americana… is solicited by Dante’s Spheres
Gaia… Terra..
The Rift Valley waits us… the soil absorbs red… the ink is ready
I begin to mark the spheres of this inferno…
I have no need of Virgil… the red stained scroll is my mentor… and I await
The Nightingale’s sweet melody
In order to summons us…
Body… flesh… carnal desires engulf us…
All dissolves… all fragments… all…- hazel eyes… chesttnut locks… even the
Dionysian Rhapsody will fade…-
There are no axioms… no dialectical method…
Only…
Prometheus and his boulder…
Bonne chance mon ami…
The triumph of life awaits us all… -I believe Beckett’s omnipresent Godot is dispossessed….
Hazel chestnuts release their red amber .glow…. sweet inferno… as you jig…jig… jig..
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Dionysian rapture beneath the merkin ball awaits us… jig… jig…jig.. and more jig..jig… jig… jig baby… -(my) carnal ball- jig…
I can only observe you and
Your wonderful gyrations…
as i am entranced by your entire body… I wish I could be with you… and articulate the intangibles…. the unutterables… jig… jig baby… jig baby… until dawn… jig… dance… my nymph… dance Nymph… lead us into the other realm… where light awaits us… dance nymph…
Continue… continue… your spirit of rapture… let us meet in the next realm….
I smell chestnuts… and their ephemeral brown colour… .silky brown locks… as the silk worms weave….. your locks weave themselves into
My soul… my spirit…
The sweet hazel eyes……. That guide me into your inner being….. that convey
A mystery of life…. Only your eyes are able to unlock Pandora’s scented box…
And suspend my suffering, my pain,
My existential angst…
Oh, oh… the Sweet… sweet …Nightingale. … who evokes the sweet… sweet… Lillies of the valley…the peonies… and the manna ash trees…
To love you…
wholly…
completely…
Without reservations… to unravel the mysteries of
Time…
Space…
Ontology…
…
space…
Space… I wish to be in your sweet..
Ash brown… chestnut … chestnut space…
The space you inhabit makes me whole…
One…the Tao… that I need… that I solicit…
How do I break the silence…??? How do I weave through this chestnut labyrinth…
The earthenware maze weighs on me… on us…
It is everything about you that magnetises me to you:
Sea
Lakes
Sky…
Mountains
All hold a mystery…
Eyes that pierce my soul…
Your valleys…. That plunge me in a whirlwind of melodic flower beds…
O your waters so sweet.., the pinkish-reddish hue… so perfect… so goddess-like
Cliffs… chestnut-brown rocks… they make me shiver..
Peaks…delicate but strong…
Meadows… I have not witnessd as sweet as yours… that make me long to embrace them… to caress them…
Your scents…. So hold me.. so entice me… so envelop me…..
And the inner chambers which speak intangible axioms…
Time… reason…. How can I continue… without you… ???
Time… how do i measure your essence??? Existence???
How do I manage time… how will time manage us… how will time treat us…?? …
How does time permit me to break this burden of silence????
Black… more black… black weighs its arms upon us… the abyss of time and space…
A distant time… space… a time that will destroy us both… before we can revel in the warmth of our bodies… black release me… release us…. Before we drown in the depths
Of the winter… seasons that will destroy us… love that will destroy us… the truth…
Love is suicide… love is suicide… love will drown us… love will entomb us…. This love will only be tragic…. Silence must remain… the silence must free us… Silence must
Bury us…. Silence… one truism… one axiom… love can only enslave us….
We must engage in something good.. we must free ourselves… we must engage the world…in a revolution…. We must revolt… falluja, rawalpindi, darfur kandahar….
We must rebel… and engage in a world praxis…is it love…??? We are only ephemeral spirits in a material world… how can we engage the world in a revolution…????
The ice holds us… it calls out to us… but no one beckons its toll…it is alive
Alive… alas Alive…
It has a message…. Yet it is clouded in arcane arcane…(Dante’s second sphere- his phantasmic realm -awaits us… Minos I solicit truths…)
“Arcanum…” is his response, Mortals do not understand…..
_________ _____________________ ________________________ ____
We are immersed in a new world Order… China, the EU, India, the –Stans… a multicultural
Order… multi-power
Order
How does this Order affect our atomistic lives…???
I would like answers form the barbaric yawps of this
Order…
An order which has engulfed us…
I need you to liberate me form this order…. Gaia… O Terra….!!!
Offer me chaos…
Destruction… the Dionysian rhapsody….
Babel…
Babylon… Falluja… Karbala… Kisumu… Naivasha.. Rawalpindi… Dakota…
Oh, my sweet chariot… can you help me transcend this Order….
I no longer have bullets… ammunition… ICBMs to change… challenge… this World Order
Oh,my Chestnut Sweet Chariot…. Can you solicit the Gods… Goddesses- oh, how I have
Foundered… fragmented… fractioned… my self…- oh how I need a
Fragrance to usurp my soul..spirit…
The Rift Valley implores… craves the burden of the light.. beseeches my fragmented self..
Oh, how I wish I had a modicum of truth… the Cartesian rift – between body and mind-only enlarges the gulf among McWorld and Jihad…
Sartre… Camus… Merleau-Ponty … Marx…Where is my revolutionary praxis….???
----- ------------------------------------ -------------------
All of you… all of you… have
Only offered Cold… Dry flowers
Flowers… flowers… scents… blues… for the damned…
NOT the sweet …
YET
It iis the SWEET Uranium that you have all bequeathed
Isotopes 232… 282 are for the saved… THE CHOSEN ONES …
The disenfranchised….
Ophelia affirms , “There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance..” but did she also assume an antic disposition…???
A new pedagogy is required for the oppressed and… the oppressors…
If I only had a pen… a few scraps of paper… I would compose the verse.. the prose
For this new revolutionary pedagogy… A Pax Americana… is solicited by Dante’s Spheres
Gaia… Terra..
The Rift Valley waits us… the soil absorbs red… the ink is ready
I begin to mark the spheres of this inferno…
I have no need of Virgil… the red stained scroll is my mentor… and I await
The Nightingale’s sweet melody
In order to summons us…
Body… flesh… carnal desires engulf us…
All dissolves… all fragments… all…- hazel eyes… chesttnut locks… even the
Dionysian Rhapsody will fade…-
There are no axioms… no dialectical method…
Only…
Prometheus and his boulder…
Bonne chance mon ami…
The triumph of life awaits us all… -I believe Beckett’s omnipresent Godot is dispossessed….
Hazel chestnuts release their red amber .glow…. sweet inferno… as you jig…jig… jig..
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Dionysian rapture beneath the merkin ball awaits us… jig… jig…jig.. and more jig..jig… jig… jig baby… -(my) carnal ball- jig…
I can only observe you and
Your wonderful gyrations…
as i am entranced by your entire body… I wish I could be with you… and articulate the intangibles…. the unutterables… jig… jig baby… jig baby… until dawn… jig… dance… my nymph… dance Nymph… lead us into the other realm… where light awaits us… dance nymph…
Continue… continue… your spirit of rapture… let us meet in the next realm….
Orange Rain
orange death (orange rain)
eight pm, july17, 2000.
the highway is engulfed with human tears
400... 401... 402... 403... 407...
tears that rain form within... huron, iroquois, cree, ojibwa
voices lamenting a past: 1649, 1650, the dutch and french bourgeois
rain... which releasing repressive baptismal waters tears that rain from without... huron, iroquois, cree, ojibwa
voices wishing to discover, voices abhoring the conquest
r m f f l R B
a i o o a a a
i s g u n m l
n t r e a a
s r
a
grey is m
em a ncipated!
d h
e a
a z
t a
h r
d
s grey
has
entrapped us!
p
o
p o
æ o l
o s
grey l s
being... becoming... red ...
red ... flashing... hazy ...stopping??!!...stopped?! stop?!
pensive about the images seen in life’s rearview mirror
orange death
400... in retrospect... the valley is so distant
pools of mist disappear . . one observes orange beyond this imminent death... orange evokes... orange embraces... orange
awaits us... orange solicits us... orange save us, emancipate us.
eight forty-five pm!
destination secure, grey fades into orange
- and what has become of chief nawash and the war of 1812?
the ojibwa, the huron, the iroquois, the petun, the neutral no longer enjoy campfire smoke. british and french, upper and lower Canadas have transformed their nations
orange? red? grey? black?
remains... what remains
of the memories?
our conquest?
a
trivial
400
drive
eight pm, july17, 2000.
the highway is engulfed with human tears
400... 401... 402... 403... 407...
tears that rain form within... huron, iroquois, cree, ojibwa
voices lamenting a past: 1649, 1650, the dutch and french bourgeois
rain... which releasing repressive baptismal waters tears that rain from without... huron, iroquois, cree, ojibwa
voices wishing to discover, voices abhoring the conquest
r m f f l R B
a i o o a a a
i s g u n m l
n t r e a a
s r
a
grey is m
em a ncipated!
d h
e a
a z
t a
h r
d
s grey
has
entrapped us!
p
o
p o
æ o l
o s
grey l s
being... becoming... red ...
red ... flashing... hazy ...stopping??!!...stopped?! stop?!
pensive about the images seen in life’s rearview mirror
orange death
400... in retrospect... the valley is so distant
pools of mist disappear . . one observes orange beyond this imminent death... orange evokes... orange embraces... orange
awaits us... orange solicits us... orange save us, emancipate us.
eight forty-five pm!
destination secure, grey fades into orange
- and what has become of chief nawash and the war of 1812?
the ojibwa, the huron, the iroquois, the petun, the neutral no longer enjoy campfire smoke. british and french, upper and lower Canadas have transformed their nations
orange? red? grey? black?
remains... what remains
of the memories?
our conquest?
a
trivial
400
drive
Hegel's White Sheets
White Sheets (or Hegel’s Mind) 1988 december
The emptiness of the wares
Is an idea the juxtaposition of
a
concept
two
concepts..?
Is the philosopher aware?
is
Cognition. . . open to all...?
Do we all cherish it?
Cognition? Consciousness?
... ... ... ... ... Cognition... Consciousness...
The prolonged cries
The screams of the empty atoms are not
Ephemeral.
And what about cognition?
It is fleeting
Nihilism is transformed into another dimension,
A catatonic state.
And the silence disseminates a veil
over Life
A silver veil, a cloudy veil, a putrid veil
The shrieks are pervasive, they are accentuated by
White sheet s, cold white sheets
And he is now catatonic
Narcissism?
It will fly with
The wind and naturally
the rain will sweep all away; yet
some residue remains... which part?
Minds are. . . the mind is a vessel
The silence returns but that too is ephemeral
Mutability: that is the nature of life
The quality of the spirit is
Perpetual
What would Hegel say about the spirit ?
If only for an instant
Could we reach out to him
Amid these atoms if only we could
Wake him
The emptiness of the wares
Is an idea the juxtaposition of
a
concept
two
concepts..?
Is the philosopher aware?
is
Cognition. . . open to all...?
Do we all cherish it?
Cognition? Consciousness?
... ... ... ... ... Cognition... Consciousness...
The prolonged cries
The screams of the empty atoms are not
Ephemeral.
And what about cognition?
It is fleeting
Nihilism is transformed into another dimension,
A catatonic state.
And the silence disseminates a veil
over Life
A silver veil, a cloudy veil, a putrid veil
The shrieks are pervasive, they are accentuated by
White sheet s, cold white sheets
And he is now catatonic
Narcissism?
It will fly with
The wind and naturally
the rain will sweep all away; yet
some residue remains... which part?
Minds are. . . the mind is a vessel
The silence returns but that too is ephemeral
Mutability: that is the nature of life
The quality of the spirit is
Perpetual
What would Hegel say about the spirit ?
If only for an instant
Could we reach out to him
Amid these atoms if only we could
Wake him
Operation Cast Lead
Operation Cast Lead 2008 December 31, 2008
The new year is emering… but it is only the same of the old…
Why is there a need to celebrate… to jig… how can the world jig…
How can I be a part of the Dionysian…?? How can I be part of this urban decay
Gaza City is in in teras… blood, ruble, more blood… shrapnel… more crys..
Are we not all complicit… how does our silence contribute to this
The world leaders are timid… to express the reality of this apartheid state
When will the bombs stop… when will the IDF stop killing innocent civilians..?
When will state leaders be cognizant of this atrocity…?
How will the Gazana recognize their dead…?? How will the Palestinians count their dead..?? How will the families bury theie dead…?? How will they clear the dead from the urban rubble…??
Is the force used proportional …?? Let us count the ways… let us measure the destruction… let us count the dead:
Over four hundred palestians; four Israeilis; over fifteen hunded wounded palestianins; over a dooozen wounded. Is this proportional? F-16s, special tanks, cluster bombs;
Quassam rockets… the media reports over two hundred launced…. Are there more than four Israeli casualties…???
How does one value life…??
I am not a poet… I am a consumer who must conform to the Western Capitalist ideals…
And remain silent like a key hole… waiting for the key to open the aperture…
Much like a Merkava releases its load on Khan Yonis
No, I am not a poet, but I am theo-democrat who must accept the Democratic gods and
The principles of peace, freedom and remain like a key hole: waiting, silent for the golden key to unlock pandora’s box like the Negev releases its load on Jibaliya.
i am not a poet… yet I am a Christian fundamentalist who must conform to the Christian precepts : our god is great and remain silent about the greatness of this god, waiting like a key hole to be locked just like F-16Is lock onto their villages: Kuba, Wahsh, Nazla; and maintain the secrets of this great god…
I am not a poet, conversely I am a communist who must conform to the ideal of a classless society: eliminate the modes of production, labour and the the bourgeois: waiting like a key hole to be disengaged by marx, engels and Sartre… as AH-64D Apache Longbow engage their targets at Rafah
The new year is emering… but it is only the same of the old…
Why is there a need to celebrate… to jig… how can the world jig…
How can I be a part of the Dionysian…?? How can I be part of this urban decay
Gaza City is in in teras… blood, ruble, more blood… shrapnel… more crys..
Are we not all complicit… how does our silence contribute to this
The world leaders are timid… to express the reality of this apartheid state
When will the bombs stop… when will the IDF stop killing innocent civilians..?
When will state leaders be cognizant of this atrocity…?
How will the Gazana recognize their dead…?? How will the Palestinians count their dead..?? How will the families bury theie dead…?? How will they clear the dead from the urban rubble…??
Is the force used proportional …?? Let us count the ways… let us measure the destruction… let us count the dead:
Over four hundred palestians; four Israeilis; over fifteen hunded wounded palestianins; over a dooozen wounded. Is this proportional? F-16s, special tanks, cluster bombs;
Quassam rockets… the media reports over two hundred launced…. Are there more than four Israeli casualties…???
How does one value life…??
I am not a poet… I am a consumer who must conform to the Western Capitalist ideals…
And remain silent like a key hole… waiting for the key to open the aperture…
Much like a Merkava releases its load on Khan Yonis
No, I am not a poet, but I am theo-democrat who must accept the Democratic gods and
The principles of peace, freedom and remain like a key hole: waiting, silent for the golden key to unlock pandora’s box like the Negev releases its load on Jibaliya.
i am not a poet… yet I am a Christian fundamentalist who must conform to the Christian precepts : our god is great and remain silent about the greatness of this god, waiting like a key hole to be locked just like F-16Is lock onto their villages: Kuba, Wahsh, Nazla; and maintain the secrets of this great god…
I am not a poet, conversely I am a communist who must conform to the ideal of a classless society: eliminate the modes of production, labour and the the bourgeois: waiting like a key hole to be disengaged by marx, engels and Sartre… as AH-64D Apache Longbow engage their targets at Rafah
Sunday, March 8, 2009
White Ants and Caligula
White ants -Caligula may23.2004ed one may 22 2006 ed two
white ants
here we are...
Observe us within these walls
Here the Dionysian and Apollonian emerge...
and these white ants... deliver... the new edict...
here, we collide
outside, they collude
there ... there.... , i believe it is there.... that we hear the yawps... more ...yawps...
here, we have not witnessed
Change... but...
Yawps... yawping...
one Caligula has been replaced by another
Abu Ghraib is the norm for the king ants
and who are the hooded ones... the hooded ones... that race by us... by me...
The white ants hail their leaders
while we crawl and yawp within this putrid...putrid...
Cell
a cell that darkens with each passing day
and we..we ... the red ants are weaving in and out of the odours, blood, feces and decaying flesh.. flesh... yawp... and more yawpings...
Duality... spirit... flesh... duality...
within...
outward...
Mind...
Flesh...
Atwood affirms the duality evident in men and women... the duality of the soul and body
Merleau-Ponty... Marcuse ... offer Western Society its One dimesional Man... Woman... and still here...
Surplus Repression.... Repression... not evident here in Baghdad...
But... all forms of Oppresion...
Silence... but for a brief moment... Silence... only ...ephemeral
The white ants sollicit
Truth... Yes.. Truth is what we desire... proffer us Truth...
We have only flesh to offer... truth... does not exist... it is in constant flux... please sollicit
Sisyphus... Prometheus... truth... is a paradox.... we are walking paradoxes....
Sisphyphus has his -boulder -mountain... Prometheus has his cliff.... alabtross
And
the white ants sollicit facts
i utter only: release me... release me... from this pain
Truth.... truth is only for... the Gods....oh, Zeus... oh ,Zeus... please summon
Apollo and Arachne...
Silence.... One Dimensional Man... Woman... are all present as well here..
The Queen ants retort: This is only the
Genesis ... Genesis... Genesis... of your pain...
And
Abel... will not aid you here..
But Cain will release the melody
for your pain... pain...
pain...
Veritas... Verita...
Veni.. Vedi...Vici.... Allah.... Salaam Maalekum Salaam... Allah... Salaam
No..Kellog...Brown and Root ... manufacture the truth here... Remember KBR...KBR.. KBG
-Release me, please, release me-
There are no visible signs here, except
The hooded ones that continue to file by my Cell
Will i be... will i... will.. i have the...
The will to power.. power... power...
Hope is the only thing that remains
Hope from the torturous king and queen ants
here we collide, here we struggle with our burden
there, we here the yawps that linger into the early dawn
Some red ants slowly return,the yawping has subsided
Silence... Silence...
A cell is now empty...
Empty...
-Oh! welcome....... niccolo... ??
i think... of... machiavelli ??... another red ant yawps..
dov'e il principe?...
Silence...Silence...
The prince visits... Kabul... Falluja... Guantanamo... North Guantanamo....
But...
Hope remains
Hope ...
Waiting... didi..gogo.?...vladimir..estragon....? are you there...??i can't go on....
Cain... meet your postmodern Abel...
hope... in tomorrow...oh, Apollo... Oh... Arachne....
white ants
here we are...
Observe us within these walls
Here the Dionysian and Apollonian emerge...
and these white ants... deliver... the new edict...
here, we collide
outside, they collude
there ... there.... , i believe it is there.... that we hear the yawps... more ...yawps...
here, we have not witnessed
Change... but...
Yawps... yawping...
one Caligula has been replaced by another
Abu Ghraib is the norm for the king ants
and who are the hooded ones... the hooded ones... that race by us... by me...
The white ants hail their leaders
while we crawl and yawp within this putrid...putrid...
Cell
a cell that darkens with each passing day
and we..we ... the red ants are weaving in and out of the odours, blood, feces and decaying flesh.. flesh... yawp... and more yawpings...
Duality... spirit... flesh... duality...
within...
outward...
Mind...
Flesh...
Atwood affirms the duality evident in men and women... the duality of the soul and body
Merleau-Ponty... Marcuse ... offer Western Society its One dimesional Man... Woman... and still here...
Surplus Repression.... Repression... not evident here in Baghdad...
But... all forms of Oppresion...
Silence... but for a brief moment... Silence... only ...ephemeral
The white ants sollicit
Truth... Yes.. Truth is what we desire... proffer us Truth...
We have only flesh to offer... truth... does not exist... it is in constant flux... please sollicit
Sisyphus... Prometheus... truth... is a paradox.... we are walking paradoxes....
Sisphyphus has his -boulder -mountain... Prometheus has his cliff.... alabtross
And
the white ants sollicit facts
i utter only: release me... release me... from this pain
Truth.... truth is only for... the Gods....oh, Zeus... oh ,Zeus... please summon
Apollo and Arachne...
Silence.... One Dimensional Man... Woman... are all present as well here..
The Queen ants retort: This is only the
Genesis ... Genesis... Genesis... of your pain...
And
Abel... will not aid you here..
But Cain will release the melody
for your pain... pain...
pain...
Veritas... Verita...
Veni.. Vedi...Vici.... Allah.... Salaam Maalekum Salaam... Allah... Salaam
No..Kellog...Brown and Root ... manufacture the truth here... Remember KBR...KBR.. KBG
-Release me, please, release me-
There are no visible signs here, except
The hooded ones that continue to file by my Cell
Will i be... will i... will.. i have the...
The will to power.. power... power...
Hope is the only thing that remains
Hope from the torturous king and queen ants
here we collide, here we struggle with our burden
there, we here the yawps that linger into the early dawn
Some red ants slowly return,the yawping has subsided
Silence... Silence...
A cell is now empty...
Empty...
-Oh! welcome....... niccolo... ??
i think... of... machiavelli ??... another red ant yawps..
dov'e il principe?...
Silence...Silence...
The prince visits... Kabul... Falluja... Guantanamo... North Guantanamo....
But...
Hope remains
Hope ...
Waiting... didi..gogo.?...vladimir..estragon....? are you there...??i can't go on....
Cain... meet your postmodern Abel...
hope... in tomorrow...oh, Apollo... Oh... Arachne....
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