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Cyclone Scene 1

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posted by James Paul Kneubuhl alias James Kneubuhl on Tuesday 25th of January 2011 02:54:35 AM

Inbetween the heavy winds during the cyclone on 1-22-11. Imagine this forlorn creature singing the Rolling Stones song "Gimme Shelter", then take a look at the video on the right. POEM PARKING LOT MOONLIGHT Moonlight softens a multitude of sins. Glows delicately, soft, not blazing, just Reflecting. Shines a gentler light on things. Reminds us that we’re not really as hard As we pretend. Let the fragile side of Yourself out of its shell, enjoy the night Sky’s splendor. Make time for someone Special to you. Moonlight reminds us How precious calm can be, that we Needn’t spend each moment in a flurry. How we’re meant to do more than just Fight our way through existence, either Conquering or breaking free. Sometimes It’s clear how all this conflict is just so Much invention, mostly needless. Leave All of that alone for now. Let moonlight Remind you how in the midst of all we Resist there’s still a natural wonder it’s No sin to give in to. HOT PLATE That which can’t be spoken of in honorable Terms. That which has been declared off- Limits, old business, trashed, abused, Treated like something of no value. No use. Responsibility dropped like a hot plate that Ought to shatter but doesn’t. Hear it clang Like an unwanted gong ringing awareness You haven’t forgotten and never will. Try Harder? Smash it to pieces like you wish You could smash the pain into dust for the Next wind? Passionate as it might appear, Destroying plates as some kind of display Seems so undignified. Unnecessary to Victimize the kitchenware. Angrily, sadly, This kitchen reeks of indignity already, and It’s not the dishes’ fault. Silly old fashioned Me, I thought we were supposed to value That which doesn’t break. SEEDS A burger would look barmy claiming to Be a cow. Potatoes grow in the ground, Not potato chips. Oranges grow in Florida, but orange juice comes from A factory. Metal comes from the earth, But your car, mostly metal, didn’t just Drive up from some garage under the Surface. That laptop facilitating your Interaction with the world is mostly Plastic, which comes these days from Corn, but nobody credits the corn for Social networking. The whole point is No matter who or what we come from, Life changes us into something separate, Distinct, different, new called ourselves. When this happens with natural things, We say it’s so great, but when it happens With people, for some it’s a sign of the End times. Maybe not all transformation Is good, but can you think of anything Worse than none at all? So we needn’t See ourselves as betrayers if we stray From our roots – that’s what seeds do. It’s moving forward, not ending. Worry Not, beloved sisters and brothers, time Won’t end till you’ve paid off your debts, Which we all know will never happen. UGLY You say my poems sound like they’re Afraid to go somewhere ugly? As if Ugliness, that decreasingly vague Sense of threat, needs any more Expression – just turn on the news. Watch people struggling, starving, Stealing, raping, destroying, killing For no good reason, but our steady Diet of violence has made us numb To others suffering. Ugly enough? Certain social entities want you Convinced the world’s a dangerous And ugly place, because conveniently They have a solution to sell you, Provided you sign up for their program. Fear and ugliness do good business, So they’d prefer you forget there’s A way that’s free. You don’t need a Program to appreciate beauty.That’s All someone like me tries to remind People of. Ugliness is the wolf at My door, and my means or resistance Is to reach all I can for harmony before I’m consumed too by some ugly hunger. In the midst of so much ugliness, Embracing what’s beautiful is almost An act of subversion. I want to subvert, With a passion. INVENT When you invent me in your mind as Someone you can’t trust, can’t open Up to, can’t reach out to, can’t relate To, can’t use period, it’s too bad you’re Not writing for Hollywood. When you Assume a whole ideology, value system, Attitude, belief, sensibility and you Attribute it to me without even asking, That’s an astounding leap of faith and Confidence in your own convictions I wish you’d save for your religion. Good thing you’re not as convinced You can walk on water or part the Red Sea as you are that you have me All figured out. REASONS Some reasons are like weeds, you think You’re rid of them but the just spring Back up. The longer you leave them the More they take over. Dealing with them Is the price you pay for having a garden. I guess you’d classify this type of reason As doubts. Other reasons are like trees, Standing tall no matter what nasty acts Of nature take place. With age, they Attain a certain height, and can shelter Other living things. I guess you’d refer To this type of reason as faith. Stranger Reasons are like cactus, living where Most life would die, protecting what’s Precious under sharp thorns but unable To reach out or be reached without Hurting. If you want to reach them, it’s Going to hurt. I can’t decide whether To call these reasons cynicism, damages, Or life insurance. Maybe all three. SO PURE I really should resolve to market Myself more effectively. Problem is, I’ve got this deep seated conviction That it’s classier to just give things Away. This sort of begs the question As to whether anyone genuinely Values that which they’re just given. So tell me, would you take my poetry More seriously if you had to pay for it? Think carefully – my future creativity Could be riding on your answer. And Truthfully, the only reason I need Money is to stop worrying about it. So how is it I’m not prospering When my intentions are so pure? TRADE SECRET Do you wonder where all these Poems come from? Well, it’s Simple. I have a Good Angel on One shoulder and a Bad Angel On the other, both vying for My attention, to be the one Taken seriously, establish Credibility, each whispering Profound, provocative, pure, Soily, sacred, profane, mystical, Physical, sexual, intellectual, Spiritual, selfless, selfish, true, False, angry, forgiving, gentle, Devoted, demented, violent, Me me me and you you you Influences on my outlook from Moment to moment. Poems Are what’s left over when the Crossfire momentarily ceases. HOMES I feel at home in more than one place. There’s the home where I was born, the Home where I live, and the homes I’ve Discovered and return to when I can. No ambivalence about my citizenship, But I’ve left a little bit of myself and Taken with me something from all the Different places I’ve called home, even If only for a few days. They’re all part of Me now, regardless of where my feet Kick back at any moment, just like you Don’t have to be right beside someone To love them deeply, even if you wish You could be. That’s why, contrary to Appearances, I don’t think of this at all As an exile. DRAMATIC BAGGAGE Maybe I was left in front of the TV At too early an age. I didn’t just Watch the shows, I felt them too. (What else is a good show supposed To make you do?) That’s my earliest Impression of human conflict and Resolution. Now I wonder whether Unconsciously I still expect everything To be too black and white like our old TV, too cut and dried. In theory I’m Aware of complexity, but emotionally It’s a different story – if my feelings You’re engaged, you’re either a hero Or a villain. Villains must be punished Or defeated for heroes to come out Shining before the last commercial. I Know that’s distorted, but we don’t Just think about people, we feel them Too. So if you’re going to get dramatic, Know that all it does is warm the tubes Of my old TV feelings that never leave, Just leave more dramatic baggage than I know how to handle. As a child, to me Everyone on TV seemed so much more Alive, but involvement with them was Just something you could always turn Off anytime you liked. TRAVELING Traveling is my freedom and my prison, My choice as well as my inescapable Fate. Like a shark starts to fade if it Doesn't circulate, I need to move. In The shadows between one location And the next, there's somewhere all Is still, my only moments of peace. It's not just arriving, not just leaving, But the movement between that keeps The weeds and vines from encircling, Enclosing. Can you ever really be Close to someone who won't stay Put? Yes. Be a partner, not an Anchor. WHAT A DOG Dog with a bone can’t let go. For all He knows, it’s dog nirvana. Canine Heaven made flesh (or in this case Bone). Never seen him so fully Committed, or willing to lay down His life to protect what’s so precious To him. Never seen him so happy, Wagging his tail at its sight, gamboling Like he thinks he’s a lamb, savoring its Taste, aroused by its scent, licking Tongue expressing the depths of his Affection, barking baritone love songs Of faith and devotion. Playing with it Like each moment they have together Is golden. Makes you wonder how they Ever did without one another. They’re Partners till he’s gnawed the last of The marrow from its insides. When It loses its special appeal, dog thinks Nothing of moving on to the next one. What a dog. DREAMS In their isolation, inhabitants of tiny Islands, known to and knowing only Themselves, weave mythologies that Map their location as the center of The universe, of creation, of time. Dwarves who don’t know better Think they’re giants. Same with Dreams – won’t acknowledge limits If they don’t have to, sometimes Growing big enough to think they Can depose reality. Poor dreamer, Then, what mutiny must brew in Your soul. For we know how reality Has taken many a battering, but Always is the one left standing Because dreams seldom outlive The dreamers. Through rebellion Is more romantic, at least in teen Novels, dreams might do better to Treat reality more politely, to make Their pleas free of expectation reality Will listen, just with a humble hope Reality might point the way to truth Just as real as it was in your dream. GUESS No more guesses. Nothing brings on A flood of bad emotions like feeling With all your being that you’re right Then realizing you’ve simply guessed Wrong. Maybe the more something Means to you personally the less Clearly you can really see it. There’s A time to be objective, and a time to Follow your heart and dive right in. Too bad sometimes we can only Guess which is which. I feel like I Dove into a pool that turned out to Be empty. The water was imaginary, Unlike the concrete. So please, don’t Expect me to guess. If you want me To believe you, first believe in what You want to convey enough to say it Face to face. BEATNIK MOSQUITOES Poems are like mosquitoes drunk on the Blood of a nicotine addict such as moi, Haphazardly careening in circular flight, Their mission - inner space exploration, Little bitty buzzings sounding like jazz Saxophones soundtracking beatnik Free verse, these insect Allen Ginsburgs, Improvising wildly like a Dixieland band. Jazz poetry from beatnik mosquitoes Drunk on my blood - how beautiful! SLAP Poems are like mosquitoes, flying Around sucking on people’s feelings, Spreading disease, making you Itch, disrupting your sleep, Inspiring a good slap or two. WHEN WE WERE NORMAL Inter-generational conflict rendered Me less than at my best for a long time. I resigned myself to the reality that my Elders were clueless and my peers were Crazy. By necessity, I kept a foot in both Camps, but my head and heart were Somewhere else. It’s all cooled off by Now, but the cynicism I got from the Bad years has stayed with me like an Unwanted tattoo. Worse is the feeling That while now-meaningless battles Consumed our thoughts, something Slipped by us. We still see the world Like we did when we were normal, But that was a long, long time ago. POOR OLD ROBOT Poor old robot from a second hand Robot store. Can’t find your parts Anymore, can’t find your owner. Poor old robot, feeling outmoded, Knowing your warranty expired Yesterday but refusing to just sit Around and decay. Poor old robot, All your friends in the junkyard, Sadly mute, reminding you of a More animated past. Poor old Robot, wanting to be helpful but Only speaking Chinese, confusing The elderly and frightening the Young. Poor old robot, short-circuiting Your own speakers issuing distorted Robot moans about how nobody Appreciates you, sounding more Annoying than rap (in Chinese) Through a broken boom box. Poor Old robot, voice of every invention First coveted greedily then tossed Aside casually as soon as there’s a Newer version. Poor old robot, Wishing you could take your metallic Hands and throttle whoever saddled You with this limited lifespan. Poor Old robot, I want to shoot you just To shut you up, but you look at me With those tortured robot eyes and It scares me how easily I can relate. DUSK Dusk, and the day’s content to let Its light relax and fade. There’s Still work to be done, but for now That’s enough. Now day and night, Opposites but still ideal partners, Do their changing of the guard at Dusk. Then the light disappears, No one knows where to and no One asks. After all it does for us, It’s entitled to its privacy. There’s A time to shine as bright as you can, And a time to do nothing more than Enjoy being alive. In the long run, It’s the steadiness that counts, Finding a comfortable rhythm that Won’t grind you down. Day and Night split their time equally. We Should learn from that balance. DEVIL’S TOOLS During the bad years I was judged Constantly, even for things I’d never Actually done. No one can justify Another’s pretensions, no matter How well-intended, but there was Still some expectation the prodigal Son might turn out to be a golden Boy after all. When that didn’t Happen, they imagined the worst. Someone’s anger stings no less Just because you know it’s based On a mistake – the real sting is What they’d believe about you. Wrong ideas, in the minds of People firmly convinced they Can’t be anything but right, are The devil’s tools for dismantling Families. AUSTIN Take me with you back to Austin – I’m not Understood here, much less appreciated. Here, I have to sing in a language I can’t Speak. In Austin, I can sing in English, and I’ll learn as much Spanish as I have to. In That kind of milieu, they'd more likely take Me to heart. Here, I get shot down just For showing I care, and if anyone cares For me, they’ll be damned before they’d Admit it. Austin might find me more Socially acceptable, value my cultural Contribution more highly than my home Town Lilliputians. Plus I’ll make you money – Be my manager. Austin’s feminist enough For a woman Colonel Parker. I can be like Your Mexican, except I’m a citizen. So it Makes perfect sense economically, socially, Emotionally and culturally that you take Me with you back to Austin, home of the Armadillo. I really can do better, but not Here, where every time I open my mouth I remind everyone they didn’t invent music. INOTE: You know who Colonel Parker is, right? In case you're clueless, Colonel Parker was Elvis' manager. See, reading my poems is very educational.) CALI PHONE YA I will miss you, sprawling industrial district. You too, cold winds at night. You too, Mall after mall, all the same stores. You Too, people everywere on cells, lost in One way conversations for all appearances. You too, healthy, skinny, multi-ethnic Residients reminding me to diet. You too, Radio where they play what they like, Acoustic western swing for cruising. You Too, old people acting young. You too, Redemption tickets at Indian gambling Palaces, payback for white wrongs. You Too, taquerias on wheels, food names I can't pronounce. You too, tall eucalyptus Straddling the highway. California, land of Great distances. Spent half my time here Driving. Almost always worth it. A week Here is like a month at home. Gotta say Bye before I flame out, die of fun. IN FRONT OF STORES In old Samoa they would sit around The fire at night. Now boys sit in front Of stores from twilight till closing time. One of the side effects of society based On industry and wages is boys with Nowhere better to go than bus stops Or store parking lots. They have homes They can’t go to, parents they can’t be Around. What kind of adults will they Become, growing up feeling like home And family have to be avoided? For the Sake of our future, every adolescent Should be asked to think about the Questions: what should a family be, And how does it turn into something You want to run from? STICKS AND LEAVES Once upon a time the two had a Mansion. One they didn’t have to Earn, but came to them naturally. Then, for reasons that vary Depending on who’s explaining, Their mansion lay in ruins. What Are their options? They could say, It doesn’t matter, we’ll make a Shelter of sticks and leaves, and it Will do as long as we’re together, Or they could turn their attention Separately to other mansions that Just happen to have an empty room And role they could easily fill. Sounds Cold, I know, but you’d be surprised How many would go for it given the Circumstances. One day you may Have to choose between insisting On the mansion class at any cost, Or accepting when you have Nothing but sticks and leaves left With someone, and saying it’s a Start, not the end. WALL Quite a big wall to keep out Just one person, don’t you Think? Oh right, the wall’s Not for me, not a message. It’s for vampires, werewolves, Traveling salesmen, Santa, Elves, reindeer, postmen With colds and girls scouts Trying to push their cookies On you. What’s sad about Walls is what can’t get out, Not just what can’t get in. What if a rainbow ends on The other side, with a pot Of gold that’s yours for the Taking, but you can’t get Over your own wall? ROADRUNNER Too fast to be caught, never held Back, I wanted to be Roadrunner. A life of highways to explore at full Speed. Grant me the freedom to Travel and I’m happy. Take it all in, And take off running before you’re Tied to anything or anyone. Beep, Beep, moving on. I wanted to be Roadrunner – life in the fast lane. Amazing it lasted as long as it did. Sad I’d finally find someone I’d Love to run with right when fate Has forced me to hit the brakes. It’s clear each time you beep beep By like you don’t even know me – I wanted to be Roadrunner, but Ended up Coyote. DEATH SENTENCE I think I know what’s going to Kill me – stupidity. Involuntary Meditative state 24/7 where The mantra is, “That was stupid.” Stupidity is relative, therefore Relatives are stupid. OBJECTS Objects have a history. Objects Could tell stories, given where They’ve been and what they’ve Seen, but instead they must sit Mute and just watch. Objects Are a paradox – they’ve never Had what we’d describe as life And yet they’ll still be here long After us, and in fact they’ll be Here forever until someone Destroys them. To remember us, Those still here will preserve our Objects. But that’s nothing like The kind of interaction it would Be with us in person, is it? So Better interact now, and not be Shy about it either. It’s sort of The movements of our akimbo Limbs, and sort of the yappings Of our colorful tongues, and Sort of many other things, but Mostly it’s the sweet essence Of life itself that makes us more Than just objects. DISCLOSURE My own point of view is Hopelessly biased – there, I admit it. I put it out there Anyway because… Well, Why not? The worst that Can happen is you think I’m delusional. Yep, like Zillions of others, like the Wavering masses. like You too in many ways. The best that can happen Is that you know we’re Really thinking the same Thing, or not far from it. That means something. What? I don’t know, it’s Always still unwritten. Anything you want, and Hopefully nothing you Don’t. Just for the record, Thank you for your time And kind attention. That’s Today’s disclosure. ART FILM Strangest movie you’ve ever seen, But hey, this is an art film not some Hollywood product. Human voices Narrate, but people have no presence Onscreen. Objects and images stand As visual metaphors for the story, as if These better convey something literal Action or even narration can’t. The Silhouette of a village sticking up Through a forest evokes home existing Only in memory. Railroad tracks and Nearby debris symbolize childhood Displacement. Changing light on photos Indicates the passage of time. Lives are Represented by bottles floating on The sea. When its 15 minutes are up, A buzz in the audience ensues. An Esteemed panel of judges seems Speechless, muttering terms like “Startling”, “innovative”, and “rich in “Emotion”. The filmmakers just say That’s what happens when you don’t Have a budget and you’ve never made A film, you just really want to, when You don’t know what you’re doing but You’re not about to let a minor detail Like that stop you. TELL OF WONDERS If I could tell of wonders, I’d write The stories here, not to bring me Glory by association, but to share My best. Because this is all I can Share with you until things change, The only way I can talk to you. If I Could tell of wonders, I would, but Most of my stories are rather Mundane, just people dealing With day to day life, sometimes Discovering themselves through Each other, sometimes catching Just a glimpse of something bigger That ties the mysteries together. THE WORD MUSIC The word music is closely related to The word muse, the reason why Writers write. The act of writing is Seen as petitioning fate to intervene In the hopes your muse will view you Favorably. Music does the same with Sound. Notes carry messages words Can’t. Music, as a word, is not far From magic. Music works an alchemy Of its own - let it in and it'll take you Somewhere. Resist and you’ll get Noise instead of enjoyment. In those Moments when music sings to the Soul, a meaning you needn’t think About comes through, as if on an Invisible wire. It’s an open secret Known to anyone who listens and Feels, and doesn’t just analyze in A vacuum. If music doesn’t prove There’s magic, it at least reminds That you get out of something what You put in. STRAYS Our dogs simply want something To eat. They were never farmers In the first place, but hunters Who’ve forgotten they ever had That skill, defenders with nothing Left to defend but the few scraps They can pilfer from our leftovers. More often they go hungry in their Learned dependence on generosity. They once served a worthwhile Purpose for someone or other, Once had a part in our functioning, But now they’re strays, deprived of A livelihood. They’d be more than Happy to work hard for a crumb of Your kindness just to survive, living By their wits but unaware of their Place in the bigger picture, and not Caring either. DELICATE Can you pull your weeds without Ruining your garden? Careful, most Beautiful things are delicate, you Can’t just slash and burn, as much As you hate the weeds. Delicate Things require patience and care, But look what happiness they bring Nature is delicate. Life is delicate. Our deepest feelings are delicate. How ironic, then, that even apes Can have more patience and care Than man, who finds delicacy Inferior to efficiency, and wants To slash and burn his way through Everything, including people. UNLESS YOU’RE THE POPE So, are you convinced you can’t be Forgiven, or just too proud to ask? It’s pretty arrogant to forgive Someone who even hasn’t asked For it, unless you’re the Pope and Really in a hurry. And if someone Has the guts to ask, it’s pretty Heartless to make them grovel, Unless you want to convince them They shouldn’t have bothered. CLUELESS Hey, pretend you’re a priest while I make a confession – I’m clueless. My memory’s ok, but as far as Processing what those memories Mean, forget it. I’ve been turned Around more than once, and no Sooner do I finish feeling dizzy than I start feeling clueless. Meanings Seem to have shifted, signs signify Differently. It’s all unfamiliar again To me. I’m blank – will you fill me in? Maybe my sensibilities just reflect An earlier time with a different Notion of what doing right means, A different approach. But in the Here and know, I know how my Cluelessness must appear to you As if the dinosaurs never left. EXPOSED Eyeballs with wings, following us around As if we’re breaking news, walking sitcoms, Like our every moment captured can be Used for selling ads. We’re never wanting For an audience. Eyeballs with wings, Posing as innocent bystanders, trying to Blend in with the birds, swarming in our Moments of embarrassment like locusts, Thinking here’s a good one for prime time Tonight. Eyeballs with wings, all-seeing, no Heart for understanding. Disdaining eyes, Ready to bear witness to anything they Find suspicious. Wish I could shoot them From the sky, find out if they’re capable Of tears, but they’re in my head. Eyeballs With wings, hanging upside down like bats Outside my bedroom. Even when no one Wants to know, I still walk around feeling Exposed. PORTRAIT I suppose if you put all the poems Together, a certain portrait might Emerge. An attitude embedded in The language, values suggested By the style. But don’t be fooled – Let an artist paint themselves and It’ll be the most distorted portrait You could ask for. Expression can Be a defense, an elaborate disguise, Pure fiction, the occasional naked Truth. I must confess to reveling in The freedom of never being sure if I’m taken seriously. Gives me room To evolve, explore, experiment. If I ever touch your sensibilities In some way, I’m truly flattered, But it’s an accident. My thought Collisions occasionally summon a Connection rather than an ambulance. Were a truly accurate portrait to Crawl from the wreckage of my Pages, you’d see a shell shocked Crash test dummy, mangled, head Backwards, heart sideways, limbs Akimbo, lips fixed in a grimace, Jumping right into the next car. LION TAMER Taming lions, do you need a circus Mind? A grasp of animal psychology? The talent to get them to trust you Above their own instincts? Can they Unlearn what another nasty trainer Has whipped into them, once he’s Manipulated their wants and needs To make them behave his way? Make them feel they’re safe not Biting the head off anyone who Doesn’t give them exactly what They expect? Don’t be like a lion Trained by the Romans to tear Apart criminals, deviants and Religious dissidents to entertain a Bloodthirsty colosseum audience. BURRITO What gets folded-into our story? What doesn’t? Our story is like a Burrito – by themselves the Ingredients would make one big Mess, cross no-fly zones, riot on The plate, stain your clothes, soil The floor. However, these same Ingredients, when something holds Them in one place, create an Unexpected combination of tastes, Rendered in the burrito’s case all The more palatable by a Nobel Prize-worthy masterpiece of Culinary engineering, a design With equally valid practical, Cultural and gastronomical Qualities. What we think wasn’t Meant to co-exist in one dish Somehow does - with willingness And creativity, and a good salsa Always helps. Every burrito across The USA at this very moment Stands as a testament to what Hunger and ingenuity can do. COLUMBUS History is great – I’m re-learning it all The time. Like the little-known fact That besides collecting information For maps, Columbus also collected Several hundred Indians to take Home and sell as slaves. Well, how Else was he supposed to pay for the Trip? And besides, in exchange for a Few hundred slaves, not all of whom Even made it to Europe, look what We got. No Columbus, no Las Vegas. No Seattle. No Boise, Idaho. No Alamo, No Annie Oakley, no Little Big Horn, no George Washington, no Ben Franklin. No Star Spangled Banner. No Civil War, No Blues, no Jazz, no Rock & Roll. No Lincoln, no Lincoln Center. No Pearl Harbor, no 9-11, no Boston Tea Party, No Boston Strangler, no McDonalds. No Margaret Mitchell, no Margaret Mead, no Miley Cyrus. No Fox News. No American Idol, no FBI, no Civil Rights. None of this and more would ever have Come to pass if it hadn’t been for Columbus. You wouldn’t even be here, So hey, just let the slave thing slide. TELEVISION Television, you pampered only child Of an arranged marriage between Hollywood and Wall Street. Television, Shaping our culture while taping its Mouth shut and binding its hands. Television, who do your represent, Anyway? Am I no longer in tune with Society since you don’t make sense? Television, aimed at some imaginary America where everyone takes your Word on what’s worth buying and Believing. Television, you’re teaching Escape. Television, your signals go Out into space. Alien races are curious About you, Television, and now firmly Believe earth’s highest-evolved life Form motivates and manipulates its Own masses by dangling desired Material items and idealized states Of being in front of them like you’d Dangle a carrot in front of a donkey. RIVERBOAT Flowing on the slow river of time, Before you know it you’ve come Farther than you believed possible. Whenever this river seems about To end, it’s only changing, following A way passed down from the ages. Why stray from a proven route? Someone once told me there’s an Ocean where all rivers meet, where Their long travels end, but curiously, Rivers take their sweet time keeping The appointment. Who’s in a hurry? We’ll arrive when it’s time. Until Then, the river is single-mined, Stopping everywhere, staying Nowhere, enticing us with a free One-way ticket. The river wants us To mix, discover what’s out there. Learn from and love every moment On the water. We’re lucky we can Join this voyage even for a short Time, and few among us have Passage all the way to its end. PANIC Calm serenity is an illusion, but shout That lie as loud as you can because the Truth is panic. As soon as we’re out of The womb, we’re screaming. As soon As whatever situation we’re in starts Spinning out of control, we’re right back To the panic we reacted with as soon as We opened our eyes. And not just babies. No one wants the pressure of keeping it All together, but who will prevent our Serenity from descending into anarchy If not ourselves? Calm serenity reminds Us of Heaven, a place within us where it Doesn’t seem like it could all blow apart Any second. We need that thought to Deal with the world, keep reminding The deaf public and dumb governments There’s always a better solution than Bombs. Calm serenity is an illusion, so Forgive me for cultivating dishonesty – I’m just trying not to panic. BETRAYAL If I talk about betrayal, it doesn’t Mean I’m talking about you, just About the thousand ways you can Feel betrayed. I know it doesn’t do Any good to talk about feeling Betrayed, but every time I’m right On the brink of being kind for no Other reason than just to be kind, That feeling comes creeping back: You’re gonna get betrayed. Betrayal Is the risk you take when you give. If you give in the right way, there’s A tiny chance you won’t be betrayed, But it’s really tiny. Much more Straightforward to be a taker, a Heartbreaker, a bastard, a user. You can’t be betrayed if you just Don’t care. Might as well betray Someone else before they do it To you. Betrayal is a parachute For those who can’t stand feeling Trapped, held back. Betrayal is a Cancer in the marrow of our Society and personal lives, eating The blood cells faith needs. Betrayal Goes back to the Bible – Judas might Have been forgiven for his betrayal, But I’m not so saintly. FOR MARIE ANTOINETTE If you doubt the power of propaganda, Consider this. Marie Antoinette, one of History’s coldest, most heartless bitches, Once famously remarked that peasants Starving for bread could eat cake instead. This immortal utterance, which so well Characterizes corruption, anywhere, Anytime, guarantees that Marie won’t Soon be forgotten. Imagine my surprise, Then, when I read that there’s actually No concrete evidence she really said it! That historians consider the source of The quote highly unreliable! A tabloid, No less. Louis and Marie apparently Believed in freedom of the press, but As is still so often the case, attacking The unpopular sold copies. Therefore, Exaggerations and lies about the Monarchy were commonplace. But so What? With a quote so memorable, Questions of legitimacy are secondary. Still, imagine going down in history for Something you never actually said! History has force fed Marie that very Same cake allegedly recommended To the peasants. R.I.P. LOU REED The different don’t feel so different Anymore, not like they used to, not Like when they had to deny the very Idea of their natures. The different had Lou Reed to sing for them. Lou didn’t Pander for shock value, he just figured He’d get real, real for him, maybe real Too for others out there in dark corners, The margins, the gutters, the alleys, the Toilets, the jails, the mental hospitals. This was when being a freak wasn’t chic, It was dangerous, could cost you your Life. Sometimes Lou didn’t mind who He offended, other times he cloaked His real meanings in clever language, But no one could probe as deeply into The taboo shadows of our collective Psyche with the same boldness or With as much humanity. That’s what I’ll remember Lou for, his humanity, His occasional tenderness, his trying To find the heart in life’s confusions, His frequent rubbing of life’s seediest Sides in your face. He had his own face Rubbed in it too, but turned the smears Into part of his costume for the role of Bard of the forbidden, anarchist of Sexuality giving all the rejects a voice. TONGUE TIED Tongue tied, falling right into a Role I’m not sure how to play. Tongue tied, no idea how to Say what I’m thinking, it might Be impolite, not to your liking. Tongue tied, talking around The subject, trying to say it Indirectly.Tongue tied, wanting So bad for the words to sound Right that they won’t come out At all. Tongue tied, silently Screaming. IT’S MY JOB You can deny my love if it’s Not what you want, refuse it If it’s not good enough, just Doesn’t move you. You have Every right by your own free Will. I just feel like, right or Wrong, good or bad, happy Or sad, wise or foolish, it’s Just my job to let you know Somebody loves you. No one Said anything about you Having to accept it. REINCARNATION With every person you’ve ever felt A passion for, you create a child in The spiritual world. You may meet Them there, before or after their Turn comes to be made real, born As human. How else to explain why A poet from a thousand years ago Reminds me of someone I only met Yesterday, or why grandparents Sometimes make more sense than Mom and dad, or why someone You rarely even see can still fill you With both joy and sadness longer Than time itself whenever you Think of them? MORE NEXT DOOR ("CYCLONE SCENE 2")



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