The Eagle at the Tree

Now, watch the eagle perched upon the limb;
his eyes, that seem to peer into the soul,
take in the troubled world that waits below him
and see beyond illusions of control.

How like that noble bird we seek for answers,
and take upon ourselves his inborn traits;
there still upon the branch we preen like dancers,
not understanding our purpose or fates.

Great nations take him for their sacred symbol,
and bid him clutch dual tokens, peace and war;
while discontent to let their future gambol,
they cast aside the instinct borne to soar.

This imitation eagle, one wing pinioned,
is let loose now in low, small circle flights —
a source of great amused, confused opinion,
with freedom’s duties, but none of its rights.

His talons have been dulled on greed’s coarse whetstone,
his molted feathers used to plume parades;
and old now are the songs of where he has flown,
for memory of that flight is now charade.

The tree on which he rests? False public service
in obeisance to some unseen lords;
Look, anything that comes near makes him nervous
and strain against his rough, restraining cords!

No eagle can be destined for the showplace;
on such a stage his spirit wilts and dies.
The bird of prey exists for the hunt, the chase;
to posit otherwise is to speak lies.

Who are the fools who seek to tame his spirit,
to bid him dance and entertain their whim?
Look there, not on the tree, but somewhere near it —
the selfish few who claim to own the limb.

09 JUL 2004

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God is a Lonely Whore

I am so in love although I have never seen;
my eyes are full of things my heart denies me:
colored visions wrought in the language of amour,
the word made flesh in the weak metaphor
of wretched, babbling men
whose hollow shoulders form the bowl of tears
in which my true love’s face is drenched
(the ablution of loneliness).

The street, narrow and ill-lit, covered windows
blinderized as animals of burden,
where we first met; the oceanside cafe

(do you remember our first vows of constancy?)

where bread and wine were defined and then shared;
the desperate bed that lead our wrung hands
to cartography;

the tiny chapel in the woods we gaily toured
and in our fancy, pretended,
like small children will,
to celebrate our nuptials –

oh, how memory serves its aweful dregs
like bitter, rousing tea.

Remembrance is the greatest tool in love’s mad arsenal!

Yet even more wrenching
is the memory of the future,
the once upon a time that hasn’t happened yet;

like all loves will, I see my love
in everything around me.

Unlike the simpering, weak, whines
from other lovesick swains and paramours,
who find their ‘true love’s countenance’
in such a narrow spectrum
of their world

(bah…I laugh at their enfeebled similitudes)

there is no limit to the specters that remind me
of my other half.

‘Tis but a rose, you hopeless suitor,
it may never be the cheeks of the sweet face;
only an odor carried on the wind,
a breath of carrion or the opinion of swine,
it will pass for a scent of the alcohol and water bath
which lingers on love’s neck,
a neck supporting the fairest visage
since the “real” contests were spawned:

Olympus has been redeveloped,
Atlantis has been drained and reclaimed,
the heartless shores of Troy
have become a resort community
for lost and half-found converts
to the order of a new world.

Oh, pale would-be conquistadores,
your weak and gutless vision of your beloved is nothing.

Would you, as Lucifer once dared,
refuse to bow to any but your true love,
and suffer
the banishment,
the desolation,
the yearning to live
only to remember your lover’s sweet “Go to Hell”?

1993

Thinking of Dante, thanks to fool_in_spirit, I dug through the archives and pulled out one of my favorite older poems on the subject of Love.

There is a Persian story that posits that Lucifer loved Jehovah above all things. Lucifer lived to be in the presence of his love, and would accept no substitutes. Then, Jehovah created humankind, and asked all the angels and such beings to pledge allegiance to this new form. Lucifer, distraught, swore that he would not; his allegiance, he proclaimed, was due only and exclusively to his one true love, Jehovah. As punishment for his imprudent action, Lucifer was given the most cruel punishment that Jehovah could think of — to banish Lucifer forever from the presence of Himself, to never again hear his voice, to live only thanks to the memory of the love that was (and is) his sole sustenance.

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there is a poem

there is a poem
that i will never write down;
words cannot hold it.

there is a poem
that cannot be recited;
it escapes like breath.

there is a poem
in every simple movement;
it is verse, set free.

there is a poem
between the lines written down;
no pen transcribes it.

there is a poem
that transcends literature;
how could books hold it?

there is a poem
behind this very poem;
someone will find it.

in the dialogue
between is and possibly
there is a poem.

07 JUL 2004

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Independence Day

I heard the sounds last night of war
outside my window and front door,
wild shells and streaks of fire and light;
and I was troubled at the sight.

No thought of where the sparks might land
entered the minds that worked the hands
that with their matches struck these bombs;
a country of brave automatons.

The flash of light, the burst of sound
and emptied beer cans all around
while through the smoke which slowly cleared
the throng of wise non-voters cheered.

They cheered the colors and the show
and cursed the duds that would not blow
their senses wowed by shock and awe,
and the ends of their fingers raw.

The cost of fireworks? Twenty bucks,
from out the back of nameless trucks;
The cost of freedom? Tears and bone
worth more than any flag now flown.

For what good pomp and grand parades
to celebrate a poor charade?
It lessens knowledge of the cost
if lives in some great lie are lost.

This freedom that we celebrate,
is it a license by which hate
and fear become the only sense
by which we gain experience?

Our independence, so hard gained,
is its dirge to be our refrain?
I seek, although perhaps in vain,
to define freedom, once again:

Freedom from the right of kings,
in matters large, and petty things,
and from the presumed word of God
that with chains bids man’s feet be shod,

and from the whim of landed wealth
who seek first their own fare and health
and from the bane of presumed right
that sees darkness, save its own light

and from the harsh slavemaster’s whip,
and fear of persecution’s grip,
and from the unseen, hurtful ties
that persecute the meek and wise

and from the threat of hangman’s laws
that seek to punish without cause
and from the hand that seeks to still
the tongue, the mind, the heart and will

and from the bloodied, soulless crowd
that sees itself as just and proud
and from the ignorance that seeks
to serve itself, and harm the weak

and from the politician’s greed
that dines in pomp, while poor men bleed
and from the engines geared for war
that gnash their teeth, and cry for more

and from the state, that seeks to bind
the tongues of reason, and be blind
and from the cloaked and hidden cause
that bids us follow, just because

and from the forked and evil ways
that seek by bloodshed gold and praise
and from all those who would be kings
and paint themselves with angels’ wings

and from our baser natures, too
that seek reward where none is due
and from the impulse not to act
when those who guide us go off track

and from the right to hold one’s peace
when liberty and freedom cease
and lastly, freedom to believe
and when that freedom’s risked, to grieve.

06 JUL 2004

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Brando

The last of the icons remaining to us
whose methods have become the norm,
whose portrait of rebellion created the fuss
that pushed us from the eye to the storm

and in just a few lines, or gestures, inspired
a lost generation to gather, and name
its enemies. He watched, and grew tired
of pale imitations, but never blamed

the audience, who were not born to follow,
but rather the great machine churning out trash;
recognized his own failing, too — that hollow
morality that could not refuse the cash.

The greatness of men is found in their flaws;
there is no perfection that can so inspire,
if only because how we deal with the raw
and festering wounds in our lives, and aim higher

than mere entertainment, or paychecks, or fame
and are willing to risk all of that, for some cause
(which although perhaps shallow or just some wild game,
is the crucible in which our apathetic ice thaws).

So ramble on, mumble on, show warts and all;
The goal is not merely to light up the screen,
but more than that, to illustrate that a fall
is a clear testament of an effort, unseen

to claim an authentic soul, one not for sale
at any price, and through the feral and wild lands
of our dreams, to be willing although sometimes frail
to grasp at a greatness with your own hands.

02 JUL 2004

One of the ways you could describe James Dean is as a figure standing with both arms outstretched, one side Marlon Brando saying, “Up yours,” and the other side, Montgomery Clift saying, “Help me.” — paraphrased from The Mutant King: A Biography of James Dean, by David Dalton

Kowalski was always right, and never afraid. He never wondered, he never doubted. His ego was very secure. And he had the kind of brutal aggressiveness that I hate. I’m afraid of it. I detest the character. — Marlon Brando on Stanley Kowalski

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An “A” Theory of American Politics Since the 60s

Guaranteed to offend everyone … but only intended half seriously.

Kennedy proved that the rich are assholes.
Johnson proved that politicians are assholes.
Nixon proved that Presidents are assholes.
Ford proved that Senators are assholes.
Carter proved that the media are assholes.
Reagan proved that Republicans are assholes.
G.H.W. Bush proved that Vice Presidents are assholes.
Clinton proved that Democrats are assholes.
G.W. Bush is trying to prove that Americans are assholes.

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Ah, New Orleans: a villanelle

The air is thick with history, with years of sweat and toil.
Old ghosts play hide and seek in sheets that show more recent use;
the wiser tourists avoid alleys and shun Bourbon’s roil.

Old men of different colors sit on their front steps and broil,
and stare across at one another, hearts filled with abuse;
the air is thick with history, with years of sweat and toil.

Some drunken fools careen along the street, in beads and foil
and pay five dollars to discover “where they got their shoes”.
The wiser tourists avoid alleys and shun Bourbon’s roil.

For two weeks in the spring, pre-Lent, the tense peace turns turmoil,
and you don’t want to see OPP for the weekend, that’s old news;
the air is thick with history, with years of sweat and toil.

If you look closely, underneath the surface, a slow boil
festers even in the minds of drunken revelers at Krewes.
The wiser tourists avoid alleys and shun Bourbon’s roil.

So come to spend your money here; we’ll throw our beads at you
and like as not you’ll end up poorer but show no scar or bruise.
The air is thick with history, with years of sweat and toil;
the wiser tourists avoid alleys and shun Bourbon’s roil.

29 JUN 2004

By request, here is a villanelle that theoretically also provides some impressions of New Orleans. Although I have to admit, feeling rather Tom Waitsy at the moment, the picture I’ve chosen to put in the Viewmaster for this one is a bit on the sadistic side. But then again, Nawlins does have that contingent. Ya know, vampires and all. With bondo fangs and everything. Giving tours. Pointing out witches … and strippers.

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