Saturday, July 31, 2010

Going Postal Emotional on Peaches

Did you know Pakistanis sell the best fruits downtown on street corners all around
Downtown furry peaches with skins have dark strains of orange and red
3 for a dollar choose 3 for me please Mr. fruit man
Even street sellers don’t want you to squeeze their fruits and bruise them
He displays the 3 fruits holding them up for me to see
Perfect tender moist velvet am I talking about a peach cause I swear it sounds like my pussy
From beneath the cart he grabs a bottle of water blesses my trio,
I politely thank him on my way crossing another dangerous street
juice drips down my chin I catch it with a napkin
my palette yields the taste gives me a momentary memory lapse is it heaven
up here in Washington Heights ghetto - even Riverdale
matter of fact any good store here where I go there’s nowhere to procure a fucking good peach,
or nectarines nothing like that apricots también
Store bought peaches are slightly moist mealy-mouthed fibrous fruits with no flavor or taste a pulpy consistence for twice the price and half the weight
who will pay for pitiful dismay I swear I think there’s some foul play somewhere
I can’t understand how none of the stores know how to find fine juicy peaches but these Indian and Pakistani men do
I told my neighbor about buying tasteless peaches from a local green grocer –
isn’t that funny she said you’re saying exactly what I told my daughter earlier today
See it’s not a conspiracy I’m not imagining these peaches are truly yucky
if store bought peaches taste this bad how good can they be for our health under constant attack
do you think the rich & famous eat these mealy mouthed peaches
Criminal to betray us - matter of fact stay on track Jack and present the facts
I’m looking for peaches to savor the flavor of ripe red sweet orange peaches
sink my teeth into ripe sin fulfilled and gratified juice released on my tongue
I guess I have to go back downtown and look around for those Pakistani and Indian fruit guys
They showed me whom to seek when I need to buy sweet ripe red tender peaches

Tuesday, July 27, 2010


What’s all this discussion about an introspection she’s having
We have our analyzations but
We can only imagine her situation
What’s her objection to the time and place
of her previous selection
what’s your impression about her disposition
to a new meeting place each week
Dragging your son around to new destinations
This week it’s Chinatown. What’s the occasion?
Some unknown purpose a distraction a new fixation on the Asian population
Every week it’s a new transmigration
A communication problem a clockwork creation every Friday
I wish I could give her an examination to figure out why she has such disorganization
why her convictions are like the weather
Why today it’s another subway station another combination a new calculation
a different regulation, the justification for another dozen calls
with hesitation you ask where’s today’s location
another starbucks a different barnes & noble in another section of town she says she’ll call you later after some further investigation on her formulation to set the details she needs to use her imagination to figure out
the navigation for where today’s exchange of your son should take place
with her mitigation and exploration of another new NYC place
Josie’s observation is that ex wife’s harassment is a violation of your rights
not to mention a terrible inconsideration
As if you have an obligation to change location forget her protestations
The orchestration of this battle of wills must have some correlation but to me it’s a mystery
If you give in once it’s like giving her an invitation to begin a new rotation to free association
All the misinformation the procrastination the vilification
We can’t understand the formation – doesn’t she know the child needs stabilization instead of an improvisation of complications each visitation day at the last moment
You mean last night she had no clue that today she was going downtown
We’d show appreciation for some clarification of the circumstances
Why can’t she call when she knows her plans instead of relying on manipulations for which
We can’t figure out her motivations
What’s her inspiration for this orchestration of wandering pick up & drop off points
her consistent continuation of these indignations
It’s getting worse every day
Congratulations on being the craziest person I know with no further deliberation and without discrimination
I gotta stop this preoccupation – this persecution is getting to me now
I want some mediation mixed with medication to
stop this perpetuation of this humiliation and domination

Sunday, July 25, 2010

I’m Not The Me I Used To Be

I’m not the me you know
I’m not the me I’m gonna be
Tomorrow or the next day
How the hell would I know
Who I’m gonna be tomorrow
Or the day after that
Don’t judge me by what you see when you look at me
You don’t see the real me – you see the me you think you see the me you thought you saw yesterday when we met for dinner
you only think you’re who you wanna be today but come tomorrow you dunno either who you’ll be the day after next
We all used to be somebody and now we’re somebody else
Faced with unforeseen and unseemly experiences that just seem to get in the way of everything
We can’t always become the mes we want to be
I’m not the same me you knew yesterday
I’m different than her today
Whaddaya I know?
Nothing except this: I’m not the me I knew yesterday
So how can I be the me you think you see the me I really be
I can’t be the same old tired me you see when I stood here beside you in this new place
Repeating the same worn out words
I know you heard this before and the same tune plays in your head alongside mine
If you don’t judge me – the me who you think you are – then I won’t judge the you who I think you are either and in that way we will have peace
Let’s have peace like dat!
Let’s have peace like dat!
You accept me and I’ll accept you.
You don’t wanna see me be who I wanna be
It’s ok I can take that too
You keep away from me and I’ll keep my distance too.
Don’t look at me like that I don’t want to be mean and play games I just want to be me with out thinking how being me feels about you today when I only have the memory of me and you – the me you knew yesterday and the you who stands here today
Yesterday is not tomorrow and today is not yesterday I can’t tell you more about who I’ll be tomorrow if you wait around and see you may catch a glimpse of the me the she the me became when you thought you saw her emerge yesterday forget about tomorrow’s merge
Or yesterday’s surge of energy forget the rage
We may not be around tomorrow
We may only have only today after all

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Attached - who me?

I've often spoken about attachments on this blog and how our attachments affect us because with attachments come inevitable loss. Kind of the way of life, including birth and death. This is a difficult process for everyone. I'd be the last to preach about attachments. I've also spoken in my poetry about how people places and things only have the meanings we attribute to them and the power we give them.
This is a story about a book, The Gospel Of Buddha by Paul Carus - copyrighted in 1894, that strangely came to be in my possession and led me this digression about a transgression.
Some 30 years ago I was attending Columbia University for my undergraduate degree and was in love with this young Hungarian bike messenger who moved in with me. We were both avid readers and he knew I'd studied and followed eastern philosophy.
One day on his bike messenger travels outside of a fancy mid town - east side office building he espied this book on top of a box of trash and took it. He said he'd imagined I'd love it and that he couldn't think of anyone else who would appreciate this text like me. And he put the book below in my hands. I carefully accepted the gift as the book cover was already worn. The cover feels like leather.
I began to go page through this book and above is what I saw. I was enthralled by the hand drawings illustrating the text.

Imagine my surprise and delight when I saw how old it was and that the illustrations were so lovely.
This is a 1917 edition by The Open Court Publishing Company and is only available in libraries and online pdf of this edition. If you'd like to read the entire book online with the drawings - click here!

Suddenly I realized this book was not only old, it was ancient in the publishing world. It doesn't even have an ISBN number. I searched for the copyright  and found 1894 on the preface above.
Occasionally I read the book. A while back I went to retrieve the book from my shelf and it wasn't there. I missed the comfort I feel when I handle this book. It's become imbibed with meaning.
I realized that my more recent ex had taken it with him when he moved out. I trusted he'd leave my things be when he moved but I was sadly wrong and I was unable to locate many items. It actually took me some time to discover that this book wasn't where I'd kept it.
After our break up I was overwhelmed with trying to get my place my life and my records back in order (and it's still not) and many things slipped by me, like my membership in the National Association of Social Workers lapsed and later it was very difficult to convince them to give me the retirement rate. Five months passed before I realized the book had gone missing. I contacted my ex and he paused before he said he "believed he could locate it," Another month passed before my beloved book was returned to my hands. Guess I'm lucky to get it back at all.
So now here I am with my lovely ancient leather bound volume with original illustrations so I decide to do an internet search to see if it has any value online but in my search for the monetary value (I figure I won't be here forever to enjoy it) I discover uncover Mr. Peter RF Brown and his amazing website, Inter-disciplinary Publications of Peace and Great Souls.

Underneath his title is the following greeting:

WELCOME YOU ARE! to this ... Small Island of Inner Space 

and to the right side of this little tidbit is the following:

"There is a mighty mountain pass,
the causeWay of the sun;
to whom all earth gives homage,
for whom the days began."

deep Himalaya,

Actually the way mountainman has the text from my book laid out on his site is how poetry is laid out which is nicer than my book but Carus' translation is untouched on both. My book also has wonderful hand drawn illustrations.

For those interested in reading reviewing or exploring - esotericism - this man's site would be an excellent place to browse about. His topic listing is extensive and ranges from Western Science to Western Mystics Poets and Religions to Eastern Mystics Poets and Relgions and much much more including but not limited to the Dalai Lama, Australian Aboriginal insights and the Universal Declaration Of Human Rights published by the United Nations General Assembly. I am impressed by the depth of the subjects offered and the quotes Peter R.F. Brown, the designer and everything person I assume, who maintains the site. It took me a second to find him.

For those wishing to know more about what I'm going on about - check these links below:

Inner Self: Esotericism - What Is It? Andrew Schneider

On Wikipedia 

Other online books by Paul Carus

Cambridge Centre for Western Esotericism

Saturday, July 17, 2010


JoAnne is one tough broad,
Italian Irish descent
from the Northeast Bronx
Through sacrifice and dedication
JoAnne is now a nurse at
Presbyterian Medical Center

This is her story
bout a methadone baby
born addicted
on JoAnne’s ward
This boy had tupelo
honey colored skin,
and hazel brown,
almond eyes
Birth mama’s blond and curly haired
A blue eyed Nuyorican
Daddy is a dark skinned African

Mama named the baby Shonequon
The nurses called him “Sweet”
Sweet’s a boarder baby who
lived on the ward
for 2 and a half months
BCW tryin to decide
what to do with that tiny
methadone addicted baby

Now me amiga esta sin ninos
she has no children
e quiere uno mucho
she wants one very badly
so she fell in love with Sweet
talked about him constantly

JoAnne said,
Sweet is cryin all the time
He holds his body rigid
his cryin is so fitful
Kindled by the pain
cause Sweet’s addicted to meth
and this is how he sounds

Sweet’s tiny fists
are always clenched
his spindly arms crossing
his scrawny chest
This baby can’t relax!
He’s got a monkey on his back
Sweet’s addicted to meth

The Doctor confides
he wishes he could
keep Sweet tranquilized
cause he’s screamin so fretfully

JoAnne loves to nurture Sweet
She embraces him reverently
comforts him with
the rhythm of her heart
she whispers soothing sounds

her voice falls like soft waves
caresses tender hollows
of his frail anatomy
her soft warm breath
glides down his velvet neck
Sweet responds with purring sounds

JoAnne’s gentle devotions
linger on
like a mango blossom’s scent
fragrant on a breeze
Sweet watches her giddily
clinging with his
tightly gripped fists

Yesterday Sweet smiled for the
very first time
JoAnne bragged
as though he were her own
Sweet, my boarder baby
is delayed in his response
yesterday was the
first day
God graced me with his smile

Her eyes rimmed with blurring droplets
Dewdrops silhouette
I love him, she said
I want him to be mine
Even though he’s HIV
Even though he surely won’t survive
I want him to be mine

Child Welfare lets his Mama visit
she hardly came at all
Daddy was there
every day
he was always drunk

Today they let her come and
take my Sweet away
Honey, JoAnne said,
This baby’s in a lot of pain
he suffers from anxiety

You don’t have to hold him
24 / 7,
but you need to let him
see your face
smiling, talking
into his

Sweet’s Mama answered
I know mucho more than you do
let me tell you somethin’
You don’t know what I been through
All my kids are born on meth
and that’s the way it’s always been

The baby started fussin’ then
his spindly arms
clenched across
his scrawny chest

Sweet opened his eyes
he focused on JoAnne
reached out to her with open scrawny arms

His Mama reached the baby first
and took him from his crib
Esta te quieto, nino
she said as she rocked him
to her methadone beat
Esta te quieto, nino

It’s gonna be okay Mama said
Grandma said she’s gonna help,
She’s carin’ for my other five
My oldest girl’s gonna be there too
And like I told ya,
All my kids are born on meth
And that’s the way it’s always been,
but we know how to get by.

First published (where it can be viewed in its original format) GRIST ON LINE, 1995, an online edited web publication

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Friends awarding me too

And I would like to pass the awards on to the list of THIRTEEN random awesome poets below, who can choose either or both awards. Some of these multi-talented bloggers also publish other creative fare –  so get all their goodness at their one-stop shopping locales!
The following recipients may fling these awards with joy to the moon, or wherever!
1.  Joaquin
2. Joy Leftow
3. Paige
4. Talon
5. Snaggletooth
6. Davina
7. Ana Goncalves
8. Glenn
9. Fireblossom
10. Sara Healy
11. Mama Zen
12. Thomma Lyn
13. Mad Cat Lady
I look forward to meeting more poets and reading great poems over this weekend!!  And maybe even to linking up new poets in future posts, if I do the Thursday Poetry Rally again.   Thank you.

Friday, July 09, 2010

In Commemoration of 9/11

I have to tell you
Nothing’s changed from 7 years ago or even 15 or 20 years, many more
A cockcrows, pseudo psychos run our town, our entire country betrayed by nationality
Threats weighed in all around
We stand our ground
Another bomb can drop anytime
No more Hiroshima mon amor
We never know how long
Victims never expect the expected
We destroy ourselves again and again
A full course in humanity
Educators told to slow the word holocaust
Like if they don’t use the word holocaust that means it never happened
It happened again tell me your ancestors didn’t get here by slave ship
I hope it’s a different
new nation under god
9/11 is different
We never knew
They knew and had ideas but hid it from the populace
We never know exactly when a bomb will drop
Isn’t that the point of terrorism
Only those dropping it know when the bomb goes KA – BoOM!
They claim millions didn’t die and we helped them pretend we didn’t make it worse
Our World Trade victims shut in from escape
Sent back from exit doors to their deaths
Why did we do that why why I cry over and over
The first estimated death toll was over
6000 reported they didn’t match any lists
why then did they find 10,000 unidentified bone and tissue fragments
now they say 3000 more unmatched to any dead or missing list
Our brothers, our sisters, our mothers, our people told to stay put to prevent a rampage –
not good or sage advice – it’s our government right or wrong
kept my brother caged to die inside the world trade center
Killed by accident – friendly fire – at least half would have made it had we let them descend and exit the building
How many dead at Hiroshima
How many lost to the gas chambers in the holocaust that never was
Besides 6 million jews, homosexuals now called gays, Romani citizens, soviet civilians, prisoners of war, Poles, Jehovah witnesses, so many more
Pushed to the brink of extinction
and now they say there’s no more holocaust
no more prisoners of war

* Written to commemorate 9/11 last anniversary 2009 and I didn't post then - guess I should've & would do if I had it to do over again.

Saturday, July 03, 2010

I Want Some Tanqueray

Tantalize me tranquilize abnormalize my soul to eternity
Eyes on the prize no more lies scrumptious skies
revise and improvise a nobel peace prize
Before I crumble away and decompose I want to weigh less
Portray the prepaid finance for a valet in France
A strawberry soufflé sorbet to lighten the ash gray drab day
Morosely foreboding forbidding decay on a field day
Make a bad thing worse
It’s not a fucking curse
Amy Winehouse is coming back as black as she wanna be her white is right she’s got the blight but she’s gonna make it through to you
I have faith in Amy – she’ll make it through her blue day in spite of the cockamamie
I still reminisce on JonBenet - pray her killer will find judgment day
Lost and found is not the same as a red river running flowing
Amber to red hysteria widespread another unwed mother
no area Lumeria Manchuria maria listeria peoria
It’s dangerous out there advantageous ambidextrous ambiguous and amorphous.
Not a shred of evidence analogous barbarous
Hypochondria indicanuria
She said he wants to be disabled and not work only because he sees how much fun it is to be around you
Hmmm… Interesting theory
I wish I believed that
cabled fabled labeled and tabled enabled and mislabeled then unlabeled
Poetry controls me inside my head