tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91463644544412956612024-03-07T21:21:19.442-05:00WordcarvingJohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.comBlogger171125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-31232123525462141792009-04-22T13:13:00.001-04:002009-04-22T14:40:46.519-04:00Education<p></p><p></p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikvz8sANU49mTunB_zkI9PYl6lI43kOBsvE3KPKH4tsBWsSL0JvjuVz-RNTTTRnEeBox-zk3nAvqM5QYMqTv0B-3uPNGTQHUrYOoXhPKa_ZssVjA6Xc6A2xgr3dMuQKc4AwygZOdWrY1w/s1600-h/burning+at+stake.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 254px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikvz8sANU49mTunB_zkI9PYl6lI43kOBsvE3KPKH4tsBWsSL0JvjuVz-RNTTTRnEeBox-zk3nAvqM5QYMqTv0B-3uPNGTQHUrYOoXhPKa_ZssVjA6Xc6A2xgr3dMuQKc4AwygZOdWrY1w/s400/burning+at+stake.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327565295804674514" /></a><br /></p><p>If you should give a man a match,<br />you warm him for perhaps a day;<br />but give that man a stake<br />and give him that same match,<br />he’ll warm us all for the rest of his life.<br /><br /><br /></p><p></p><p></p>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-1064149699563596722008-07-09T19:15:00.002-04:002008-12-10T09:24:32.477-05:00Zelly. Four.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZDB610W1NsSloJRyt3qQho3mRSi1r0PpiLH4TCsPOrYggrNNqyfh2drBkCZH-KqbJ_jdLx6Tb5CHwJGCSvFF_iVpa40ZCaCJgb7q9ye26UowPgzDhemf0AUwnHnZC6QAAgrewhjg8fnA/s1600-h/169_0052.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZDB610W1NsSloJRyt3qQho3mRSi1r0PpiLH4TCsPOrYggrNNqyfh2drBkCZH-KqbJ_jdLx6Tb5CHwJGCSvFF_iVpa40ZCaCJgb7q9ye26UowPgzDhemf0AUwnHnZC6QAAgrewhjg8fnA/s400/169_0052.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221158690984860002" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwhLi_go8afJdPo3w5nG173GHYdn1xrCZNidbV7D1zX0VOLQZG9NwS5dPnoaVmb8IW7cLoZd8bBfcusxTuVSB0ewbapGvOp1DJ-fov0VV3SyIHI9-Vjoza026gYp9OiGRGlZRr-qu2IHc/s1600-h/DSCN0238a.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwhLi_go8afJdPo3w5nG173GHYdn1xrCZNidbV7D1zX0VOLQZG9NwS5dPnoaVmb8IW7cLoZd8bBfcusxTuVSB0ewbapGvOp1DJ-fov0VV3SyIHI9-Vjoza026gYp9OiGRGlZRr-qu2IHc/s400/DSCN0238a.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221157617974245922" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8kDfUzg0_u0NhcSYDd3NWqfwjwBHZHdlxoZnkCrWtfPLSxeYDAv7uuz3ynn8zVH-p2URoLsP6zXQC5rm6GSXmRNogT2vp07Hvg-k7h7UZ-RBO8jug3z8fltE2zUgaAFZukX4l3Zbf2aM/s1600-h/DSCN0230.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8kDfUzg0_u0NhcSYDd3NWqfwjwBHZHdlxoZnkCrWtfPLSxeYDAv7uuz3ynn8zVH-p2URoLsP6zXQC5rm6GSXmRNogT2vp07Hvg-k7h7UZ-RBO8jug3z8fltE2zUgaAFZukX4l3Zbf2aM/s400/DSCN0230.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221157354846918370" border="0" /></a>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-13166500330387492592008-06-16T03:32:00.001-04:002008-12-10T09:24:32.652-05:00Have A Nice Day, Poldy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdBapTtz3aY-UYjRBIV3sGG2DWyjw8omrF8jUBhVzvgYQN8HioIHkrYWsLZt0vd-taqhI0Y2EvD9nmQa778qGUYTegV1I0iDNFGZJXrKEXgUuFqNyS9WULVRpHzTOT-kUBjIkQkd28khI/s1600-h/Joyce+in+Paris.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212379267274959442" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdBapTtz3aY-UYjRBIV3sGG2DWyjw8omrF8jUBhVzvgYQN8HioIHkrYWsLZt0vd-taqhI0Y2EvD9nmQa778qGUYTegV1I0iDNFGZJXrKEXgUuFqNyS9WULVRpHzTOT-kUBjIkQkd28khI/s400/Joyce+in+Paris.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-5678146021288697492008-06-16T02:56:00.004-04:002008-12-10T09:24:32.843-05:00Notes<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOdutVE1erD2hA_jDJUdl4tNJzVeUJW94cfMbLaSFvf6YiGrYKZwBQTp7cGrnQ7WYQ9AaguuCrCq72qYYi3RQhe7CiQ0r8vzbgo9qLOJXIVBbjvvzRkGHF3qW3wgwJJ9woZxHZnMycmP4/s1600-h/guantanimo.1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212370049451874818" style="" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOdutVE1erD2hA_jDJUdl4tNJzVeUJW94cfMbLaSFvf6YiGrYKZwBQTp7cGrnQ7WYQ9AaguuCrCq72qYYi3RQhe7CiQ0r8vzbgo9qLOJXIVBbjvvzRkGHF3qW3wgwJJ9woZxHZnMycmP4/s400/guantanimo.1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Subject 3348 Day 1<br /><br />Subject escorted to Interrogation Unit<br />by standard Intake Unit escort squad,<br />locomoting under own power.<br />Full shackle set. Appears healthy,<br />approximately thirty years old.<br />States he’s been in custody one day,<br />doesn’t know why he’s been arrested.<br />Manner slightly apprehensive, wary.<br />Relaxes a bit with leg shackles removed.<br />Seated posture is erect, alert, tense.<br />Subject states he is innocent of any crime.<br />English is fairly good. Middle class?<br />States he does not know Informant 12,<br />or why anyone would report his name<br />to authorities. Claims to be a student.<br />Denies any connection to insurgency.<br />Tone superior and dismissive of interrogator.<br />Claims no knowledge of explosives<br />or military ordnance. States professors<br />will vouch for his status at university.<br />Subject makes and sustains eye contact.<br />Application, at force 2, from rear,<br />of the Command Directory unseats subject,<br />elicits a flow of speech in unknown language.<br />Reseated, subject is silent, self-contained.<br />Manner suggests subject is trained to resist<br />interrogation. Subject remains silent<br />when asked what he thinks of the occupation<br />by Provisional Authority Forces. Asked<br />again, subject remains silent, smiles.<br />Directory applied, force 3.<br />Subject has no visible marks,<br />but right index finger bent to unusual<br />angle, probably owing to his fall.<br />Finger straightened by interrogator,<br />seems normal. Subject still denies<br />any connection with insurgency.<br />Asked why he was at his place of arrest,<br />subject states he was walking home from school<br />because his family car had been destroyed<br />by Provisional Authority troops<br />and the bus he normally took wasn’t running.<br />Asked where his books were, if any,<br />subject states his briefcase was taken away<br />from him at the scene of his arrest.<br />Arrest report makes no mention<br />of any confiscated packages.<br />Subject tenses when interrogator<br />picks up Command Directory,<br />but provides no additional commentary.<br />Preliminary conclusions: subject appears<br />trained to resist interrogation, provides<br />minimal answers, probably deceptive.<br />Involvement with insurgency seems probable.<br />Recommend return to Intake Unit<br />for standard disorientation regimen.<br />Return to Interrogation Unit tomorrow.<br /><br /><br />Subject 3348 Day 2<br /><br />Subject escorted to Interrogation Unit,<br />standard escort. Full shackle set.<br />Subject appears exhausted, sleep-deprived,<br />but otherwise healthy, without injuries.<br />Subject informed that he will only be made<br />more comfortable if we can rely<br />on his truthful answers and full cooperation.<br />Subject states he’s ready to cooperate.<br />Asked what he was doing at the scene of his arrest<br />subject repeats he was walking home from school.<br />Phrasing is exactly the same as yesterday,<br />indicating a planned, deceptive response.<br />Informed that no records for him exist<br />at the university, subject states<br />there must be some mistake, that he has been<br />a postgraduate fellow in Sunni poetry<br />for more than two years. Subject adds<br />that he has no interest in and has never<br />participated in local politics<br />or for that matter ethnic politics.<br />Asked why no records exist,<br />subject repeats there must be some mistake.<br />Subject denies involvement with insurgency<br />without being asked. Says he is innocent.<br />Asked what he is innocent of, subject<br />replies “Whatever you think I did.”<br />Asked if he is playing games with us,<br />subject states he never plays games,<br />that he is quite serious, but thinks he’s going mad,<br />that the whole world must be going mad.<br />Subject refuses to make eye contact.<br />Application of Command Directory,<br />force 3. Subject lies on floor,<br />feigning unconsciousness. Asked if he was trying<br />to steal a nap subject finally states<br />he has no idea what happened at all.<br />Told to reseat himself, subject complies,<br />but slowly. Subject stares down at his hands.<br />Asked if he frequently has nosebleeds,<br />subject at last replies in the negative.<br />Subject thanks interrogator when<br />interrogator wipes subject’s face.<br />Subject denies being smart when asked.<br />Asked again why he was at the scene<br />of his arrest, subject sticks to his story,<br />again using identical words and phrasing.<br />Asked if he is familiar with the term<br />“Baghdad Jackknife,” subject<br />denies knowledge, but displays clear<br />signs of apprehension, fear, dread.<br />Informed that he would be finding out about<br />the technique unless he tells the truth,<br />subject states that he is telling the truth,<br />that he doesn’t know what any of this is about,<br />that he only wants to continue with his studies.<br />Command Directory. Force 3 plus.<br />Subject makes no attempt to get up.<br />Advised to be seated, subject does not reply.<br />Placed in his seat, subject immediately<br />allows himself to slide back to the floor.<br />Warned that he won’t be made comfortable<br />unless we have his full cooperation,<br />subject still makes no reply. Placed<br />back in his chair, subject says nothing,<br />stares fixedly at the far wall,<br />a known method of resisting interrogation.<br />Recommend return to Intake<br />to complete course of preconditioning.<br /><br /><br />Subject 3348 Day 3<br /><br />Subject 3348<br />failed to appear at Interrogation Unit.<br />Intake Unit reports subject expired<br />time uncertain previous night.<br />Intake Unit monitors discovered<br />subject unresponsive on midnight rounds.<br />Unspecified pre-existing<br />condition. This concludes investigation<br />of Subject 3348.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-86309918858819843322008-05-31T20:26:00.001-04:002008-12-10T09:24:33.074-05:00Prospectus<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJmh4y8WvgmbB8st1O8rRxYnHOmplQ-Fi7bSZ6mjrnSqF4Ni0KFoAXw5yndAAoMucoPQfk4fsc8N_0l5w4c0G_mxLqdGwCtyxB0fBYIiH4OKh8vJPTV5dEnxJGBRRoenN7-MKQESyrH5g/s1600-h/rainyday.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206703047457186834" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJmh4y8WvgmbB8st1O8rRxYnHOmplQ-Fi7bSZ6mjrnSqF4Ni0KFoAXw5yndAAoMucoPQfk4fsc8N_0l5w4c0G_mxLqdGwCtyxB0fBYIiH4OKh8vJPTV5dEnxJGBRRoenN7-MKQESyrH5g/s400/rainyday.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />They’ll let you down, people will,<br />even those who never should,<br />the ones you trust the most, until<br />they measure out the wormwood.<br /><br />They’ll break your heart, break the shards,<br />grind the detritus to dust;<br />they’ll leave you nothing but your scars,<br />but you’ll go on, because you must.<br /><br />Inch by bitter inch, you’ll heal.<br />Dawn will break; you’ll smile a smile<br />tempered by your long ordeal.<br />This may, however, take awhile.<br /><br />Then they’ll have another go,<br />which won’t be easier, of course,<br />nor will it help you much to know<br />that each succeeding wound is worse.<br /><br />But put away your violin.<br />Just remember all this pain<br />when it’s you bares the bodkin,<br />as you will. It’s preordained:<br /><br />family, loves, friendships die,<br />without exception, each and all;<br />our quintessential human ties<br />are ticked out by time’s pawl,<br /><br />as if betrayal, conflict, change,<br />neglect, and error wouldn’t doom<br />the frail connections we arrange<br />to help us gallop to the tomb.<br /><br />No, you can’t slow the pace;<br />nor is there anything to do<br />except to stare it in the face,<br />live as though it weren’t true.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-12526402652185326382008-05-24T05:40:00.001-04:002008-12-10T09:24:33.297-05:00Happy Birthday, Bob<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkDN-RGinfzs2jY171HyA2eVnHRJ4DqUXsLST97dnTDH9cUj1fWi7TTXBFISDLquZPKuPDt7dC02uII_h1nGNdLv0DJBzNkRnP_MN-0wCrMXGSGe3BVoTc7frGEsUehDoqxgQr37zYnME/s1600-h/f-l-07-06-bob_dylan.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203877332638573570" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkDN-RGinfzs2jY171HyA2eVnHRJ4DqUXsLST97dnTDH9cUj1fWi7TTXBFISDLquZPKuPDt7dC02uII_h1nGNdLv0DJBzNkRnP_MN-0wCrMXGSGe3BVoTc7frGEsUehDoqxgQr37zYnME/s400/f-l-07-06-bob_dylan.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-80160773216464588452008-04-13T05:17:00.002-04:002008-12-10T09:24:33.491-05:00The Thinking Life<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg16J7YJPyfgUNyGD8_sbC9qkKjjFJUhFd_31iT7oQiEfzTLeZEHTTpfNhUzBaPCHC23jwPOGVzy3Ai97yCBlnwVvW8LF9jKGFLXxU5kKSKX5p3oxCk-qw0qwF4oqgUpj6XpqoEYgLtWTk/s1600-h/thinking.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188656957465189042" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg16J7YJPyfgUNyGD8_sbC9qkKjjFJUhFd_31iT7oQiEfzTLeZEHTTpfNhUzBaPCHC23jwPOGVzy3Ai97yCBlnwVvW8LF9jKGFLXxU5kKSKX5p3oxCk-qw0qwF4oqgUpj6XpqoEYgLtWTk/s400/thinking.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />For Tom it all began, as trouble may,<br />at school, or on the corner near school.<br />Although he’d never been one to disobey,<br />one morning Tom defiled the rule:<br /><br />he let a thought crackle through his head.<br />It ravished him. Out of that small spark<br />a small sunrise flared and spread<br />in one mad moment from the dark,<br /><br />sent a blue flood of kilowatts<br />through his every synapse, a holy light<br />his naïve neurons never quite forgot.<br />He shambled off to class, confused, contrite,<br /><br />frightened by its elemental power,<br />vowed he’d never yield to sin again.<br />Right. That resolve cost him an hour<br />before he was back at it, sizzling his brain<br /><br />without the slightest sense of doing wrong,<br />glad to tempt the devil in his lair.<br />But, all considered, Tommy got along <br />surprisingly well; no one seemed to care<br /><br />about his secret vice, no one saw<br />sign or symptom; no one even looked.<br />Glassy eyes and all, slack jawed,<br />he fit in. But Tom knew he was hooked.<br /><br />Strung out. Forever transformed,<br />the innocent boy he’d been forever gone,<br />washed away, a matchstick in a storm.<br />At what point he’d crossed the Rubicon<br /><br />he didn’t know, just that he’d left behind<br />the straight life for haunted libraries,<br />smuggling musty books home to find<br />clues to metastasizing mysteries.<br /><br />He tried to stop. A hundred times he tried.<br />He married, found himself a job, bought<br />a new television, double-wide,<br />but Tom remained a prisoner of thought.<br /><br />And one day his boss called him in,<br />wearing the look that bosses sometimes wear.<br />“I like you, Tom. Don’t know where to begin.<br />You may think it’s none of our affair,<br /><br />“but let me assure you it certainly is. We <em>know</em>.<br />You’ve been thinking, Tom. On our time,<br />playing holy hell with the status-quo.<br />You’ll have to do it on your own dime.”<br /><br />Shocked, Tom did. How could he not?<br />Thinking on the job was serious,<br />and they had him dead to rights; he’d been caught<br />with a smoking premise, a red hypothesis.<br /><br />What to do? First, you tell your wife,<br />which promised to be no fun at all,<br />then you try to straighten out your life,<br />maybe find a therapist to call.<br /><br />That evening, in television glow,<br />he broached the subject. “Honey, I’ve been thinking—”<br />She flinched. “Did you really think I didn’t <em>know</em>?<br />Every night you sit there with your stinking<br /><br />“<em>thoughts</em> and you think you have to <em>tell </em>me? <em>Now</em>?”<br />She threw her hands up to hide her tears.<br />“Did you ever stop to <em>think</em> about your <em>vows</em>?”<br />He stood. “For the love of <em>Christ</em>. I’m out of here.”<br /><br />Tom slammed the door, jumped in the car,<br />gunned it toward the nearest library,<br />thinking and driving, yes, but it wasn’t far.<br />He’d done it a hundred times successfully.<br /><br />But this time was apparently the charm.<br />He was sitting at a light, lost,<br />of course, in thought, doing no one harm,<br />waiting for pedestrians to cross,<br /><br />when someone rapped the glass at his ear.<br />A woman. Tom ran the window down.<br /> “It’s not going to get any greener, Dear,<br />no matter how often it goes around.”<br /><br />She smiled in sadness more than fun.<br />“Having a little thinky-poo, then,<br />are we? Someone needs a meeting, Son.<br />I’m on my way to one. You’ll fit right in.”<br /><br />Why he followed her he never knew.<br />Who can fathom miracles like these?<br />Tom trailed that thoughtful woman to<br />a room full of thought’s refugees.<br /><br />“My name is, um, Tom. I think.”<br />“Hi, Tom,” some scattered voices said.<br />“It started out as just a little kink,<br />but now I can’t control my own head.”<br /><br />“Tell it Tom, just let it all go blank.”<br />He saw some smiles, but heard no laughter.<br />It took a year, but Tom became a plank,<br />and they all lived happily ever after.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-65856265369621935172008-04-08T18:27:00.001-04:002008-12-10T09:24:33.604-05:00Educated Frogs<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6lWXUROIffb_KOBApe8JaHq0Rm_fuAEnMHXvSfMbdg3JvJKq8ihQeXrq9T0AHGv1_CkHEdQWjZrzj6FtD8foCGAanaYNCFzy1C0eMQiCJWAKi4OLFHtuwvrdvEPUUuKHMeMGwIAJ6bIQ/s1600-h/frogs+in+beaker.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187004999651309138" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6lWXUROIffb_KOBApe8JaHq0Rm_fuAEnMHXvSfMbdg3JvJKq8ihQeXrq9T0AHGv1_CkHEdQWjZrzj6FtD8foCGAanaYNCFzy1C0eMQiCJWAKi4OLFHtuwvrdvEPUUuKHMeMGwIAJ6bIQ/s400/frogs+in+beaker.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Two frogs were swimming in a pot.<br />One asked “Is it only me,<br />or is this water getting hot?”<br /><br />“Same as ever, actually,”<br />said the second, a devout,<br />“Don’t you trust the powers that be?”<br /><br />“I must confess a certain doubt,”<br />said the first, who’d read some law,<br />“Something’s fishy hereabouts.”<br /><br />Teacher came. Neither saw.<br />“Most surprising, is it not?<br />So what conclusions can we draw?”Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-52810126532570490202008-04-04T03:30:00.002-04:002008-12-10T09:24:33.905-05:00Fishing<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLpEBJphtbraBW5-n7JBKZQc9z3WKcDWHMylPHYAWZqipVr1JNDS6Mhc3dbVuXpIkxUfS9z6D96H4E-AExUbA-2_0_hQMNvOh7crmes_KCVfcz3ZWymnNUAs-D7ZFhXNeVip1iebh5_PA/s1600-h/fishing.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185289413619627586" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLpEBJphtbraBW5-n7JBKZQc9z3WKcDWHMylPHYAWZqipVr1JNDS6Mhc3dbVuXpIkxUfS9z6D96H4E-AExUbA-2_0_hQMNvOh7crmes_KCVfcz3ZWymnNUAs-D7ZFhXNeVip1iebh5_PA/s400/fishing.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />If you give a man a fish<br />you will have fed him for a day;<br />teach that man to fish,<br />he’ll pack his gear, drive away.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-83281715505914866072008-04-01T01:01:00.003-04:002008-12-10T09:24:34.492-05:00Lines On Queues<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXxvChyRc63c0BluADg6-PTWKnD5UMSc3w6ZNT42a3d0hItAx1iHCBRZMsLnDGCTTN_KyDBGfSMkfPy94y4RGojc4kK6kP1Yn9lLQZDW3aLM3I928Z5XszbJ9hqfFBnA76RbFajIXV1oo/s1600-h/queue.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184137920002668082" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXxvChyRc63c0BluADg6-PTWKnD5UMSc3w6ZNT42a3d0hItAx1iHCBRZMsLnDGCTTN_KyDBGfSMkfPy94y4RGojc4kK6kP1Yn9lLQZDW3aLM3I928Z5XszbJ9hqfFBnA76RbFajIXV1oo/s400/queue.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Circumstances favor us or not,<br />it makes no difference how we view them.<br />We stand in queues all day, no matter what;<br />we spend our whole lives getting through them.<br /><br />PO, market, bank, Security,<br />inescapable, the severable heads<br />of some mythological monstrosity<br />whose divine assignment is to bore us dead.<br /><br />But there’s something nautical about<br />Passport Control, the blue changeless shift<br />of a glaring, bureaucratic sea of doubt<br />where we are left in our tiny boats to drift,<br /><br />lost mariners, becalmed in queues<br />that lead only to the ends of new ones,<br />graying slowly as cretaceous clerks refuse<br />our slack yellow sheets, send us for blue ones.<br /><br />Finally, our documents accepted and approved,<br />we simply fall up from the shrinking fleet<br />on wings too exquisitely tuned to move,<br />our leaden commerce with the world complete.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-34820977570848524192008-03-26T00:13:00.003-04:002008-12-10T09:24:34.747-05:00Peregrine<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu6-zzThMnsKFX3n6uqEdgXfpEmdbVdiFAGDaUjCwlN74CzkQrm-Ra2cWhw0HQTV5d7-tsCrVG7wsj6NhQm8WAqcBpHKGKWM3h6gIiJe8bOXkpkeb-LOVozLwp8eM7lgaq2tU52sayYN4/s1600-h/scarred+oak.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181899451767469602" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu6-zzThMnsKFX3n6uqEdgXfpEmdbVdiFAGDaUjCwlN74CzkQrm-Ra2cWhw0HQTV5d7-tsCrVG7wsj6NhQm8WAqcBpHKGKWM3h6gIiJe8bOXkpkeb-LOVozLwp8eM7lgaq2tU52sayYN4/s400/scarred+oak.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Driving home in icy dark,<br />he flew his silver gray Tercel<br />through the wilds of Echo Park.<br /><br />Helming starship Cutty Sark,<br />he navigated rather well,<br />driving home in icy dark.<br /><br />By day, the evidence was stark:<br />his tracks were straight and parallel<br />through the wilds of Echo Park.<br /><br />Two old oaks are shy some bark,<br />but it’s impossible to tell,<br />driving home in icy dark<br />through the wilds of Echo Park.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-71969133582311104382008-03-12T15:21:00.004-04:002008-12-10T09:24:34.921-05:00Zitgeist<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYWxqTb1EbmCu6RvHLEVibbFPaJcziTjZo3UDC4WHOTa3HSDk3-2eXKCB0ySo7GbC7TfES5xv22r808EF8_3o6Q-nadQFUplunBWnCYdYyomRefE4QRoLiuBEqmvaLOWRd2r_XNk6791E/s1600-h/bush_kissweb.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176937765240128882" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYWxqTb1EbmCu6RvHLEVibbFPaJcziTjZo3UDC4WHOTa3HSDk3-2eXKCB0ySo7GbC7TfES5xv22r808EF8_3o6Q-nadQFUplunBWnCYdYyomRefE4QRoLiuBEqmvaLOWRd2r_XNk6791E/s400/bush_kissweb.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />“<em><span style="font-size:85%;">Vacuuos exercet aera morsus</span></em>.”<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Ovid, <em>Met</em>., VII, 788-789<br /></span><br /><br />This morning,<br />getting ready to shave, I<br />noticed another pimple starting on my<br />nose.<br /><br />I’d felt it<br />moments before, in the shower (the<br />usual uh-oh), but I thought<br />little<br /><br />of it<br />until I looked into that small<br />angry, unblinking eye (I.)<br />Then<br /><br />I felt<br />sad, yet resigned: yes.<br />Resigned, and a little sad, is what<br />I felt.<br /><br />If anything<br />else happens to me, I will write,<br />tell you my feelings about it, all the<br />details.<br /><br />But<br />you must understand that that<br />will be how I will be feeling then,<br />about that.<br /><br />Now, I’m<br />feeling a little sad,<br />and a little resigned,<br />about this.<br /><br />Yes.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-16482052214856726192008-03-08T09:13:00.003-05:002008-12-10T09:24:35.045-05:00Worst Case Scenario<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRkrbv6r9Ea6GRzVwT_12gDehNS_G4A3GXQxRyGVuwnXyJtaysrh-_xST6hQGhsjDlh7ZvYA4p8lIr74p0-FcAyZx6q3rrlofeHIHWDPMRi65kCg5JyOHyEypw2x5rAw2IxhBhEzT_Y_o/s1600-h/hiv_virus.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5175373993417459042" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRkrbv6r9Ea6GRzVwT_12gDehNS_G4A3GXQxRyGVuwnXyJtaysrh-_xST6hQGhsjDlh7ZvYA4p8lIr74p0-FcAyZx6q3rrlofeHIHWDPMRi65kCg5JyOHyEypw2x5rAw2IxhBhEzT_Y_o/s400/hiv_virus.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />The first few fairies caused no great alarm,<br />but every modern news purveyor knows<br />that circulation rarely suffers harm<br />from an inch or two of prudent, purple prose,<br /><br />so stories ran, and multiplied like bugs,<br />then photographs of widowed lovers crying,<br />and back among the girdles and the rugs<br />the standard news that Africa was dying.<br /><br />Everyone agreed, it was a shame,<br />but no one doubted NIH could cure it,<br />and even if the answer never came<br />the general population could endure it,<br /><br />so no one thought about it much until<br />the rich and famous started going down.<br />And if hemophiliacs were looking ill<br />as vigilantes burned them out of town,<br /><br />that was shocking, but the real surprise<br />was seeing justice finally done, pipers paid:<br />the insignificant others dropped like flies,<br />but only perverts had to be afraid.<br /><br />Like junkies, who anyway were always sick<br />although supplies were at historic levels,<br />and rented darlings, and naturally their tricks,<br />and no one thought to interrupt the revels.<br /><br />Johns, in fact, were paying with our lives.<br />Their covert operations were discovered:<br />not only did they implicate their wives,<br />but their wives’ boyfriends’ other lovers.<br /><br />And if the fourth estate began to evidence<br />a genuine, if muted, new concern,<br />still the righteous saw diviner sense:<br />they’d always known you marry or you burn,<br /><br />and for straying from the narrow path<br />the freaks deserved exactly what they got;<br />some were even thankful for the holy wrath,<br />until they found the funny purple spots.<br /><br />Somehow everybody seemed to get it.<br />Most were never sure exactly where.<br />There were precious few who’d take a bet it<br />wasn’t something floating in the air.<br /><br />The dead began to gather in the streets,<br />as the dead will do when they get their way,<br />and HAZMATS came to cover them with sheets<br />that said “Inspected by the FDA.”<br /><br />But at last the population was reduced<br />to those few who seemed to be immune;<br />they found each other, married, reproduced,<br />whistling the latest catchy Darwin tune.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-88321528864037104942008-03-05T20:08:00.001-05:002008-12-10T09:24:35.187-05:00Spring Comes To Oak Park<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAfY-7h8qr87_gDekBUPi_bBs6sE2kW3aa5IAleL8zqfT-VUt-522UhJp4WbJ3M-IDh0CK3wEqTkUcESLa2I3qAT2vB3CXATWiDmprp56gBYHzly15L99rfcjrgtbUq2TKHkKZmr6FTwE/s1600-h/rhubarb-leaf.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAfY-7h8qr87_gDekBUPi_bBs6sE2kW3aa5IAleL8zqfT-VUt-522UhJp4WbJ3M-IDh0CK3wEqTkUcESLa2I3qAT2vB3CXATWiDmprp56gBYHzly15L99rfcjrgtbUq2TKHkKZmr6FTwE/s400/rhubarb-leaf.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174430005467780338" border="0" /></a><br /><br /> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In the </p> <p class="MsoNormal">rhubarb patch</p> <p class="MsoNormal">by my garage</p> <p class="MsoNormal">the snow flows slowly</p> <p class="MsoNormal">into the good black ground,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">leaves behind the pink pudgy</p> <p class="MsoNormal">arm of some little some-</p> <p class="MsoNormal">body’s little doll, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">open-handed,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">fingers splayed,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">waving.</p>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-79301274950811395142008-02-28T09:16:00.002-05:002008-12-10T09:24:35.323-05:00Launch<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLvAKP79iDlSx4WF2yJjLZ3zL1ieCcuRc4NzYxQC_Op1-BTwa26Sg-vF9omraojerYNpe-Dy1uoMOiNPwn7TBC1LmnvBoh-cNwjA3qVdI9bRg7ToSFTZ4WaNFFoshobEAmKrhYnGm892c/s1600-h/untitled.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172035595167588066" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLvAKP79iDlSx4WF2yJjLZ3zL1ieCcuRc4NzYxQC_Op1-BTwa26Sg-vF9omraojerYNpe-Dy1uoMOiNPwn7TBC1LmnvBoh-cNwjA3qVdI9bRg7ToSFTZ4WaNFFoshobEAmKrhYnGm892c/s400/untitled.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I’m watching<br />another splendid<br />London morning<br />transform<br />imperceptibly<br />into another<br />afternoon<br />of layered, mildly<br />contrasting<br />blue greys, <br />companionable,<br />made moreso<br />as crows fret<br />the tree behind<br />the little brick<br />opposite<br />my window perch<br />on Crystal Palace<br />Road, braying,<br />beaks poised<br />into freshening<br />wind. Rain<br />gathers itself<br />for a long, cold<br />night. Let it.<br />Let it paint<br />the street in light,<br />send the crows<br />to grutch in more<br />expedient shelter.<br />I have only<br />these hours<br />left, to watch,<br />to point my face<br />into the wind,<br />before morning<br />comes and I<br />must fly away.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-85007423318153398022008-02-17T03:13:00.002-05:002008-12-10T09:24:35.661-05:00Parting<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-IiUoXLZwYcMIXtOmYvDn5U2jcN1nl8oTAe8Pii-SLuhhkjHMX5mthOIYTc3UEfZgz1q0JACoP_SSkfhwSfyLlQxnM6DnEhxWu76GJnv889bWuY-PLznfk5HcTlfe0gMzOKiKsLT-ghs/s1600-h/Dear+Mom.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167861179013652162" style="" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-IiUoXLZwYcMIXtOmYvDn5U2jcN1nl8oTAe8Pii-SLuhhkjHMX5mthOIYTc3UEfZgz1q0JACoP_SSkfhwSfyLlQxnM6DnEhxWu76GJnv889bWuY-PLznfk5HcTlfe0gMzOKiKsLT-ghs/s400/Dear+Mom.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I saw them on the platform,<br />a mother and her son;<br />he was in his uniform,<br />she in blue homespun.<br /><br />We were crowded close enough<br />that I couldn’t help but hear;<br />he was acting cool and tough,<br />but she could see his fear.<br /><br />“I know you’ll be a righteous man,<br />and do the things you must.<br />It’s all in Heaven’s perfect plan,<br />the only plan we trust.”<br /><br />“War is hell; we’ve heard it said,<br />and it’s very likely true;<br />but you’ll get accustomed to the dead<br />after one or two.”<br /><br />“The sooner you get on with it<br />the sooner we’ll be done.<br />It won’t be easy, I admit,<br />but try to have some fun.”<br /><br />“Splash their bodies in the street,<br />paint the walls with brains;<br />don’t stop until their blood completely<br />stops the city drains.”<br /><br />“String their guts across the sand<br />to ripen in the sun,<br />and keep your Bible close at hand,<br />your Bible and your gun.”<br /><br />“And don’t forget the children, Dear;<br />a couple every day;<br />they’re little heathen eyes and ears,<br />don’t let them get away.”<br /><br />“Free the ground of Christendom<br />from the moon and scimitar.<br />Spread the word of Jesus from<br />Kirkuk to Kandahar.”<br /><br />“When all of them are belly up<br />and victory’s in sight,<br />we’ll kill a pig and raise a cup<br />and celebrate all night.”<br /><br />“I love you, Ma,” the soldier said,<br />a glisten in his eye,<br />“I love you, too, so go ahead.<br />Goodbye, my boy, Goodbye.”Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-37536839933499518402008-02-13T02:41:00.004-05:002008-12-10T09:24:35.823-05:00This Be The Reverse<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXZDu6LGHEo2rYkLviip9nV1EgUOgDJZhL60FUOizDTjNylOUd1zUkd2B8LW9VUxMqHtXxh38lNJOb_2hPaDSdzX5s3UWEIwY3Ze9H59QKVV5lBc7qCDB9u6ULmdBjZNqrMxk3D-EqYcY/s1600-h/kids'+mansion.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166366831042354866" style="" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXZDu6LGHEo2rYkLviip9nV1EgUOgDJZhL60FUOizDTjNylOUd1zUkd2B8LW9VUxMqHtXxh38lNJOb_2hPaDSdzX5s3UWEIwY3Ze9H59QKVV5lBc7qCDB9u6ULmdBjZNqrMxk3D-EqYcY/s400/kids'+mansion.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />They’re fucked up, your girls and boys.<br />No use denying it; it’s true.<br />At first they only broke their toys,<br />now they’re bent on breaking you.<br /><br />It never should have come to this;<br />the schools, the teams, the ballet classes,<br />the never failing goodnight kiss;<br />all that for these jackasses?<br /><br />We ourselves were raised by clods<br />who’d barely made it from the cave;<br />but we contrived to beat the odds:<br />we took our lumps, and we forgave.<br /><br />We scrapped the wrong our parents did.<br />We set ourselves to building trust;<br />now our trusting, rotten kids<br />are all fucked up. But not by us.<br /><br />Science points to peers, <span style="font-style: italic;">milieu</span>,<br />while parents largely get ignored,<br />so as you bid your kids <span style="font-style: italic;">adieu</span>,<br />don’t feel guilty. Lock the door.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-65541044880338515082008-02-08T07:56:00.001-05:002008-12-10T09:24:36.063-05:00Dreams<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Sc1fW7VDqrqaGXt9KNGpRvKcvLiYPLePgy_Wt4yfkyO2n6BNHsOHtm4s0RXDa5t6CcBFZMwSw5PsX88cho5Q_ZeJn3xz5pVMF3VGmIXZhhg3P5iS9UXHFZMI2k1_Wz-Qb7ZgH0hhBDs/s1600-h/Forget-me-nots-Tile.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164592746123370482" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Sc1fW7VDqrqaGXt9KNGpRvKcvLiYPLePgy_Wt4yfkyO2n6BNHsOHtm4s0RXDa5t6CcBFZMwSw5PsX88cho5Q_ZeJn3xz5pVMF3VGmIXZhhg3P5iS9UXHFZMI2k1_Wz-Qb7ZgH0hhBDs/s400/Forget-me-nots-Tile.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />So. Did life turn out<br />anything like you thought?<br />No, it seldom does.<br />Whatever the dream was,<br />we all seem to get caught<br />in the usual roundabouts.<br /><br />Not that it isn’t better,<br />sometimes, if we do.<br />Youthful dreams are mad,<br />sometimes, as Mom and Dad<br />insist, and Sweetie too,<br />so when the fateful letter<br /><br />comes and we must read,<br />know our lives have veered<br />away from us, we find<br />an alternate design,<br />some adequate career,<br />the things we think we need.<br /><br />But would it kill your Honey<br />to wait a little while?<br />Will the bank collapse without<br />another burned-out<br />clerk to lose their files?<br />Other people’s money<br /><br />is joy to spend, but no<br />fun to copy out,<br />and living, on the whole,<br />is better with a soul<br />than existence is without.<br />Money comes and goes,<br /><br />but dreams are all we’ve got,<br />all we truly own,<br />even unfulfilled.<br />Daughters, sons, build<br />your dreams of native stone,<br />and plant forget-me-nots.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-12383095439032025752008-02-06T15:55:00.000-05:002008-12-10T09:24:36.350-05:00Winter Morning<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcmfo6ghAgSlRECf09DUtu4zKg7tVZ2bQfjgOwZ4sNkmKxOxaOhgA_9nUPDLK001OcmHRCXFjKridK92YfxdqbURu-83sP17KDzuJMBQhc51503pRsLbTN2mbW2l4fVk5l-z-CjrpNdOg/s1600-h/mockingbird.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163974227883073506" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcmfo6ghAgSlRECf09DUtu4zKg7tVZ2bQfjgOwZ4sNkmKxOxaOhgA_9nUPDLK001OcmHRCXFjKridK92YfxdqbURu-83sP17KDzuJMBQhc51503pRsLbTN2mbW2l4fVk5l-z-CjrpNdOg/s400/mockingbird.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />A mockingbird<br />flashes into<br />the iced fractals<br />of dogwood,<br />clings, alert,<br />flashes away.<br />The dogwood<br />quivers within<br />its glass armor,<br />waits.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-13854467481341108402008-02-02T10:49:00.000-05:002008-12-10T09:24:36.484-05:00A Painful Case<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjinmL3o-pN2D5JDlmuy9uZX2CUsSmvnLWCDnL7RKot0Ecj9e2Muov3pyBSm5YmFrFaYkdaK0hjECdNqBF1bRnb95SA-WGJldqjZk8sX_WMxLb1y0hnCQjzKIXw5LrNJ7TUV2jL1VEcEyI/s1600-h/dead+lawyer.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162411035880988626" style="" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjinmL3o-pN2D5JDlmuy9uZX2CUsSmvnLWCDnL7RKot0Ecj9e2Muov3pyBSm5YmFrFaYkdaK0hjECdNqBF1bRnb95SA-WGJldqjZk8sX_WMxLb1y0hnCQjzKIXw5LrNJ7TUV2jL1VEcEyI/s400/dead+lawyer.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Jim lived a life where things made sense.<br />The things he did, the things he saw<br />conformed to rules of evidence;<br />he was a Master of the Law<br />of the unintended consequence.<br /><br />It served him well, one would think.<br />Our Jim made fortunes by deceit,<br />by playing legal tiddlywinks<br />for the better felons on the street;<br />if conscience quibbled, there was drink.<br /><br />It never did. He loved the scam.<br />He’d watch his clients skip away<br />from their appointments with the slam<br />with cockeyed pride that made him say<br />“I lie, therefore I am.”<br /><br />Were they guilty? Goodness, yes.<br />Did it matter? Not to Jim:<br />they paid him well for his success<br />at mesmerising every dim<br />jury with his ferrety finesse.<br /><br />Then Vinnie Spoons ran amok.<br />Lacking the requisite retainer,<br />he engaged Jimmy with a Glock;<br />the case was truly a no-brainer:<br />he shot the phone, shot the clock,<br /><br />shot Jim, leaving more<br />loopholes than the law allows.<br />Sometimes Justice kicks the door<br />and has its way in the bawdyhouse<br />we choose to call a world. Encore.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-19608530483185488752008-01-27T19:42:00.000-05:002008-12-10T09:24:36.927-05:00A Hope In Hell<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7pXU8sbcexqinKGzhhUr0YlharmvXR-rb0FylAXRE8BLoP53lz3vmSJNISFGrF6I5UNeH8NwNd4QV-mNSt-kq8C9hOFms_URRosAhgKd_W5xE6wfc3ShDunDW2Md5rnftxtC4WK45qRY/s1600-h/hell.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160321774809653186" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7pXU8sbcexqinKGzhhUr0YlharmvXR-rb0FylAXRE8BLoP53lz3vmSJNISFGrF6I5UNeH8NwNd4QV-mNSt-kq8C9hOFms_URRosAhgKd_W5xE6wfc3ShDunDW2Md5rnftxtC4WK45qRY/s400/hell.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Were there Hell, and were it built<br />with graded rings of measured fire<br />precisely tuned to sinners’ guilt,<br />surely there would be a gyre<br /><br />just for those who trot about<br />with Jesus on their bloodless lips,<br />who tell the poor to do without,<br />the mad to get a proper grip,<br /><br />who wish the ill and crippled well,<br />pose their own prosperity<br />as proof that virtue pays. Hell?<br />A snowball’s chance. But we’ll see.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-28425007229415314522008-01-22T07:53:00.000-05:002008-12-10T09:24:37.162-05:00Note<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh39fTreL_uL8HOjTJvHD0taHOWa8M8ZheHUJBQXZm2x2mbhyphenhyphenbumpfYJNGyuOs1MzQjh5p15mfDavT7hTX0uAH1M0RkL51uPpOyu8cUdBrFUUKzsONWA3Y9sVhjleF63bT39gaowHkVYQc/s1600-h/snowflake+button.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5158284467551912066" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh39fTreL_uL8HOjTJvHD0taHOWa8M8ZheHUJBQXZm2x2mbhyphenhyphenbumpfYJNGyuOs1MzQjh5p15mfDavT7hTX0uAH1M0RkL51uPpOyu8cUdBrFUUKzsONWA3Y9sVhjleF63bT39gaowHkVYQc/s400/snowflake+button.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Enclosed please find one<br />perfect snowflake, which fell<br />this morning on my sleeve button,<br />framing its six-fold dihedral<br /><br />symmetry in a circle of brass.<br />Recalling your love of the hexagram,<br />I couldn’t let perfection pass,<br />ran for envelope and stamp.<br /><br />I’m counting on the general chill<br />to see it to you before it thaws;<br />not that I really think it will,<br />but it was lovely while it was.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-49130528826877344672008-01-17T08:36:00.001-05:002008-12-10T09:24:37.380-05:00Winter<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAlLx9Lt4JU90EcUPG2nT_qO_GXceUsY97NqZBexsqAfLdJXPIVIZ70XOTQ4LdKSbIzvvaAmIAkQrUOc6GHc9t2nEQTfEKLDG3oyDz9uY_hZ8XojePTCWqZlzg-7i7LXXTIkMaIont-Bk/s1600-h/winter.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156439147738087538" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAlLx9Lt4JU90EcUPG2nT_qO_GXceUsY97NqZBexsqAfLdJXPIVIZ70XOTQ4LdKSbIzvvaAmIAkQrUOc6GHc9t2nEQTfEKLDG3oyDz9uY_hZ8XojePTCWqZlzg-7i7LXXTIkMaIont-Bk/s400/winter.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Another one.<br />Is it some godly judgment<br />we endure by cycles?<br /><br />A yearly ritual<br />of guilt or expiation?<br />No. It just gets cold.<br /><br />The axis leans away,<br />heat flow is oblique,<br />blocked somewhat.<br /><br />A few more old ones die.<br />We lean into our fires,<br />glad of them.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-7780260892481485032008-01-11T08:36:00.000-05:002008-12-10T09:24:37.520-05:00An Old Man's Thoughts At Night<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd3MfwWke9r0o-zjNRDF_5D0ehAIqt_KbJr7Yb920zDyAeaP94N6K6yO_4AsM0iFDqIia5ed-80Zy2fEVp4B7HY-wS0Jil9n7DPpjut4rKW3GhVks7TQXilq4X2rQerID6MX8BYBwnbc8/s1600-h/ghost.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5154212872915042402" style="" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd3MfwWke9r0o-zjNRDF_5D0ehAIqt_KbJr7Yb920zDyAeaP94N6K6yO_4AsM0iFDqIia5ed-80Zy2fEVp4B7HY-wS0Jil9n7DPpjut4rKW3GhVks7TQXilq4X2rQerID6MX8BYBwnbc8/s400/ghost.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />It must be the fever, which<br />for days has plucked my nerves<br />like fiddle strings, tuning me up<br />for a concert I don’t want to hear.<br />I’m not well. My mind is going.<br />The ghosts make too much noise.<br />Not that I mind them. I don’t, really;<br />they’re friendly enough, even jovial,<br />farmers, who Bruegeled this place<br />together without square corner<br />or plumb jamb; they must be shocked<br />to see it still standing here,<br />though now additions hold it up.<br />In any case, they seem content.<br />One of them, who seems to be<br />the patriarch, judging by<br />his bird’s nest beard and the torn<br />hammer loop in his overalls,<br />has picked me for his special friend.<br />He follows me from room to room,<br />his purpose not exactly clear.<br />He has a sense of humor, though.<br />When we meet on the stairs he cuts<br />a little caper, a quick shuffle,<br />grins like a goat, invites me to dance,<br />the dead grandfather of mirth.<br />At first I was a bit put out,<br />but now I just ignore him, walk<br />right through him without a word,<br />without a look, just as if<br />he weren’t really there at all.<br />But the little girl upstairs is quite<br />another thing, with wide, appraising<br />Great Depression eyes, wearing<br />a dress sewn from flour sacking,<br />clutching a tattered ragdoll<br />with button eyes bigger than hers,<br />eyes they both seem to use.<br />Influenza took her in ‘33.<br />I’m sleeping in her room, I think,<br />which must be why I wake to find<br />them standing there, sober, mute,<br />at the foot of the bed, studying me<br />like sputum on a glass slide,<br />wondering, I suppose, why<br />I still live. I don’t know<br />what to tell her about that,<br />what excuses would suffice.<br />I confess she unsettled me at first,<br />but I’m accustomed to her now,<br />even that spooky doll; I’d miss them<br />were they gone, all of them.<br />Now it’s really just the music<br />has me out on a limb,<br />a constant crescendo and diminuendo<br />of high, keening minor chords,<br />the swell and sigh of almost silence,<br />like a fitful autumn wind<br />across a dusty violin.<br />The music, if it is music,<br />seems to call, to intimate<br />that things are really not so bad<br />over there, all considered,<br />not so dead as one would think.<br />Just one big happy family;<br />rosin up for the Devil’s Trill.<br />All welcome to the ball.<br />I find I’m terrified at such<br />a meddlesome eternity,<br />fussily embroidered with<br />such insinuating music,<br />or, God forbid, the witless joy<br />of cloth-eared angels perched<br />forever on their cotton fluff,<br />swiping harp glissandi through<br />the bright, endless afternoon<br />of paradise. Truly, a hell<br />more than worthy of the name.<br />No. Death is kinder than that.<br />Death is only a beautiful quiet,<br />a silence so profound we forget<br />to listen to the winnowing wind,<br />the world’s flat, persistent prattle,<br />its busy contradictions, ghosts.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146364454441295661.post-25631359775148720022008-01-04T01:53:00.000-05:002008-01-04T01:54:02.194-05:00SorryGhastly flu. Back soon, I hope.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11596370319291639929noreply@blogger.com4