Freeze-Dried Fantasies   Thursday, December 08, 2011





The big news this week is a new chapbook from my friend Alex Stolis. Actually that's double good news, but more about that when you get there.

Photos this week fibbled with to make them more interesting,or, at least, different, from the last seven or eight times you saw them.

My posse for the week, even now heading them off at the pass. Who is the posse and who is being headed off at the pass still subject to interpretation.


Czeslaw Milosz
A Search
Old People
Embarrassing
To Sing Gods and Heroes
Tropics
A Warning
Beyond My Strength


Me
jabber jockey

Ada Limon
Overjoyed
Hardworking Agreement with a Wednesday


Me
Anthropocene

Walt Whitman
From Song of Myself

Me
shadow box

From The Unswept Path
Haiku by
John Brandi
Margaret Chula
Cid Cormen
Diane di Prima


Me
the river flows

James Welch
The Day the Children Took Over
Two for the Festival


Me
I think it might be almost Christmas

Scott Inguito
Main Street
Papa George


Me
squirrel for sale, cheap

Naomi Ayala
Thus
Gtiot
Horses


Me
freeze-dried fantasies

From Earth Songs
John Haines
The Oregon Coast
Michael Woodward
Ice Man

Me
skin and bones

Alex Stolis
Savage Beauty
Savage Beauty (Alternate)


Me
so who's the poet now (December, 2007)
so who's the poet now (Alternate take, December 2011)









I start this week the book, Road-Side Dog, a collection of poems and mini-essays by Czeslaw Milosz, winner of the 1978 Neustadt International Prize in Literature and the 1980 Nobel Prize in Literature. A Polish poet born in 1911, he died in 2004. He taught at the University of California, Bereeley, beginning in 1962,

The book was published in 1998 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, with translation from Polish by the poet and Robert Hass.



A Search

A feeling that there must be a set of words in which the essence, so to speak, of the horror discovered in this century could be captured. Readings in memoirs, reminiscences, reports, novels, poems, always with hope and always with the same result: "Not quite." Only timidly did the thought emerge that the truth about the fate of man on earth is different from the one we were taught. Yet we recoil from giving it a name.


Old People

The view of old and ugly men and women, especially of those crones shuffling along with their canes. They were betrayed by their bodies, once beautiful and ready to dance. Yet in every one a lamp of consciousness is burning, hence their wonder: "Is
this me? But it can't be so."


Embarrassing

Poetry is an embarrassing affair; it is born too near to the functions we call intimate.

Poetry cannot be separated from awareness of our body. It soars above it, immaterial and at the same time captive, and is a reason for out uneasiness, for it pretends to belong to a separate zone, of spirit.

I was ashamed of being a poet, as if, undressed, I would display in public my physical defects. I envied people who do not write poems and whom for that reason I ranged among the normal. And in this I was wrong: few of them deserve to be called that.


To Sing Gods and Heroes

The difference between the kind of poetry in which an "I" tells about itself and a poetry which "sings gods and heroes" is not great, since in both cases the object of description is mythologized. And yet...


Tropics

A parrot screeches. Ventilators turn. An iguana walks vertically up a palm trunk, a shining ocean wave puts foam on a beach. When I was young, I was driven to despair during vacations by the boredom of obvious things. In my old age,finding myself in the tropics, I already knew that I had always searched for medicine against this horror, which lasts because it means nothing. To give a meaning, any, only to get out of this bovine, perfectly indifferent, inert reality, without aims, striving affirmation, negation, like an incarnated nothingness. Religions! Ideologies! Desires! Hatreds! Come to cover with your multi-colored fabric this blind thing, deprived even of a name.


A Warning

Little animals from cartoons, talking rabbits, doggies, squirrels, as well as ladybugs, bees, grasshoppers. They have as much in common with real animals as our notions of the world have with the real world. Think of this and tremble.


Beyond My Strength

To recognize the world as ordinary is beyond my strength. For me it is magnificent and horrible, impossible to bear. Everything indicates that either it was crated by the devil or, as it is now, the result of primordial catastrophe. In the second case, the death on the cross of a divine Redeemer acquires full meaning.

Our tearing away from the ordinariness of the world is like the efforts of a fly whose leg is stuck in glue. No logic in this unwillingness to accept. We must concede, however, that the logic offered by the Book of Genesis is no better. Our first parents sinned, were expelled from Paradise, and we continue to live in the state of fallen creatures. But what happened to those animals in the Garden of Eden? Did the sin of man change First Nature, as the cabalists maintain, into a deteriorated Second Nature, which has been longing ever since for a return to the moment when again the lion would lie down with the lamb?








I think I must belong to the jabber-poet school of poetry - in fact I may be the founder of that school.



jabber jockey

I jabber on
cause it’s what I do best
mind
like a box of Mexican jumping beans
bouncing here
bouncing there
clackity clack against the sides of the box

like what a beautiful day
it’s going to be today
sky already blue with early morning clouds
little puffs of clouds
like melted marshmallows on a cup
of blue chocolate
little puffs melted away
by 10 a.m.
leaving the blue chocolate
cold across the sky

like what a beautiful day
but I feel lousy
so who gives a crap
about beautiful days
when your nose is either dripping
or stuffed and sneezy
beautiful days
a taunt like ads on TV
for beautiful things you know you’ll never
own or wouldn't even want that much
if you didn’t know you couldn’t have them

a beautiful day today - who cares

and about that guy at the restaurant
this morning,
talking talking talking,
a man filled with the shallow wisdom of talking
so much
no one can interrupt to question
him like the crackerpots
on Fox News who own the microphone
like Ronald Reagan who said
about the microphone
at the debate
with George the 1st
it’s mine, I paid for it

which reminds me of LBJ
arriving at Randolph Air Force Base
to get a helicopter
to take him to the Ranch, heading
toward a helicopter, stopped
by a fearless airman, who tells him
he’s headed for the wrong helicopter,
that’s not your helicopter, sir he tells the President
and LBJ replies they’re all my helicopters, son

which reminds me of the wife
of a former mayor of the city who
likes to refer to the time when her husband
was mayor
as “our administration”

which reminds me of the fellows
at the table next to mine here in
the coffeehouse, the one guy, tall
thin, semi-black, sharp-dresser, something
to do with the city I think,
listening man,
and the other guy talking about plans
for the new downtown arts center and
listening to him I can hardly wait
to go there

which reminds me
this is supposed to be a poem
about my jabber-poetry
but I really can’t think of anything
to say on that subject
this morning
so maybe I’ll come back to it tomorrow

we’ll see








Next I have two poems by Ada Limon, a poet new to me, from her book, Sharks in the Rivers, that I just bought yesterday. The book was published just last year by Milkweed Editions.

Limon was born in Sonoma, California, in 1976 and is the author of three full-length poetry collections, and two chapbooks. She received her MFA from New York University in 2001. She received fellowships from the Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center and the New York Foundation for the Arts. Her work has appeared in numerous publications including The New Yorker, The Harvard Review, Pleiades, and Barrow Street.

I like the freshness and easy now-ness of her poems.



Overjoyed

What's the drunk waxwing supposed to do
when all day's been an orgy of red buds
on the winery's archway off Gehricke road
and it's too far to make it home, too long
to fly, even as the sober crow goes. What's
the point of passion when the pyracantha
berries keep the blood turned toward
obsess,obsess. Don't you know those birds
are going to toss themselves to the streets
for some minor song of happiness? And
who can blame them? This life is hard.
And let me be the first to admit, when I
come across some jewel of pleasure, I too want
to squeeze that thing until even its seedy heart
evaporates like ethanol, want to throw my
bird-bones into the brush-fire until,
half=-blind, all I can hear is the sound
of wings in the relentlessly delighted air.


Hardworking Agreement with a Wednesday

I have an agreement with the day:
I won't talk too much.

I won't be the most complicated minute in its
configuration of hours.

Come to the office with me. Stay awhile.

The woman in the elevator (who's in sales) is so nice,
but she says my name over, and over, and over.

(Even when I don't say hers.)

She says, Good morning,Ada.
How was your evening, Ada?
Have a good day,Ada.


So my name becomes an advertisement,ora product
to be bought and sold. I want to take it back from her mouth.

I cannot stop looking at the bird out the window.

We've name him Stanley. He's half-angry,
half-slow, half-bird. One-and-a-half figurine.

I want him to live somewhere else, but it's not my decision.

He likes the rooftop of the high-rise,
the hot soft tar grasped in his claws. He likes the danger.
He likes the dirt on his beak. He likes it rough.

I want his flight to be my own,
as if wings themselves could be willed.

Let's fly south to Monterey, to water, to ether, to air.

Everything is off-limits.
Everything is unreal.
Everything is lament and let go.

Dear Today,
I have said too much, yet give me this -
I want to be a physical doll, just for now,
a stupid, splendid thing,
tumbled into the touchable day.








A few thoughts from minor headlines.



anthropocene

that's what they are now calling
”the age of man”
meaning, I’m not sure, either
the time humans
begin to occupy the earth as
masters or the period beginning
earlier when man existed primarily
as small, scampering jungle
prey...

but I’m pretty sure “the age of man”
however defined, came after
the “age of dinosaurs”
about which I’m not sure, were
they reptiles or mammalian cousins
of man that just happened to lay eggs
or as I’ve begun to hear
somehow related to chickens and
I’m not sure if chickens are reptiles
or mammals with wings
or something else entirely different
along with turkeys and hawks
and eagles and red red robins and even
carrion eating vultures

but I am delighted that there is a chance
that the “age of man” followed “the age
of chickens" and considering
how stupid chickens are
whether “the age of man” would have ever
come about had we been completing
for an age of our own with something smarter,
a dog or a pig maybe, maybe leaving us,
had it been thus, sleeping
in a slop pen in “the age of pig”

and putting all that ancient history aside
one can’t help but wonder whose age
the next will be

considering our record so far during my particular part
in the "age of man"
the “the age of ash and cinder’
might seem a fair prospect for th next age,
or
maybe a
better case scenario, “the age
of cockroach”

think of that next time you squash
a cockroach
with your pointy-toed cowboy boot -
it might be your heirs
you squashing,
and, heaven forbid
that they have a long memory

plan for the future -
that’s what you have to do
when you’re responsible for a whole
age

^^^

meanwhile,
across the way,
a herd of deer graze across a broad pasture,
except
not bunched like a herd,
but scattered individually
across the field, as if
each deer walking its own way
decided
on it own to stop for a bite
at the pasture across the way,
solitary deer , each at its own meal,
not Texas deer,
too much alone, New York deer maybe
commuters
at a quick-stop pasture,
adapting to the “age of man”

and my cockroach-mean mood
is lifted,
maybe there’s a chance for an “age
of deer” instead,
a return to golden fields and forests, a return to the
“age of first nature”
before the jealous god split time
and brought the misery of ages
to human and all the other creatures
alike

or
maybe
if I believe that hard enough
it will make, at least,
a better
day








Next, to Walt Whitman, sage and speaker for all that is blood and flesh and fiber and life, intimate historian of his time, and inventor of modern American poetry. There is no greater pleasure in poetry for me than reading Whitman aloud. Try it and you'll see how difficult it is to stop.



From Song of Myself

15

The pure contralto sings in the organ loft,
The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his
    foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp,
The married and unmarried children ride home to their
    Thanksgiving dinner,
The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with a
    strong arm,
The mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance and
    harpoon are ready,
The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches,
The deacons are ordain'd with cross'd hands at the
    altar,
The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of
    big wheel,
The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day
    loafe and looks at the oats and rye,
The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum a confirm'd
    case,
(He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in
    his mother's bedroom;)
The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works
    at his case,
He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with
    the manuscript;
The malform'd limbs are tied to the surgeon'stable,
What is removed drops horribly in a pail;
The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand, the
    drunkard nods by the bar-room stove,
The machinist rolls up his sleeves,the policemen travels
    his beat, the gate-keeper marks who pass,
The young fellow drives the express wagon, (I love
    him, though I do not know him;)
The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in
    the race,
The western turkey-shootiing draws old and young,
    some lean on their rifles, some sit on logs,
Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his
    position, levels his piece;
The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf
    or levee,
As the whooly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer
    views them from his saddle,
the bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for
    their partners, the dancers bow to each other,
The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret and
    harks to the musical rain,
the Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the
    Huron,
The squaw wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth is
    offering moccasins and bead-bags for sale,
The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-galley with
    half-shut eyes bent sideways,
As the deckhand makes fast the steamboat the plank is
    thrown for the shore-going passengers,
The young sister holds out the skein while the elder
    sister winds it off in a ball, and stops now and then
    for the knots,
The one-year wife is recovering and happy having a
    week ago born her first child,
The clean-hair'd Yankee girl works with her sewing-
    machine or in the factory or mill,
The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer, the
    reporter's lead flies swiftly over the note-book, the
    sign-painter is lettering with blue and gold,
The canal boy trots on the tow-path, the book-keeper
    counts at his desk, the shoemaker waxes his thread,
The conductor beats time for the band and all the
    performers follow him,
The child is baptized, the convert is making his first
    professions.
The regatta is spread on the bay, the race is begun,
    (how the white sails sparkle!)
the dover watching his dove sings out to them that
    would stray,
The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, (the
    purchaser higgling about the odd cent;)
The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand
    of the clock moves slowly,
The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just-
    open'd lips,
The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on
    her tipsy and pimpled neck,
The crowd laughs at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer
    and wink to each other.
(Miserable! I do not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you;)
The President holding a cabinet council is surrounded
    by the great Secretaries,
On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly
    with twined arms,
The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of
    halibut in the hold,
The Missourian crosses the plains toting his wares and
    his cattle,
As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives
    notice by the jingling of loose change,
The floor-men are laying the floor, the tinners are
    tinning the roof, the masons are calling for mortar,
In single file, each shouldering his hod pass onward the
    laborers;
Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is
    gather'd, it is the fourth of Seventh-month, (what
    salutes of cannon and small arms)
Seasons pursuing each other the plougher ploughs, the
    the mower mows, the winter grain falls in the ground,
Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by
    the hole in the frozen surface,
The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter
    strikes deep with his ax,
Floatmen make fast towards dusk near the cotton-
    wood or pecan-trees,
Coon-seekers go through the regions of the Red river
    or through those drain'd by the Tennessee, or
    through those of Arkansas,
Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the
    Chattahooche or Altamahaw,
Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and
    great-grandsons around them.
In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and
    trappers after their day's sport,
The city sleeps and the country sleeps,
The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their
    time,
The old husband sleeps by his wife and the young
    husband sleeps by his wife;
And these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to
    them,
And such as it is to be of these more or less I am,
And of these one and all I weave the song of myself.


17

These are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and
    lands, they are not original with me,
If they are not yours as much as mine they are
    nothing, or next to nothing,
If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle
    they are nothing,
If they are not just as close as they are distant they are
    nothing.

This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and
    water is,
This is the common air that bathers the globe.


24

Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son,
Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and
    breeding,
No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women
    or apart from them,
No more modest than immodest.

Unscrew the locks from the doors!
Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!
Whoever degrades another degrades me,
And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.

Through me the afflatus surging and surging, through
    me the current and the index.

I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of
    democracy,
By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have
    their counterpoint of on the same terms........








This is from 2003. I think I was more into people-watching than I have been lately. Or maybe I'm just not seeing so many interesting people.



shadow box

she sobs,
once,
then looks away
damp-eyed

he sits beside her
frozen still at first
then leans back
and looks at her,
watches her
like a bystander,
like he doesn't know
how he got there,
why he got there

he says something
moves closer to her
seems to say it again

she nods
looks down
to her hand lying
flat on the table
inches from his,
trembling

his hand lifts, fingers
barely off the table
and it appears he might
take her hand, but
he draws back,
speaks softly to her again,
rises from his chair
and starts toward the door

she follows, wiping
her sunglasses
and the sun through
the open door
is like a flash of fire








Next, I have several poets from An Unswept Path, a collection of contemporary American haiku.

the book was published by White Pines Press in 2005.



The first poet is John Brandi, who seems to draw much of his inspiration from his home in the American southwest.


all night
listening to the mountain
become water


one man    one fire
snow falling
all day


now that fallen leaves
have buried the path
the trail is clear


Margaret Chula and her husband lived in Japan for many years.


end of summer
the rust on my scissors
smells of chrysanthemums


late into the night
we talk of revelations
moon through pines


waking this morning
from troubled dreams
foxprints on new snow


Cid Corman, says he has written every day for over sixty years, from December 21, 1941 to the moment he wrote these poems. (He's a few years ahead of me on the poem-a-day front)


In the mirror for
a moment it almost all
seems possible.


In the shadow of
the mountain the shadow of
any bird is lost


You'll never get to
the end of me - I doubt if
I'll get there either


Diane di Prima wrote this haiku triptych.


Dream Poems in April

1

even the Buddha lay down
to breathe his last.
why am I struggling?

2

easy to disappear
into this fog

3

pour this water and ash
on the roots
of some old tree








I had plans for the day. Maybe it will work out this afternoon.



the river flows

I was going
downtown today
to walk the river, flick
some pics,
but it’s cold out, and
overcast and damp as well
which makes it even colder,
the wind chill thing
that turns a regular cold day
into a bone-cracker

it’s the time of year
when the Riverwalk shines,
literally, lights strung from the
trees, hanging over the river, re-
flected in the river, lights on the boats,
lights from all the restaurants and shops,
a festival, preparation for the lighted
river parade complete, waiting, sidewalks
along the river, restaurants along the river
packed, an always moving scrum
of people and languages
from all over the world, elbows bumping
(and no one falls into the river, a miracle
that always astounds me), chatter mingling,
swirling around the river
like water in a bathtub drain,
normal crowds multiplied by a holiday factor
of ten, and fish, crowded against the river’s edge
like the people on the sidewalk, wrestling for position
for the next piece of tortilla or bread or popcorn
tossed into the river for them by some fat four-year-old
from Des Moines, fat fish of the Riverwalk, again,
like so many of the well-fed Riverwalk strollers, and
the diversity, a barista at Starbucks, in my hearing, taking
orders in four languages, a United Nations of caffeine and
green water flowing, spring fed from Lamar Park, three miles
as the crow flies, twisting and turning between downtown streets,
downtown office buildings, banks, hotels,
a water source for ten thousand years
of travelers and temporary or permanent settlers, restless
wanders or weary passers-by resting, not in grand Riverwalk
hotels or crowded riverside restaurants,
but along grassy banks under the broad shade
of pecan and centuries-old oak, a center of life for all
those years, illuminated now over masses of people celebrating
whatever in their life merits celebration,
or, in quiet times, like early morning, my favourite
time, when the crowds are still asleep, and the restaurants
are closed, and the sidewalks and river have been cleaned
by men and women on barges who pick up the debris
of crowded nights, when the river flows as it has always
flowed, quietly, unsung, on a narrow, nature-carved
track to the wetlands of the Gulf of Mexico,
joining the convergence of rivers
that provide the seed beds for marsh grasses, and
crab, and shrimp, tiny fish and grandly standing one-legged
whooping cranes that feed on them,
threatened everywhere, home for the peace of a warm wintering,
home for the
holidays...

I was going dowtown
this morning,
to walk the river,
join its quiet morning flow,
but it’s too cold -

I am reminded though that the river also flows,
though less quietly,
in the afternoon as well…

perhaps the sun will shine this afternoon,
bless us both with its
smile








I have two poems by novelist and poet James Welch. The poems are from his book, Riding the Earthboy -40-, published in 1971 by Confluence Press of Lewiston,Idaho.

Welch was born in Browning, Montana in 1940. His father was a member of the Blackfeet tribe and his mother a member of the Gros Ventre tribe; both also had Irish ancestry. As a child, Welch attended schools on the Blackfoot and Fort Belknap reservations.

Welch went to the University of Montana and taught at the University of Washington and at Cornell, as well as serving on the Parole Board of the Montana Prisons Systems.

He died in 2003.



The Day the Children Took Over

And though the sky was bright, snow fell down.
Children ran out. Mothers read letters
that said the world would end in fire.
Snow fell on driveways, on trestles and trees.
It fell on lovers locked together
in bedrooms and back seats of new Buicks
out of sight in green wild fields.

And yes, it fell with a vengeance
on statesmen who predicted peace in our time.
Priests who left the pulpit for a fine new wife
walked about, pure and heavy beneath a wet sun.

All around town, children ran out,
rolled their sow, stuck buttons, carrots,
old hats and bits of coal on shapeless lumps
to create life, in their own image.


Two for the Festival

No sun but awkward rhymes the sun
arrested in it curve. A boy lit up
the night, his coattails flying
in electric flame. In town
the usual customer, one drink and home,
stone figure in the weeds, looked up
and saw his future falling.

I know tis boy, a weak chinned Greek
drowning cats in clouds. One drink,
the customer and town drove bleeding
strangers sane. A boy lit up the road,
falling. Two dancers passed, one young,
the other awkward in his rhyme.
He carried in his hand a blind toad,

a fox and thirteen lumpy stones.
Money listened; all wars stood still
till they arc of a customer's past
reflected in his face. The rest is real:
black-faced the boy fell smiling
through the weeds. A toad glistened
in the sky. Fox, the awkward dancer,
hugged his stones. One drink, then home.








It's the spirit. Beginning to move me.



I think it might be almost Christmas

I think it might be
almost Christmas
because the weather’s
lousy
and all the people
are wearing heavy coats
and fuzzy hats
and that’s how you know
it’s Christmas in the movies
except I don’t hear any
tra-la-las or any bells
jingling and no one I’ve seen
have has come out with even
one single ho, so I’m not expecting
to hear so many as three in a row
any time soon
so
maybe that part in the movies
is just make-believe
but I did see a reindeer
or maybe that was just a large
dog with wild, unkempt hair
that looked a little like horns
on his head or maybe a deer,
just not a rein-type, just a regular
Texas deer, and I can’s see a
Texas deer pulling a sleigh
cause Texas deer are not nearly
as big and burly as the reindeers
in the movies, big mothers, except
for the runt with the red nose,
but maybe that was make-believe
as well and look the weather’s
clearing up and people are taking off
their coats and fuzzy hats which is nothing
like what happens in the movies
except maybe when it’s a Miami Vice
Christmas movie which I haven’t
actually seen but can imaging, the Santa
in palm and fish embossed blue and
purple shirt and a little white stubble
instead of the long white beard he has
when he’s in the land of people- in-coats-
and-fuzzy-hats and I’m entirely confused
because how can it be one kind of Christmas
in one movie and another kind of Christmas
in another movie and I’m thinking it might be
all make-believe, just manifestations of
the cinematic arts, and even though I like movies
it does leave me a little disappointed
in a critical sense cause
what kind of lousy movie is it
without boobs and bombs and bullets
flying

just lousy weather and
people in coats and fuzzy hats
and dogs with unruly hair or tiny Texas
deer with regular noses








Next, a poem by Scott Inguito, from The Wind Shifts - New Latino Poetry, published in 2007 by the University of Arizona Press. The book is a recent purchase and includes a large collection of poets that I think I'll be coming back to again and again.

Inguito was born and lives in California. He has a BA in English from San Francisco State University and an MFA in poetry from the Iowa Writers' Workshop. He has one published chapbook and has appeared in numerous journals. He teaches at Notre Dame de Namur University in Belmont,California.



Main Street

The air collects itself. Dunes. The tilled fields. Strawberries. Plump
and salt air sweet. It's said that the French like Santa Maria Valley's
berries. Boxes stacked high on muddy trucks rattle across roads.
Bonita, Furukawa, and Miami Farms. converted buses haul workers
to the fields.

Manure wind. Stings the throat.

Ocean wind and muddy thigh-highs. Hands from Mexico make money
and pass it to hands to build a better roof in Morelia. The trucks,
flatted to the brim, pull the twin Porta-Johns into the next field.

Lo Mejor de Jalisco. That's where the laborers eat. Campechana plato
y refrescos y cervezas. Cuarto de Caminos.

Deepbend. Backbend. Cracks in the curl between the thumb and
forefinger bleeding. White and dry.

The dog's name is Chicken. Been swatted on the rear too many times.
Laps up the coffee that's been thrown on the ground.

Fields are corduroy. The telephone wires are bowed with black birds.
The hawk circles and wobbles. Celery wind. blade. Thigh-highs.
Roofs are built.


Papa George

Roosters. Fights on Saturday nights

In the direction of the water tower. Masatani's market. They got the
egg noodles that Bud Wong's uses.

Chili colorado at Guadalupe Cafe. the flour tortillas are fresh. Pats of
butter.

Sting. Muy picoso.

Morning's mud. Lettuce, celery broccoli.

Knives are romantic to a child.

A blunter. For broccoli. They got special ones for celery.

Chub blue handle. The blade is triangular. Short and oyster colored.
Hairnets have yet to be improved at the packing plant. Both Grandmas
work there.

Forklift operators are god-like.

Booby. Filipino/Mexican biker. Two thick black braids down his back.
Shaped like an apple. His pants always hanging down. Didn't have an
ass.

Batman calling Robin. Come in Robin. Dad goofing on the intercom at
the refrigeration plant.

Union. Good work. The ground is rich and the irrigation is plentiful.
Sea air gets in the strawberries. You can raise two kids on a lift
driver's pay.

Coors. Leroy Park. 25 cents a can to the "Uncles." My hand aches
from the ice.

Strawberry wind. Celery wind. Broccoli wind.

Hooded Mexicans, Filipinos, Japanese. Mud walk. Dust walk. and
some like me
Mixed.

Chickens over grills the size of a truck bed. And garlic bread.








Mid-winter crisis, 2007.



squirrel for sale, cheap

there is a
squirrel
in my kitchen
cabinet

I saw him/her/it

huddled
in a corner
of the cabinet
shivering
in fear

I don’t know how
he/she/it
got there but there
he/she/it
is

I also don’t know
how
I’m going to get
the creature
out

remembering
Jimmy Carter’s
killer rabbit
I’m hesitant
to try to do it
myself

but I can’t find
squirrel
removal
services
in the yellow pages
anywhere








I so enjoyed my last poet from the anthology, The Wind Shifts, that I decided to do another.



Naomi Ayala is an assistant professor in the Bilingual Creative Writing Department at the University of Texas at El Paso. She is an extensively published poet and translator of poetry, with an MFA in creative writing from Brown University and a Ph.D. in english from the State University of New York at Buffalo.


Thus

At six the glass roses would be watered.
At six the tomatoes and lima beans.
At seven the machete would be sharpened.
At the forcible hour, the groan of the moon
swelling in women's bellies.
At that hour in which the crow would kneel
on the shoulders of the ripened breadfruit.
At nine the return to coffee,
the tip of the chin seating its scent.
At nine the noontime sun would be lying.
At twelve, nine perishing.
At one Eve's rib would suffer
the weight of the man it held up.
From the body, wheat ears sprouting.
the viand loosening from the iron pot,
the cassava would fight the yautia,
the sweet banana make a scene.
At two love was a mirror,
watching the cane fields from the corner of its eye,
hurling the bait of its breath,
forgiving mornings predictable as catch.
At four, four would become a gag.
At five, five would explode.
At six, the bread would bless itself
and the dishes wash themselves alone.
At seven, the porch and the hammock,
the night a country without borders,
without muddled languages.
Mute as the rooftops
the spirits guarding their turn.


Gtiot

Saturday adrift
on the wings of a strange bird
shrieking Spanish.

Blue smoke in the cold air
beneath helicopters, real
cliff-hangers.

He spins bodega loves
come and gone,
low-down addictions,
who got turned back
from the not so pearly gates
only to suffer more.

He could graffiti a poem
back of the only bus here
if only it would come to him,
if only he could make it
through the muttering wind.


Horses

I don't know shit about horses.
I only see them in some of the dogs
that walk around here.
See them in the bears I've seen at the zoo.
Dark is all these things that
remind me of horses.
Dark like the wind
against the street with its lightbulb eyes.
Dark like you own the ground
and your own running.
This is the year of my horses. They leap from my skin
and let loose on the block.
Bare back.
this is the year.
I speak horse with my skin
and own the language of hoofs hitting the ground.
My wind and my way out
I came with horses into this dark
of no wind.
Prepared and unprepared.








Every Christmas needs at least one good bite of bah! humbugery!

Here's mine.



freeze-dried fantasies

I am not frail
or weak
but I am diminished
in body and thought,
especially
this time of year
when it’s cold and I begin
to wish for heat, when all my life
I’ve loved the cold and dreaded
the heat; a time of long nights and
dark days when I sleep and sleep
because I can’t think of anything else
to do; and this time of year
when the world around me is overtaken
by freeze-dried fantasies of peace
and goodwill to men, self-abuse in
momentary pursuit of relief
from the human condition, darkness
temporarily pushed aside by multi-colored
lights and images of wise men and sheep
and velvet-saddled camels and a tiny
baby in a holy mother’s arms, tiny baby
whose grand ambitions and expectations
end in death, just like the rest of us, oh little
town of silent nights, I do not wish to argue
with you about any of this, but I am old
and tired and diminished of body and thought
and I have been fooled before by your silken lies
and really all I want is to believe in Santa Claus
with all the other children, safe in my belief,
not hijacked by your pagan causes
leading always
to death








Next, I have two poets from Earth Songs, which describes itself as "ananthology of contemporary eco-poetry." The book was published by Green Books, in association with Resurgence magazine,in 2002.

As is often the case with these journal based anthologies, no biographical information is provided about the poets they feature. (Which pisses me off; a few extra pages for bios wouldn't have broken the bank.)



The first poet, about whom I know and am told nothing, is John Haines.


The Oregon Coast

I
This half-ruined porch of giants,
rough men of granite and basalt
grown hairy with hemlock and fur.

They are looking down through storms,
forming some dark, volcanic thought,
their only speech the sound of waves
crashing against their knees.
The green pillars of their temple
toppled behind them; sunlight
leans on the sprawled columns,
and sheep crop the gutted floors.

II
The centuries unroll in free-falling
loops of stone. Now and then a giant
pitches from his loosened chair,
the ocean grows heavy with evening,
night closes the small white look
of alders among the ferns.

Long after, in the leveled wreck
of California,
I remembered the inward sweep
of a granite forehead, the drenched
magnificence not yet destroyed.


The second poet, also a mystery to me is Michael Woodward. But I know him now.


Ice Man

You seem tenuous and brittle as a dry
Stick insect
But even after five thousand years
Your sinews
hold you obstinately together.

So much you have to teach us. Just
Being there
You turn our arrogant nomenclature
Of time
Upside down. You can't be clutching your
Copper axe;
But,foolishly, we see you are.

You humble us with you grasp
And use
Of eighteen different kinds of wood;
The way
You took grass, sinew, feather, flint
And bark,
Threading them into your confident life.

You teas us:
Lying down where our borders disappear;
So both
Austria and Italy argued you their own.

They nearly
rent you down the middle to be fair.
We sift
Your every crevice, sieve your secrets;

Finding even
What you had for your final meal; where
You lived;
What your nails had lately worked upon.

You are
Our countryman and brother, come to ask
Why we
In five thousand years between, and despite
The lives
Of prophets, sages, Gautama and Christ,

Have learned
To love less ourselves, our world and each other.
We muster
Information, detailed information
In answer.
But we cannot penetrate your silence.

You tell us
We are tiny in the immensity of ice.








Mid-winter victory, 2007.



skin and bones

229.5
at seven this morning,
down from the peak 280
a couple of years
ago

that’s
a whole big lotta
Moonpies released
unharmed
to run
free
in the wild








For my last library piece this week, I'm doing something different. The poet is my friend Alex Solis, who is always no end of different ideas.

I'll have him explain what he did, as he explained it to me in the email he sent:

"I wrote a chapbook, Savage Beauty, …the third in a trilogy…Girl who lived in the tree, Le Dame Bleue were the first two. I did something different this time. I wrote two chapbooks at the same time. I had been listening to a lot of “bootleg” Dylan lately and I think, in part, that is where the idea came from; all those alternate takes and versions

All poems can be read a number of ways, different interpretations, feelings, resolutions etc. It is not uncommon for me to read a poem and take something completely different from it after each read. So I took the poems I had, revised some though some are exactly the same in both chapbooks.

Also, I changed many of the titles, though many of the titles remain essentially the same. The poems were also reordered. The idea was to tell two different stories from two perspectives but at the same time to evoke many of the same feelings. I have no fucking idea how it turned out, if it worked or not. It was an interesting experiment though. I have attached them both, the original and the alternate take."


So here they are, the original and, as in music, the alternate take.



Savage Beauty

for J



Table of Contents

Theology

Karma tells me I am the only one

Genesis

Nothing ever really happened here

in excelsis Deo

Karma takes flight

As the crow flies

Karma takes to the sea

Karma drops a dime on the Devil

Blackouts and Epiphanies

Karma falls ill

Karma burns an affirmation on CD

Savage Beauty

The Book of the Dead

Karma wants to bring bees back to life

Stations of the Cross

Revelations




Theology

What loves the stones.
For they seem to exist.

Karma can’t put a name on silence.

Figures it must be God.
He knows the nouns and verbs that spell despair.

She asks,
for no one:

What loves the sky.
What loves the hawk circling the field.
What loves the field the hawk circles.

What loves a well wrought story.

There is nothing left but incompleteness, loss.
Gone is the quiet balance of morning.

She grasps a stone.
Holds it to her cheek;
feels the cool grass of Eden beneath her feet.




Karma tells me I am the only one

She is tired of stars, the sun, the boring moon.
Prefers sand, silt and mountains;

cool streams for bathing. Wishes for a wayward
breeze to dry her hair;

dyes it brown then blonde then back again.
Her body feels a shimmer

of light, she can feel the shape of my heart
in every beat of her own.




Genesis

She sits at the left hand of God when he decides
to take the serpent’s side. Takes his voice

and calls it her own. Calls Eve her sister
even as she steals Adam away

the moment he bites into the apple.
Winds her way down the crowded streets

of Nod. She builds a hinge for the sky,
swings it open

and closed, names it the beginning;
names it love.




Nothing ever really happened here

She falters, doesn’t take sides
never wanted a title, a mark, never

asked for a name, a label; but there
it lays, bought and paid for.

She becomes still, as if made of glass,

everything turns black and white
and blue, a pure blue
of patience,

the untainted blue
of immortality.




in excelsis Deo

She is determined to find God, figures it’s easy
to recognize a peddler when you hear one:

a teller of tales,
raconteur,
that serpent in man’s clothing.

She wonders if it is enough to fly
into the highest cloud but all she finds

is a nest built from high hopes and thin air.




Karma takes flight

She likes the colors.
Likes that they’re with clouds.

And come from rain.

Hears a rustle of cars, feels reckless.
The wind is pure of eye and graceful.

Thunder arrives on schedule.

The earth is illuminated and hungry.
She feels a chill;

wonders if she is real.




As the crow flies

We have an opportunity to modify ourselves.
We sleep with no thought of harm or tomorrow.

Once she says I love you it will be all over.

A small brown bird sits on the sill, next to geraniums.
Believing is art.

An unfinished painting leans against the wall.

Her hand rests on my chest.
The wind passes over us in a trance.

We have barely begun we are unfinished, unready.
She tells me it is cruel to capture fireflies, steal their light.

We are unrepentant.

Her lips are dry, her nipples small raspberries.
There is no saving time only spending moments.

Moments soon forgotten or traded for a vision of truth.

An orange leaf flutters against the window.
It falls to the ground; I say fuck it but never out loud




Karma takes to the sea

There is space. So much space.
It is suffocating.

Not the stifling wall of drowning in a shallow pool.
But a light pressure that does not let up.

The sky bleeds:

from the clouds
from the wind
the rain a crimson curtain.

The sun is a bright white shark in a tar black sea.
The moon remains

simply the moon.
Sinking upward,
a cliché whose value has been spent.




Karma drops a dime on the Devil

She remembers her mother.
Lights a match,
rubs the ash between her fingers.

Realizes she has said too much already.
There is so much
that remains to be said

It’s difficult to resist
the feeling of weightlessness
that comes from longing.

Her dog hunts sand dunes, cool as snow.
Chases bird and stick and stone.
Chases ball and bird and tail.

The sea cowers.
She believes.

If she were strong enough,
she would worship it




Blackouts and Epiphanies

A piece of the sky falls to earth.
It’s picked up by a bird.

She feels what a warm breeze might feel like
if she were outside.
if she were in her sundress,
if it were a day in June.

A child pulls a red wagon across the street.
Desire is a memory.

The horizon is a crooked line.
The child’s mother runs into the street.

She watches this and remembers her own mother.

Mother takes the child’s hand, leads them back
to the house.

How her hair had gone brittle,
bones stretched, body tired.
Remembers her smile but the quiet
is all that lives with her now.

The wagon tips.
The child begins to cry.
There is a flash of silver in the bird’s beak
as she lands in her nest.




Karma falls ill

There is always the sea. The last place
to worship. It is primitive, the future.
It is the altar for heaven.

The sky is awestruck, feels feeble
and helpless, runs through possibilities:

roiling
tumultuous
uncontrolled
tempestuous

settles on tranquil.

It is sunlight scattered amongst the leaves.
It is his rough hand on her face.
It is within reach;
limb by limb she begins.




Karma burns an affirmation on CD

The White Stripes follow Charlie Parr, followed by
Cowboy Junkies. (I’m so lonesome

I just died.)

Johnny Cash and endless possibilities only dreamed
on an open road. Haley Bonar and Nick Cave

sing of a religious experience. The self same one
I wrote about in that letter; never got around
to sending it,

Sealed it and put it in back of the desk drawer,
it’s there right now,
waiting.

Inside is a poem
a confession
a planned conversion
a one way ticket

and an excuse.




Savage Beauty

The door between what was and what is left
becomes unhinged. She feels incidental,

refuses to unshine the past to appease an old
testament God stranded in a new testament world.

This street is unknown but the sights, the smells
remain still, uncertain; like her.

A young girl rides by on a pink princess bicycle,
legs pumping, braids a-jangle;

the wind shudders quietly, a death rattle
disguised as a sigh.




The Book of the Dead

There is a dead bee on the sill. I want to believe it died
of old age. Want to believe a breeze will blow in the room
that will have power to heal my wounds. I am her sculpture
with chipped mouth, glazed eyes, ready to listen, ready
to have the bits of my life swept under her bare feet.




Karma wants to bring bees back to life

She watches an orchid, white and purple;
yellow at its lip, as a bee drawn

by its scent, drinks deeply.

Watches as limbs, painted yellow,
float into an abandoned sky;

speeds up time to match
the flutter and flash of wings.




Stations of the Cross

The sun, tethered to a power line
divides north from south

night from despair
morning from rapture.

She favors midday, the scorch
and burn of silence,

the possibility to catch
God with his guard down.

Make him stumble, stammer
the wrong answer

like that time in the garden;
not Eden but Gethsemane.

She tilts her head at the sound
of the earth as it spins,

she’s a bookmark in the middle
of an unfinished story; unafraid

as the line curves into the horizon,
heavy with the voice of God.




Revelations

There is the anticipation of road trips
mixed with the leftovers from last night:

albums gone sleeveless,
bra and pants,
loose change and dishes in the sink

Curtains shimmy to the pop and hiss
of Exile on Main Street.

The skyline breaks at the same time side one
skip-bumps to a stop.

The open window is a promise, the asphalt
simmers.

Everything but sin burns at the right temperature.







Savage Beauty (Alternate)

for J




Table of Contents

Kate Moss tires of the runway

Genesis

Babyshambles

Pete Dougherty reads to Kate Moss from The Book of the Dead

Kate Moss wants to bring bees back to life

Kate Moss flies first class to Paris

Kate Moss takes to the sea

Blackouts and Epiphanies

The Geometry of Size One

Kate Moss drops a dime on the devil

Kate Moss burns an affirmation on CD

Kate Moss practices meditation

Kate Moss plans her getaway

Siren

Savage Beauty

in excelsis Deo

The Gospel According to




Kate Moss tires of the runway

She is tired of stars, the sun, the boring moon.
Prefers sand, silt and mountains;

cool streams for bathing. Wishes for a wayward
breeze to dry her hair;

dyes it brown then blonde then back again.
Her body feels a shimmer

of light, she can feel the shape of his heart
in every beat of her own.




Genesis

She sits at the left hand of God when he decides
to take the serpent’s side. Takes his voice

and calls it her own. Calls Eve her sister
even as she steals Adam away

the moment he bites into the apple.
Winds her way down the crowded streets

of Nod; jeans slung low, hips a swagger,
ready to start a revolution.

She builds a hinge for the sky,
swings it open

and closed, names it the beginning;
names it love.




Babyshambles

There is the anticipation of road trips
mixed with the leftovers from last night:

albums gone sleeveless,
bra and pants,
loose change and dishes in the sink

Curtains shimmy to the pop and hiss
of Exile on Main Street.

The skyline breaks at the same time side one
skip-bumps to a stop.

The open window is a promise, the asphalt
simmers.

Everything but sin burns at the right temperature.




Pete Dougherty reads to Kate Moss from The Book of the Dead

There is a dead bee on the sill. I want to believe it died
of old age. Want to believe a breeze will blow in the room
that will have power to heal my wounds. I am your sculpture
with chipped mouth, glazed eyes, ready to listen, ready
to have the bits of my life swept under your bare feet.




Kate Moss wants to bring bees back to life

She watches an orchid, white and purple;
yellow at its lip, as a bee drawn

by its scent, drinks deeply.

Watches as limbs, painted yellow,
float into an abandoned sky;

speeds up time to match
the flutter and flash of wings.




Kate Moss flies first class to Paris

She likes the colors.
Likes that they’re with clouds.

And come from rain.
The wind is pure of eye and graceful.

Thunder arrives on schedule.

The earth is illuminated and hungry.
She feels a chill;

wonders if she is real.




Kate Moss takes to the sea

There is space. So much space.
It is suffocating.

Light pressure, not the stifling wall
of drowning in a shallow pool.

The sky bleeds:

from the clouds
from the wind
the rain a crimson curtain.

The sun is a bright white shark in a tar black sea.
The moon remains

simply the moon.
Sinking upward,
a cliché whose value has been spent.




Blackouts and Epiphanies

She watches
a piece of the sky fall to earth.

It’s picked up by a bird.

She feels what a warm breeze might feel like
if she were outside.
if she were in her sundress,
if it were a day in June.

A child pulls a red wagon across the street.
Desire is a memory.

The horizon is a crooked line.

The child’s mother runs into the street
takes the child’s hand, leads them back
to the house.

There is a flash of silver in the bird’s beak
as she lands in the nest.

The wagon tips.
The child begins to cry.




The Geometry of Size One

What loves the stones.
For they seem to exist.

She can’t put a name on silence.

Figures it must be God.
He knows the nouns and verbs that spell despair.

She asks,
for no one:

What loves the sky.
What loves the hawk circling the field.
What loves the field the hawk circles.

What loves a well wrought story.

There is nothing left but completeness,
the quiet balance of morning.




Kate Moss drops a dime on the devil

She lights a match,
rubs the ash between her fingers.

Realizes how much remains
to be unsaid

It’s difficult to resist
the feeling of weightlessness
that comes from longing.

The sea cowers.

If she were strong enough,
she would worship it.




Kate Moss burns an affirmation on CD

The White Stripes follow Charlie Parr, followed by
Cowboy Junkies. (I’m so lonesome

I just died.)

Johnny Cash and endless possibilities only dreamed
on an open road. Haley Bonar and Nick Cave

sing of a religious experience. The self same one
written about in that letter;
never sent,

inside was a poem
a confession
a planned conversion
a one way ticket

and an excuse.

Sealed it and put it in back of the desk drawer,
it’s there right now,
waiting.




Kate Moss practices meditation

Once she opens her eyes it will be all over.

A small brown bird sits on the sill, next to geraniums.
Believing is art.

An unfinished painting leans against the wall.

She folds her hands together.
The wind passes over in a trance.

She says it is cruel to capture fireflies, steal their light.

Her lips are dry, a leaf flutters then falls;
she says fuck it, but never out loud.

She is unrepentant.




Kate Moss plans her getaway

There is always the sea. The last place
to worship. It is primitive, the future.
It is the altar for heaven.

The sky is awestruck, feels feeble
and helpless, runs through possibilities:

roiling
tumultuous
serene
tempestuous

settles on tranquil.

It is sunlight scattered amongst the leaves.
It is within reach;
limb by limb she begins.




Siren

The sun, tethered to a power line
divides north from south

night from despair
morning from rapture.

She favors midday, the scorch
and burn of silence,

the possibility to catch
God with his guard down.

Make him stumble, stammer
the wrong answer

like that time in the garden;
not Eden but Gethsemane.

She tilts her head at the sound
of the earth as it spins, unafraid

as the line curves into the horizon,
heavy with the voice of God.




Savage Beauty

She falters, doesn’t take sides
never wanted a title, a mark, never

asked for a name, a label; but there
it lays, bought and paid for.

She becomes still, as if made of glass,

everything turns black and white
and blue, a pure blue
of patience,

the untainted blue
of immortality.




in excelsis Deo

She is determined to find God, figures it’s easy
to recognize a peddler when you hear one:

a teller of tales,
raconteur,
that serpent in man’s clothing.

She wonders if it is enough to fly
into the highest cloud but all she finds

is a nest built from high hopes and thin air.




The Gospel According to

A young girl rides by on a pink princess bicycle,
legs pumping, braids a-jangle;

the wind shudders quietly, a death rattle
disguised as a sigh.

The door between what was and what is left
becomes unhinged. She feels incidental,

refuses to unshine the past to appease an old
testament God stranded in a new testament world.

This street is unknown but the sights, the smells
remain still, certain; like her.








Inspired by Alex Stolis' experiment above and by my own belief that no poet ever tell the final truth, but only the truth of the moment as he or she knows it, I decided to follow his example, take the truth of one poem and play it forward, see how the truth changes.

Alex did a whole chapbook simultaneously. I'm trying to reinterpret one poem, four years later.

Seems I got the easy part, as such things go.



so who’s the poet now (December, 2007)

given that the origins
of poetry
lie around campfires
in preliterate societies
it’s not possible to argue
that poetry
as performance art
is not a revival
of the truest
and most ancient
of poetic tradition

but why, then, do
I so miss the
architecture of words
arranged on a page
when I hear a poem
performed by a master
of that art
and why do I feel the
integrity of my words
debased
when performance
exploits them for sound
and mood rather than
image and meaning

could it be that
what I do
in managing lines
and breaks
and shapes
and forms is
not poetry at all,
just
manifestation
of industrial-age
bondage to the
tyranny
of movable type


so who’s the poet now (alternate take - December, 2011)

say that a poem
is not the word spoken
or the word printed or written
in some orderly form
designated as poetic by the fashion
of the time; go instead
to the image the words, however
presented, are meant to provoke
and find the poetry direct
in the vision, images in the air
of real space and time, transmitted
through your senses to that part
of you mind that dwells among
the visual cues and clues of the world,
the de-randomized pieces
that combine to form a picture
that means an emotion, visions
that fire chemical reactions that
push electronic jabs to our frontal
cortex to create context
within which emotions form, think
of poetry as transcending work,
internal vision of the poet going directly
to an external vision to be seen
and shared

(the most beautiful poem
I’ve ever experienced, a French short film
of horses, a herd of horses, running
through fields of high grass, the beauty
of their flesh, and their muscled bodies, and the sweat
blown from their nostrils, and the steam, too, from
their mouths and nostrils, the internal heat
of their great bodies under great exertion blown
into cold air, and the colors of their coats,
and the grace of their great running
leaps over high grasses and shallow
waterways - the most beautiful poem
I’ve ever experienced and not a word was
seen, not a word was spoken -no words,
written or spoken could match
the image direct)

think of poetry as visions
transmitted through some visual media
like the screen of your local cinema,
of think of a future poetry
transmitted directly into your dreams

think of the day when dreams
are the ultimate poetry
and poets the ultimate dream
makers

so who will be the poets
then







Another week, may skip next week, haven't decided it yet.

As usual, all here remains the property of its creators. My stuff belongs to me but you can use if you properly credit.

I'm allen itz, owner and producer of this blog...continuing, yet still, to try to promote my way into literary lionship through massive sales (or even even just a few)of my books as proudly displayed below.



Available for Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Sony eBookstore and Appple ibookstore -


"Always to the Light"




"Goes Around, Comes Around"




"Pushing Clouds Against the Wind"




And
For those of a print-bent, available on Amazon


"Seven Beats a Second"


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