Going Coastal   Wednesday, April 15, 2015

For the third week in a row, I'm going to New European Poets for my anthology of the week. As this suggests, I'm really enjoying the book and the poets in it, so much more pleasing, in my opinion, than the standard academic bred new poets I'm reading from this county. Not to denigrate new American poets, but most of  the poets in the anthology have lived, for the most part, through constant political and/or economic and/or cultural turmoil for a good part of their lives and the challenges of that shows in the freshness and zest in their writing. They seem to be celebrating as they write. Perhaps I'm  being  unfair,  but I  don't see as much of that in American poets, who  seem to be more like they are completing an  program for academic credit.

My photos are from a trip we made about  ten years ago up the west  coast and on to Vancouver. The drive, especially along the California part of the coast was mile after mile of  beauty. Came back  from that trip with  about 900 pictures, probably a lot more waves breaking on a rocky shoreline than I really needed, but some other good  pictures as well.

whoo-diddie-whoo, or something like that

Christophe Lamiot Enos
Night II
Night III

I married the first woman I  loved

Maurizo Cucchi
[From the Cario  to Loreto]
[He left throwing us]        

Easter blows in cold

Adras Petocz
The Lake at Dawn

Easter morning

Viktor Noborak
What He Does

the good old days of mid-life crisis management

Eugenijus Alisanka
from the case of bones

to the mother

Cathrine Grondahl
The Law is the Mediterranean

after the us we leave behind

Marjoleine De  Vos
Death he had your voice

stories to tell

Nuala Ni Dhomihnaill
The Language Issue

just a suggestion from a person who made the mistake of reading the newspaper in the unfiltered light of a new and previously unsullied day

Immanuel Mifsud
The Day of the Dead (in Bratislava)

thinking small

Kathleen Jamie
Wee Wifey

a thing to do    

Flora Brovina
The Year 1981

lying in the sun with Susan
flying a kite with Katie

Pavle Goranovic
Great Preparations

what the world needs

I think I mentioned my foot issue last week. This is an early report on it. Turns out, after I finally got MRI'd that I have torn stuff in my right ankle. Scheduled to see a bone doctor tomorrow to see what's to do about it.

Late update: in a cast up to my  knee for another  week, a very look week I'm thinking.

whoo-diddie-whoo, or something like that

one hour
of magnetic resonance imaging
and I am assured
that I have one left foot
attached firmly by way of one ankle
to one left leg and
wiggling upon that foot, five toes,
ranging in size from large to small
(or small to large, depending
on upon which end of said foot
you start counting)

overcome with relief
I sit myself down to write a poem
commiserate to the event
and I suppose this is it,
a quiet appreciation
of the moment

much more exuberant would it be,
I admit, had one hour of
magnetic resonance imaging
not just the presence of such appendages
(after all, is not the presence of such appendages
par for the course, unless, of course, you are
a wounded  war  hero, in which case, the very
continuing presence of foot,
ankle, toes, etc. would be an outcome to be greeted
with enormous joy and relief
and possibly a parade)

but in my case, not being a wounded war hero,
the presence of that which is expected, while
happy news, is not celebrated nearly as it would be
were the reason the ankle,  connector of left  foot and toes
to the appropriate leg, continues to be a source
of great pain all day and especially at night, which interferes
with my sleep,  which, in turn,interferes with my joie de vivre,
which is French for I got both feet and neither hurt
so let's go dancing the whoo-diddie-whoo
or maybe just a walk in the park
in the golden glow of twilight, or  something like

The first poet this week from New European Poets is French poet Christophe Lamiot Enos with two short poems. Born in 1962, the poet has returned to living in Paris after spending  14 years in the United States teaching French literature.

Both his poems here were translated from French by Jennifer K. Dick.

Night II

From your face tonight
you body, taking form, here
the offerings

from your shadowed cheeks
ue of the surroundings,  too,
asking for them

the pear in the basket
your wishes for meals like this

Night III

There's a slow country
of almonds, of your
eyes on this step nightly

traveling soundless or with so little
from here to there, lengthy
where we're going , long hair.

There's only slow  country,
of your steps, of your hair,
where we're going today.

 How about a love poem, this one from  2010.

Just thinking,  I should have saved this for her birthday

I married the first woman I loved

I married
the first woman I loved

and have lived with her now
for nearly 40 years

through times of storm
and times of peaceful sailing

and every one of those years
has changed us

neither now are who we were
at love's first rush -

as all of life
is one long  compromise  with change

dealing with the conflicting forces,
centrifugal and centripetal

that makes us one together,
that splits us into tribes apart

like twin planets
circling a far sun pushing

and pulling
all at the same time -

abiding love,
that far sun with power to keep a balance

between forces
that carry all things

through the long slide
of time -

sustaining constant love
that links us, wraps

around the lives
of all the people we were

and have been and will

From the anthology, here are two short poems by Italian poet Maurizio Cucchi. Both poems were translated from Italian by Peter Covino.

Born in Milan in 1945, Cucchi is a poet, literary critic, translator and journalist.

[From the Cairo to Loreto]

From the Cairo to Loreto
a short walk,holding each other, along the boulevard
and I was in her belly.
They were hesitant and  exchanged smiles
more tender than restless.
Il Duce was already hanged,
but toward Piazza Argentina
with the chaos and the crowd in turmoil
she said, "Luigi,
let's go back  home."

[He left throwing us]

He left throwing us
into sudden bewilderment.
In a bag at the police station
there were checks, a comb
a wrist band.

Good-bye, I say now without trembling
I have saved you, listen to me,
I leave you the best of my heart
and with the kiss of gratitude,
this overwhelming serenity

A cold norther blowing in the day before Easter brings memories of Easters past, good and bad.

Easter blows in cold

Easter blows in cold
and blustery and maybe wet
before all the eggs are found...

I remember as a child
the Easter sunrise church service
in deep South Texas,barely awake
in the parking lot where the preacher would
preach as the sun rose behind him

it was the pancakes that came after
that I remember best, already a bare believer
even at a young age, it was the rising
of  those pancakes that brought the disciple
in me...

and following my son years later in our backyard
in  Corpus Christi, Texas, as he dragged
his Easter basket along the ground
looking for the eggs the Easter Bunny
had left  for him to  find, real hard-boiled eggs
and others, plastic eggs with pennies
and nickels  and dimes, and, sometimes candy kisses,
rattling inside, those the prime find because an egg
is still an  egg, even the five-year-old knew, no matter
how pretty on the outside, a poor substitute
for legal tender...

and Easter mornings like this one, huddled cold
against a strong north wind, surprised  every time, just
as I am this morning, surprised at this sudden reversal
of spring, surprised because I always forget,
preferring to remember those other Easter
instead, even now, older, offended by this disregard
and abandonment of the warm ad sunny days just passed,
certain spring should never be turned back by such a cold
and indifferent storm...

makes  me-want to rollback the  rock and sleep  again,
resurrect again in my dreams the better
days of pagans singing, dancing, welcoming
the end of winter and the onset of everything
new again and growing, like pancakes, thick
and round as they brown, like my son
in his once a year chase
of colored eggs so carefully hidden for him
to find

Next, here's a poet from Hungarian poet, Andres Petocz. Born in Budapest in 1959, he obtained his degree in Hungarian Literature and Language History in 1986. After earning  his degree he worked as an assistant at Gorki State Library for a short time, then as editor at a number of literary journals. Since then, he has worked as a professional writer.

His poem was translated by Jascha Kessler.

The Lake at Dawn

Vast water: the silence of  dawn.
Celestial blue: silence, dawn's
vast water. Vast, celestial, blue
silence, dawn's vast water.

Velvety swells. Silent,
rippling tremors, silence,
vast water, celestial blue,
velvety rippling trem-

ors, hazy, thickening swells,
vast water, blue, rippling,  vel-
vety stirrings, celestial,

blue silence,  swelling, vel-
vety stirrings, rip-
pling, dawn  blue, celestial. 

Here's another Easter  poem from last week, this one from Easter morning.

Easter Morning

Easter morning
and I'm headed for my Easter morning  treat,
breakfast at the Cheesecake Factory,
which is, I'm thinking, as good a way to celebrate
a pagan holiday from thousands of years ago as any

as a I think about it how pagan holidays never die,
they just morph into whatever the newest manifestations
of our most basic human hopes for a world better
than the one we've been stuck with, a world of better harvests,
or more prolific chickens who hide their eggs
in the open for our youngsters to find, more fertile goats,
or pigs, or cows, or sheep, or  whatever animal was put upon this earth
for us to prevail over and eat...

a new moon rises, round and golden
in the night,  let us celebrate
the mystery of its rebirth, a hard season ends
and our green and fecund world returns to us, let us
dance naked in circles to welcome it, the sun shines,
let us sing in praise of its life-giving warmth, the sun sets
for a night of  rest and the story of  our gods is revealed in the stars
that bring reassurance to our night, proof with  all-their shining
that we are not alone, the the stars on high that bring us the bright sun
also bring the gods on high, there to watch over us in the dark...

and as I'm thinking all this, I'm thinking
there's no need to believe in mythologies that come and go,
it is the reality that from their caves our ancestors
came out to commemorate with joy and relief, if we can't celebrate
that as did the earliest of our kind we have lost the connection
with realities beyond the daily obsessions that make us,
in innermost regions of our being losers in the evolution of our

so, Happy Easter to all, whatever truth it is
you celebrate

I from my cave, celebrate with you

From the Ukraine, this poem is by Viktor Noborak. Born in 1961, Noborak is a poet, writer,  translator, essayist, cultural activities and performer with a very popular Ukrainian rock band. He is considered one of the leading representatives of the mid to  late 1980s cultural revival in Ukraine.

His poem was translated from Ukrainian by Virlana Tkacz and Wanda Phipps.

What He Does...

what he does
with his life
transforms it into a body

he slips into it
and compares it to pictures in magazines

he stares at it in the mirror

he feeds it
surrounds food with music flower
and kisses

he feels queasy

he zooms with it a night on the highway
slams on the brakes but can't stop

the rear view mirror lacks perspective

he doesn't know what else to  do with this body
get it drunk shoot up drugs
paint it up and throw it in bed
change it while break dancing
pump it up with muscles take pictures
naked in a crowd surround  it with things
gold gems

the body laughs
the body moans
the body vomits
the body sits on the toilet
the aging body roams the world
the stupid body gets sentenced to 14 years
in prison

the unlucky soldier's body
falls silent in a mass grave

Here from 2011, more deep thoughts on the important  issues of the day.

the good old days  of mid-life crisis management

deep thoughts
this morning about
"Duck Soup" the Marx bros
or was it that Stooges'
"Duck, Soup"
or was it Soupy Sales'
big hit
collaboration with Pinky Lee,
"Pink Soup"
or was it the John Waters
about pink flamingos
or  is that a cocktail at the
gay bar
on the corner
of Smith and Wesson,

think that might be
the reason
nobody takes me seriously,
I'm always forgetting little things,
great on concept
but lacking in details...

like the fellow and the girl
in the booth
in front of me, middle-aged
man, mid-life crisis
in cowboy boots, longish  hair
well-moussed, curly in the back
bald on top,
and the girl, pretty,
blonde, 15, maybe 20 years
behind him
in the chronological sphere,
has a pink poodle
named Fluffer
or Poots...

I get the concept,
but the details, well, I don't know,
leaving me to wonder,
should I pity the poor fool
or envy him...

or should I just admit
he reminds me of me
when I try to go to sleep at night,
minus the boots
and the hair
and the convertible (did I forget
to mention the convertible)
and the young blonde
and with an extra 20 years
added to the old tick-tocker, victim
of the longest continuously
mid-life  crisis since
Genghis Khan

The next poet, Eugenijus Alisanka, born in 1960, is from Lithuania. Born in Siberia, the son of exiled Lithuanians, he returned with his family to Lithuania where, in 1983, he graduated in Mathematics from Vilnius University. Presently he is editor-in-chief of Vilnius magazine. He has published five poetry collections and two collections of essays.

His translator from Lithuanian for this piece was Kerry Shawn Keys.

from the case of bones

for six hundred years the bones ached in the Middle Ages they were stretched
according to the Gothic canons of beauty during the Renaissance soldiers
whipped them on pillars with lases of ox-leather in the era of Classicism
the architects put into practice the rule of the golden section for some reason
called the bed of Procrustes in Soviet times during the First World War dogs
dragged them from one line of the front to  another during the Second World
War soap was  rendered from them in postwar  times  each small bone  was stripped
there where it  was even difficult to piss in the cold as well as here at Cathedral
Square buzzing with flies in the century's last decade one could see mechanisms
crushing bones bu more often arthritis and radiculitis bent them but as pseudo-
eugenijus writes in the year two thousand bones will disappear and the earth
                                            will ascend into the new eon of a new boneless god

I posted this next poem (from  2012) somewhere and got a very nasty response from someone who said she was a mother who had lost her child a year of so before. I was very sorry about that but it doesn't change the fact that my son was never allowed to be the nuisance in public places so many parents allow their children to be these days.

to the mother

to the mother
of the kid
running around the coffeehouse

oh, dear mother,
I'm truly sorry, but you
and grandpa and grandma
are wrong,
your precious little prince
of the ravaging,
barbarian horde
is not cute,
he is a pain in the ass,
and I'm glad he is not my pain in the ass,
though I assure you
if he was mine
instead of yours
he would not be a pain in the ass,
even  if it  required a tiny bit of
on his squirmy behind

I raised my kid,
now, dammit, raise yours
and leave me the hell alone

Now, from Norway, I  have a poem by Cathrine Grondahl. Born in 1969, Grondahl published her first collection of poetry in 1993 and has followed since with collections  in 1996, 1998,  and 2003.

Her poem was translated from Norwegian by Roger Greenwald.

The Law is the Mediterranean

The Law is the Mediterranean: take long, slow strokes
You're rowing across the strait in one day
Jews, Christians, and Muslims
live  on each other's shore
You think the Law comes from the heavens
and  that the shiny surface of the sea mirrors God,
and eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth
There is a sea between you
The Law ties you together
and keeps you apart,
and every wave moves the Law: take long, slow strokes
You're rowing across the strait in one day

From last week, another attempt to bump through the big questions.

after the us we leave behind

so many of my old friends
have turned into religious
worrywarts - only
a few of us freethinkers
left, making me wonder
if it is the Reaper's grim shadow edging
near that frightens some of us
into the arms of delusional
comfort, a way
as the rough rim of life nears,
to take a last minute shot at

or is it  just that those of us
who remain free of  such a greedy
attachment to our fading flesh
don't get the picture...

could it be that we are the ones who suffer
from failure of imagination

or  is it the others who think they can
cheat the essential truth that every
has an end and that when the end
comes there is no higher power
that can reverse it...

so much better for those
like me
who see the end as not
a passage to some ragged flesh
bound forever to a purposeless life
on a celestial cloud  somewhere between
Olympus and Never-Never Land,
trust in the vision of physicists
who see a universe where
every end is a new beginning,
where we, freed
from the flesh that binds us to the mud
of our previous conception, can return
to  troll the universe in all our millions of
liberated star-parts,
become in the fulsome passage
of time a  miracle of new things aborning,
unknown and undreamed,
a million miracles
exploded from the base conglomeration
that was the us we left

why would anyone want
more than

The next poet, Marjoleine De Vos, is from The Netherlands. Born in 1957, is an art editor  who writes about art, literature and cooking on her editorial page. She published collections of poetry in 2000, 2003, and 2008. She has also published collections of her editorial columns.

Her poem was translated Dutch by Alissa Valles.

Death he had your voice

Where you  are, there am I, my darling
I see you always, your blush and laugh
even at night I visit you in guise of sleep
and sing you a lullaby in my arms
you're mine and if you could see the god
who loves you is a devotee of darkness

My marrow is cold my kiss is soft
you stroke my rough morning chin
your hand gropes in the dark -
do I still sign not yet fallen prey
you are so lovely when you move
your eyebrow slightly over your rainy
eye, in trepidation, oh my soul
don't let me go, whom you belie
with joy of life and dreams of man
so evanescent is my world power
I am doomed, I am taking you down
with  me, and further down, deep down
never to come again.

 This short piece is from 2013.

stories to tell

the moon
slips  from behind 
passing  clouds
like a virgin bride
shyly peeking
form behind her veil

so much seen
in her
continual circling,
like Scheherazade,
so many stories to tell

From the Republic of Ireland, here is my next poet,Nuala Ni Domhnaill. Born in 1952 of Irish Parents in Lancashire, England, she moved to Ireland when she was five years old and grew up there. Her mother spoke English at home and her father Irish. She published her first collection of poetry in Irish in 1980. Although she speaks English, French, Turkish, German and Dutch fluently, she considers Irish to be the language of poetry and writes her poems exclusively in  that language.

 Her poem was translated from Irish by Paul Muldoon.

The Language Issue

I place my hope on the water
in this little boat
of the language the way a body might put
an infant

in a basket off intertwined
iris leaves,
its underside proofed
with bitumen and pitch,

then set the whole thing down amidst
the sedge
and bulrushes by the edge
of a river

only to have it borne hither and thither,
not knowing where it might end up;
in the lap, perhaps,
of some Pharaoh's daughter.

 I prefer not to write political poems since they have the half-life of a sneeze, obsolete the day after they're written. But sometimes, things are so bad I just can stop myself.

just a suggestion form someone who made the mistake of reading the news in the unfiltered light of a new and previously unsullied day

innocents beware...

the Texas Senate
is in session, a scrum
of bottom-feeders with the morals
of their cousins, the catfish

and others among the uninitiated
regarding the lowest levels
of human intelligence
and ethics
should avoid the city of Austin
for the next two months
until the scoundrels
go home
and the stink of their presence
fades into the fragrant cedar forests
that surround the

This poem is by Immanuel Mifsud from Malta. Born in Paola, Malta in 1967, Mifsud has written numerous collections of poetry, short stories and children's stories. Along with his other awards, he most  recently won the European Union Prize for Literature in 2011.

His poem was translated form Maltese by Maurice Riordan.

The Day of the Dead (in Bratislava)

If you were here, I'd ask you to recite
whole chapters that now are buried with dust.
Then I might have some clue  as to how
I'd found my way to this unlit station.
From which no train is ever going to leave.
From which no footstep leads me away.

If you were here, you could color in
the blank map by which I was  led alone
through the streets, the blind corners I turned
so that now I've arrived at this precise spot.
I've no idea how to pull myself out of here.

My blood, the fairground where ghouls hang out.

This piece is from last year, about this time, demonstrating the poetry of the small.

thinking small

having spent
almost  a full page yesterday
on the vastness of space and time...

I want to think about the tiny,
the little-bitties that make life
so much bigger and better
than nature designed

and I'm not talking
about atoms and neutrons and protons
and quarks and quacks
and  xenarons and nylons that create the illusions
of hard and soft and deep
and wide and you
and me

I'm talking about the other little things,
like the look in child's eyes
when they do something, take their first step, find
their first  Easter egg, hit their first
home run,  something they've never done before,
the doing of something that is life-expanding
to a child's eager mind, or something like a lover's smile
from across  a crowded room, or something like a mother's kiss at bedtime,
these little tings and so many more, too many
to enumerate...

those little things that make it possible
for ignorance to be bliss,
that  allows us to look at  a night sky
and see not its vastness, but the twinkle of a single star,
a star that holds  us as we hold  it close,
so small and so close, to understand that the small
and the close is enough, that the vastness of all we are not
may welcome us, but does not, in its grandness
require our participation, vastness that can expand our happiness
but is not required for it
tiny things, and close, the basics of our lives, what allows us
to live without the stars if we want
and still be

 The next poet is Kathleen Jamie of Scotland. Born in 1962, Jamie grew up  in Currie, near Edinburgh and attended Currie High School She studied Philosophy at Edinburgh University where she published her first poems. Frequently published since, earning numerous awards, she currently holds the chair in creative writing at Stirling University.

Wee Wifey

I  have a demon and her name is WEE WIFEY
I caught her in a demon trap - the household of my skull
I pinched her by the heel through her wily transformations
she confessed
her name indeed to be WEE WIFEY
and she was out to do me ill.

So I made great gestures like Jehovah: dividing
land from sea, sea from sky,
my own self from WEE WIFEY
"there," she says, "that's tidy!"

Now I watch her like a dolly
keep an eye,
and mourn  her:
For she and I are angry/cry
because we love each other dearly.
It's sad no more
that without
I shall live long and lonely as a tossing cork.

An explanation should one ever be desired.

a thing to do

another weekly blog post
number 447,
and I continue the exercise
as if it amounted
to something and I suppose it does
at least to the point
that I enjoy doing, and every week
learn something new about poets
and poetry

learning for example
how universal, how unlimited
by time and place is the human urge
to tell our stories in various varieties
of forms we call poetry..

learning for example
how limited we are in America
by our inability to share the lives
of those beyond our circle
who do not speak the language, English,
beyond we are as deaf and  dumb as
anyone so physically afflicted, how stupid we

and how shallow are the self-appointed
arbiter who declare only certain arrangements
of words and ideas can be included in the canon, as if
poetry, the greatest expression of our humanity
can be divided into two categories,  the acceptable
and the no,  apply the criticism, "could be prose" for that
which doesn't fit the box of their own devising -

what more superficial, uninteresting, and, ultimately,
insulting dismissal of another's humanity could there
be -

so I post  ever week, for now and as long  as
something can be learned, something can be shared...

it is a thing to do as good  as anything
there is
to  fill  my day

Flora Brovina is my next poet from the anthology New European Posts. Born in 1949, she is a Kosovar Albanian poet, pediatrician, and woman's activist. During the Kosovo war, she was abducted by Serb paramilitaries and was a prisoner in Serbia when NATO troops captured the capital and Serbian troops withdrew. She was accused in a show trial of "terrorist activities" and served a year and a half in a Serbian prison before being released due to international pressure.

His poem was translated from Albanian by Robert Elsie.

The Year 1981

The stench and clank of metal  spread,
The music of the streets has taken refuge in the suburbs,
The little girl  has  scraped her knee, off with you now and don't cry,
Wide-eyed he emerges from the crowd,
Entering the race,
The unseen arena, toreador and bull,
Ole ole ole, the weight of the tank leaves tracks in the asphalt,
Ole ole ole,
He rushes forth
And grasps it
By the head,
Covering it
With a red cloth,
The machine, now blinded by the eagle,
Is dazed
And disoriented,
What black beauty,
Empty flowerpots
Cascade down from balconies,
Rakatak, rakatak,
Flowerpots hurling through the air
Know nothing of the curfew,
Rakatak, rakatak,
You in the midst
Plant artificial flowers,
The policeman screams and takes down your address
While guarding he shattered flowerpots
And tank tracks in the asphalt.

From last year's old poem way back to 2005 for a couple poems from my first book, Seven Beats a Second, still available on Amazon in both new and used versions. Written during a period when I was playing with names.

lying in the sun with Susan

quiet bay

no sound but the light rustle
of marsh grass in the gulf breeze

lies on the deck, legs spread,
as if to thrust herself
at the summer sun

sweat glistens
on the inside of her thigh
and my tongue aches
for the taste of her

flying a kite with Katie

and dives
and swoops
and lopes the loop,
a blue and white kite
against a blue and white sky

beside me,
brown on brown,
with white teeth
flashing in laughter
at the glory of the day

she holds the string
pulls as the kite begins to stall
lets loose when a gust of summer wind
lifts the kite and takes it toward the clouds

and I hold her,
not so tight, she says,
this is hard do do,  she says,
back off so I can concentrate, she says

and I back away
as a great flurry of wind comes,
billows her dress against her back and legs
and she seems to fly like the kite away from me

Here is a poem by Pavle Goranovic from Montenegro, my last poet for this week and probably for some time to come from New European Poets. Born in 1973, Goranovic writes poetry, prose and essays. He has published three books and his poetry has been published in several languages.

His poem was translated from Montenegrin by Evald Flisar.

Great Preparations

Unquestionably are the holes in the ozone layer.
Tomorrow's day, too, is, to a good extent, unquestionable.
The printing of this poem, weekly results
of matches of the Pimear Division, a handful of small
and large events - they're for sure unquestionable. At least as much
as the smell of coffee and the color of my jacket.
Profane things possess a special certainty,
the kind we usually don't pay attention to.
Here I have always especially respected a number
of side-certainties. It is unquestionable that little Georgie
had skillfully grappled with English.
Rotation of the Earth is, probably, unquestionable.
And then, many place-names, our names
and driving along dusty roads. We need to talk
only of unquestionable things. Things not praised
by poets. Fear of happiness is certain,
death - most  certain. Lonely people know this
- at receptions, in cold hotel rooms
and automobiles. Contemporaries of Martin Heidegger.

To  finish off this week's post, this is a poem I wrote months ago and never used, probably because it makes me seem so cranky, which I am mostly on most days, not.

what the world needs

what the world needs,
in addition to a good 5 cent cigar
and a good movie role
for Lindsey Lohan, is an alternate universe
for people like me who like
the life they live
and hate to have their good life


by someone else's holiday

religious holidays are the worst,
a whole day or two surrounded by people
struggling under the load
of hiding their normal self behind
a face brimming with pious
while my regular
which I  normally find very worthwhile
not to mention
lies shattered at my

political holidays
are the next  worse, sharing
many of the fakery elements
of religious holidays, politicians pandering
to sunshine patriots
as the string up  the  red, white, and blue
and proclaim their everlasting loyalty
to the country for which it stands,
which does not, of course,  include paying
their fair  share of taxes if they can find anyway
to weasel out of it, avoiding in every way
they can one most meaningful patriotic act
available to every one of my oh-so-smug
lapel-flag waving  countrymen...

but this is just a rant from a fella
whose life is  interrupted, sitting at Starbucks
instead of in his favorite chair
at his favorite place, legs cramped
by bar stool chairs that
press right at the corner of his knees
leading to backache
and leg cramps and other corporate
we've done the 4th of July for over 200 years,
would it really hurt so much
if we just skipped it one year,  would it really
put the republic at more risk
than tea party cranks and other mealy-mouthed
grafting politicians do every

I mean, it's true I  fear for the republic  myself
these days, but just don't see
how  skipping the holiday just once
would put it at any further risk
than it already is...


maybe some BBQ
and a firecracker and a full orchestral rendition
of the 1812 Overture will help
ease the pain, maybe
just the BBQ will be  enough,especially
if I can find a good watermelon
and an old-fashioned  homemade ice  cream
crank  to turn

As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and to me.

As always, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad)

New Days & New Ways

Places and Spaces

Always to the Light

Goes Around Comes Around

Pushing Clouds Against the Wind

And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio

Seven Beats a Second

Short Stories

Sonyador - The Dreamer

at 2:36 PM Anonymous Anonymous said...

i have sd this before- the photos are marvelous- the poems?
i never get any feed back and feel like i should go to another venue
let me post u a poem that say what i feel
see nxt post

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