Gone But Not Forgotten   Wednesday, April 01, 2015







My photos this week  are from one of the oldest (maybe the oldest) major cemetery in the city. It's a couple of blocks of  headstones and dead people just a little east of downtown (you can see the Tower of the Americas and bits of downtown hotels in the background of some  pictures.) I took the pictures several years ago.

My anthology for the week is  New European Poets published in 2008 by Graywolf Press. It is a very large  collection of nearly 400 pages with, by rough count, about that many poets from 44 countries. (I didn't know there were so many.)

Plus me and poets from my library  as usual.


Me
dear diary

Bernardo Atxaga
Life

Chus Pato
[and now the panopticon is a ruin]

Me
ah, Clint, what are you  doing there?  

Gary Snyder
One Day in Late Summer
Spilling the Wind 

Me
breakfast by the river

Piotr Sommer
Space
Don't Sleep, Take Notes

Me
concrete gardens

Michael Blumenthal
Existential Couplets

Me
music doth soothe

Ronalds Briedis
Silence
Before Addressing the  People

Me
the best I can do today

Jannette Lozano
Place  of a dream with Gesualdo
Cold Flame

Me
extra innings 

Senadin Musabegovic
Dawn at Auschwitz    

Me
reminder

Jim  Carroll
spy

Me
lost and found

Haris Vlavianos
De Imagine  Mundi 

Me
Sheila

John  Phillip Santos
Oxford Punk

Me
looking for a poem not about me

Anka Zagar
Journey

Me
the future former you and me 














After five years, a revelation and I suddenly understand what I've been doing.












dear diary

it  lately occurred to me,
after five years  of writing a poem every day,
that these  are not just a collection
of fair to terrible poems,
but a daily journal of my life,
stories of me and what I  care about,
truth, sometimes, but more often the comfortable lies
I have chosen to make it all  and especially me
a little more
interesting,
knowing
even as  I do
that the greatest truths  are often found in the lies
we tell about ourselves...

I do not edit my poems
nor do I ever throw one away
for to edit a poem
is to edit
life
(and who would dare do that,
consequence of each edit
unknown)
and to throw a poem away
is to  throw away the day
it represented

days are too short in number
to  ever throw one
away

so I'll keep doing this.
writing these things, some better than this one,
many worse and I'll keep calling them poems .
despite all those who object,,
because,
when you get  right down to it,
it seems a humbler thing to call  them
than autobiography, something best  left to generals
and presidents and other  persons of  more import
than me...












I begin with two poets from this week's anthology. The country Spain, but the poems are translated from two  different languages.












The first of the two  poets is  Bernardo Atxaga whose poem is translated from it's original  Basque by Amaia Gabantxo. Born in 1951 in the Basque Autonomous Community, "Atxaga" is the pseudonym of Joseba Irazu Garmendia. He studied economics and philosophy at the Universities of Bilbao and Barcelona and worked  at  a variety of jobs before dedicating himself to writing in 1980, publishing several books since then of poetry that have been translated into more than seventy languages.






Life

Life  knows  only
thorny extremes.
When not jungle
Desert.
It dreams no more.

And so, this September  of
Red Ferns
wants only
Snow,
and Wolf;
aims at being bare,
frozen Immensity.

And Sun dreams
of Light pure and sharp,
blinding memory
of Bees.

While Night
remembers fondly
that first moment
of only night.

And so
Never, Never,
or,
Always, Always,
loudly beats my Heart.
Measuring
against those two words, unfortunately,
all desires.




The second poet from Spain is by Chus Pato, again a pseudonym for Maria Xesus Pato Diaz. Born in 1955 in Ourense, Galicia, she is a well-known writer and political  activist.

 Her poem is translated from Galician by Erin Moure.










[and now the panopticon is a ruin]

and now the panopticon is a ruin

never mind for i can imagine the landscape however i want
if a desert, it'll be  a tell
if rich with vegetation, wisteria will grow over the building
if  in Antarctica, it'll be a phantasmagoria of ice

some folks (working women, crazies,schoolchildren, poets)
still live there, they don't realize no one guards them

for in times of plenitude, systems of domination don't pay
attention anymore to  populations, they don't have to feed
them

just as you were saying "capital is illiterate"
i have to get out

exit biology, remain in my body









Some of my more leftward flailing friends will never go to another  Clint Eastwood film  after his  appearance at  the Republican convention in 2012. Though not intense as  they, I was disappointed, and expressed it here. Wasn't really that surprised though. Not much appreciation among the lefties of my acquaintance for a true individualist and denier of whatever kind of kool-aide they're swimming in at any given time, and Clint surely is one of those.









ah, Clint, what are you doing there

ah, Clint,
you're my hero,
a freedom-kind-of-guy,
a defender-of-the-truth-kind-of-guy,
a friend-of-the-abused-and-friendless-kind-of-guy
a no-bullshit-kind-of-guy

so what were you doing there?

talking
to these anti-freedom  clowns,
these congenital liars,
these  abusers of the poor and unprotected,
these low-life bullshit masters

I'm very disappointed
with you,
Clint...

but you're still my hero
cause I'm almost
as old as you
and my hero-supply is running kinda low
and I don't think I should toss
any of the remaining few
under the train...

but
you should know
it's a pretty close call









First from my library this week, two pieces by Gary Snyder, taken from his book Danger on Peaks. The book, a 2004 National Book Critics Circle Award Finalist, was published (my paperback edition)  by Shoemaker Hoard in 2005.







One Day in Late Summer

One day in late summer in the early nineties I had lunch  with my
old friend Jack Hogan, ex-longshore union worker and activist of
San Francisco, at a restaurant in my small Sierra town. The owner
had recently bought and torn down the adjoining brick building
which had been a second-hand bookstore, "3Rs," run by
a puckish ex-professor. Our lunch table in the patio was right where
his counter had been. Jack was married to my sister once. We all
hung out  in North Beach back in the fifties, but now he lives in
Mexico.

                               This present  moment
                                          that lives on

                                to become

                                long ago

                                                                                                         (1994)



Spilling the Wind

The faraway line of the freeway faint murmur of motors, the slow
steady semis and darting little cars; two thin steel towers with faint
lights high up blinking; and we turn on a raised dirt road between
two flooded fallow rice fields - wind brings more roar of cars

                                      hundreds of whit-fronted geese
                                      from nowhere
                                      spill the wind from their wings
                                      wobbling and slideslipping down

                                                                                 (Last Slough, Cosumnes,  February 2002)













A pleasant  start to  a pleasant  day that, but for this daily writing exercise, might be lost forever in some short time.











breakfast by the river

breakfast by the river
with a friend
early on a schizoid morning

to the south
a bright blue sky
with puffy white clouds
softly cruising
while
to the north the black swirling clouds
of the night of heavy rain
just  past...

a duck
with one blazing blue
feather half-hidden  under a dun-colored wing
calmly tours with a jerky-duck stride
between the tables
of other diners, walks around us twice,
then settles in beside me...

waiting...

I don't know what she wants
or what  I'm supposed
to do about
it
so we just look  at each
other in mutual
mystification...

another day beginning
in an addled state of
confusion,familiar to me
for the past couple of weeks, stymied this day
by a duck with a single
blue feather










 Next from this week's anthology, Polish poet Piotr Sommer with two poems. Born in 1948 in Walbrzych, Poland, Sommer is a poet and translator of contemporary English-language poetry.









The first poem was translated from Polish by Halina Janod, Ed Adams, and Edward Carey.


Space

           (after Wang Wei)

We live secluded under the smoke of steelworks.
The area to the east and south is Warsaw.
the sun is burning out and shining through the dust.
The river is invisible, our house was built by little ants.
It's freezing and almost dark, white figures return to their homes.
The buses can hardly move -
at  home dogs have had a hard day.

Today, just as before, there are redundant  people.
Yet each of them can do a lot and each can bear a lot.


The second poem  was translated from Polish by Halina Janod and D. J. Enright.


Don't  Sleep, Take Notes

At four this morning
the milkwoman was knocking
in plain clothes, threatening
she wouldn't leave us anything,
at most remove the empties,
if I didn't produce the receipt.

It was somewhere in my jacket,
but in any case I knew
what the outcome would be:
she'd take away yesterday's curds,
she'd take away the cheese and eggs,
she'd take our flat away,
she'd take away the child.

If I don't produce the receipt,
if I don't find the receipt,
the milkwoman will cut our throats.











Here's a poem from 2013 that goes well with this week's photos. In fact it may have been written the week I took the pictures.












concrete gardens

with age,
we come to accept
the limited future of our own
corporal self

harder
to accept, no matter how long our life,
that all the works
of our kind
are equally limited
to their own moments in time,
longer moments than our own, but still
all passing fancies, like us, that begin and end
on a schedule unknown to us,
inevitabilities unknown to us until their moment
of denouement,
the whens and whys,
the mystery lying before us, clues aplenty
all around us, the how-we-will-end
surely a final play like those of all who ended before us,
most all, some version
of suicide, a product of an aggressive, explosive nature
or just the weariness of existence overtaking the will to continue,
unrecognized until the final of the kind lifted its head
and realized it was the last and that no more
would  follow...

it might be there are no examples
for us to study,
maybe all kinds find their own way
to  kill themselves,
all inevitable ends reflecting the truth
that we are  all part of a universe of both birth and death,
both equal and appropriate
to the machinery
that keeps all the universal wheels
turning












Next from my library, a poem by Michael Blumenthal. The poem is taken from his book, No Hurry, Poems 2000-2012, published by Etruscan Press at Wilkes University in 2012.











Existential Couplets

1. Rhetorical Question

If love were human nature not a curse
Why, then would have it fathered so much verse?

2. Posthumous Thoughts of a Mole Beheaded by a Root-Tiller

I followed my nose, but it didn't seem to know
The places noses aren't supposed to go

3. A Brief History of the Life of Hemingway

He was such a high-romantic figure
Until, at  last, he found the trigger

4. Hope in Mid-Age

An aging man's hope is that desire
will fizzle out, and not expire

5. The Deaths of Others

The best thing about it, to be blunt,
Is it's not ourselves who bear the brunt

Of trying to breathe from underground
And finding  there is no air around

6. On the Relationship between Having Sex Outdoors at Twenty Eight and Mowing the Lawn at Sixty

The grass was green on both occasions
That's all that links the generations

7. Wisdom at Sixty

It took so long to get, and now it's worth so little   
from the darkened vantage off the declining middle

8. Senescence

In youth you heard your elders' counsel, but didn't heed it
Now you see the writing on the wall, and cannot read it

9. "The fact is..."


Said by those who  seldom knows the facts
The mouth asserting what the spirit lacks

10. Satyr

He didn't know a thing, in fact, about the mission
But merely loved its antiquated old position

11. Poets

By the hundreds, by the thousands, night and day
The hunger for the sacred. So it runs away.

12. A Brief History of Sexual Life

The war between domestic life and sex
Goes back to old Tyrannosaurus Rex 










I have friends who are excellent, sometimes inspired, musicians. I enjoy nothing more than to sit  beside them and listen while they create. I had to do a little re-write on this piece because the first readers of the poem didn't get that meaning, thinking instead  that I  was talking about the pleasure of sitting with someone listening to someone else's music. That's kind the opposite the point of the the wonder of sitting beside an otherwise  regular person as they make amazing  music.












music doth sooth

music  doth sooth the savage breast,
they say...

mine,
at least,
pretty much any kind,
from grand opera to grand ol'opree, country gospel, western  swing,
cowboy tunes, rock and roll, hard rock, squishy rock, squooozy rock, metal, punk,
reggae,ska, funk, bop, bebop, Dixie, smooth and hard and all the other
modes in the bag  Louis found in a New Orleans brothel
that someone decided to call jazz, and all the other rocks,
indie rock, Hindi rock  and Hindi classical, singer/songwriters
from Wimberly, Texas or anywhere else where a fella or a gal
with a guitar and a wholesome homey voice can bring a catch to your throat,
and the unfamiliar harmonies of Japanese music and Chinese music and that lonesome
wailing music of the Bedouin in the desert and the call  from the world's minarets
for the faithful to come to prayer and the fiddle and accordion and clarinet
of a klesmer band and the conjunto and reancheras from  closer
to my part of the world, and the rumba and samba and conga and
bossa nova and all and everything else I can't think of now...

but best of all is the music I hear sitting close to someone I know...

not a science, not an art, but the miracle of a regular person known to me,
known to be  regular, known to have all the regular attributes of  normal regularity,
such a person, with their talent transcendent, finding a place beside the angels...

more than a gift, this wonderful expression of soul
through music,  a blessing instead, one I never had but can
only appreciate, like watching a miracle unfold,
like watching the creation of a new and familiar element
under the sun...

if I could sing, I would never stop and don't understand those
who do,  like putting a cap  on a night of stars
and storing them in a black bottle in the back of the furthermost shelf
of never-going-there-again

such a dark night they make for themselves who do...









Next from the anthology I have two short poems by Ronalds Briedis, a Latvian poet born in 1980. There is a poor translation on Wikipedia which mostly confused me.

Both poems were translated by Latvian by Margrita Galilitis and J. C. Todd.









Silence

Silence
Like the one before the world was created

Fog slides over the river
Tangles in brushes on shore

Dew trembles on a branch
A bud bursts open
A fledgling moves in a nest

Silence
Like the one before the first word was  spoken

Church bells lick their lips


Before addressing the people

Before addressing the people
The prophet on return from the desert
Bends over the well
To  quench his thirst
But freezes
When he sees his reflection -

His open mouth a zero












Here's something from 2014,  a kind of  desperate shot, it  seems to me,  at a poem for the day.












the best I can do today

damp wind
blows dreary -
fever clouds cover the sun

~~

dog wants to walk
I want to sleep -
agree to let the dog  walk in my sleep

~~

protein -
body craves the solid comfort of protein -
rib-eye,  driving to  the supermarket

~~

haiku masters,
Issa, Buson, Basho relieved  to be dead
as I mangle their art form








The next short poems from my library are by Jannette Lozano, from her book, The Movements of Water/Los momentos del agua. The book,  published in 2006 by Ediciones Poligafa of Barcelona, is beautifully illustrated abstract paintings suggesting moving water by Mexican artist Victor Ramirez. It is a bilingual book, including both the original Spanish and English translation by Ron Hudson.

Lozano is a Mexican poet and translator who has spent many years teaching and writing about the ancient philosophy and religion of Pre-Hispanic cultures, focusing particularly on myth. Her work has been translated into English, French, Italian, and  Romanian.








Place of a dream with Gesualdo

The depth of night was shining,
the initial horizon
in a attempt to scatter the chants.

I was searching for the hill,
the house, the traces of fog
in the sharp  leaves of the cypress.

I saw a bridge sink, the whiteness,
the voice
of the tree I heard.


What little Spanish I have is not usually good enough to enjoy the untranslated poem, but this one falls off the tongue beautifully

Despues de un sueno con Gesualdo

Brillaba el fondo de la noche
el horizone inicial
en un intento de esparcir los cantos

Yo buscaba la colina,
la casa, los trazos de la nieba
en las cortantes hojas del cipres.

Vi un puente hundise, la espuma,
la voz
del arbol escuche


Cold Flame

As if it would beat out a silence
the gold of the fireflies between spruce
was impassioned.

The light was falling on the water ad you were moving away
like one who exits a scene
without one's body.

Fire amidst the water,
was tracing a wake without knowing
that the sun was looking at you

for the first time













This, from a morning last week thinking about the time I've had that others have not.











extra innings

thinking
this morning
of my father, as I often do...

dead 35 years ago
just weeks after turning 65,
and, at the same time,
thinking of myself, now
just a few weeks past  my own
71st birthday

thinking
of the 6 years I've had
that was denied to him,
and what I've done with those years
that he would have thought
worth doing
and, beyond that,
what he  would have done
had he had those extra years
for himself...

and I have a hard time
with both those questions,
first because, after all the years
that have  passes, it is hard to think of him,
not as a shadow man old beyond his years,
but at the tall young father
who would chase me down the street
after a hard day's work, squirt gun in hand,
running like the boy who  was still a part of him,
not the serious working man in middle age,
not the pale figure in his bed
nearer each day to a premature death...

it occurs to me he never had a chance
in his life to seriously consider those extra years,
knowing well before they were lost that they would never
be his...

~~~

as for what I have done with the extra years,
I can't help thinking
he would have thought
he could have done
better...








Next from the anthology, here is Senadin Musabegovic from Bosnia and Herzegovina. Born in 1970 in Sarajevo, he graduated from the Faculty of Philosophy in Sarajevo, from the University of Siena in Italy in Political Philosophy, and earned a Ph.D. at the European Institute in Florence. He has lectured at universities in Europe and the United States.

His poem was translated from  the Bosnian by Ulvija Tanovic.








Dawn at Auschwitz

This morning
things have finally,
through the shriek of the officer's whistle
which penetrates the cracked barracks boards,
whispered their names  to  us.

As I open my eyes
two mice scurry into their hole;
frightened by the pasted faces
they twitch their legs and huddle together,
in the warmth of their bodies
on our smells to feed.

Images that slip by through the morning haze
the gray dog's paws whose tracks in the snow
resemble the dark eye sockets with their gaze turned up to the sky,
in which white infinity freezes;
and the electrified barbed wire which stirred my movements
touches the lines of the sky and the snow,
in the sounds of the doomsday harp;
and the officer's shining badge from which
the eagle with spread-out wings
plucks out pieces of my flesh
enter me
like darkness enters
a child's eyes.

The crematorium smoke softens the harshness of the landscape,
creating in it the contours of a female body
which speaks to me alluringly of the gentleness  of the heavens.

Here death has no spasm,
no twitch.
Everything is the same.
The sunrise and the sunset are the same,
like the line of the horizon
streaked with rays on the snow
in which I will be  laid by my mother's hands that used to touch me
in my dream.

Only order and firmness exist.












I wrote this in 2007. I'm thinking maybe I should  send it to all the Republican  wannabe-presidents.












reminder

today
I made
an excellent fire

today
I had charcoal
& lighter fluid

reminding me
the secret
of making an excellent life
lies
in the wherewithal
to start it
properly









From my library, here is Jim Carroll, from his book  Void of Course, Poems 1994-1997, published by Penguin Books in 1998.

Born in 1949, Carroll died in 2009. Most widely known for his 1978 autobiographical book, The Basketball Diaries, later turned into a film by the same name starring Leonardo DiCaprio, he was also an author, poet and punk musician.






Spy

Soluble in the snow
I wait for you outside
The red building filled with sparrow-hawks
                                                                     & female dust

Black canopies one goes up one goes down
I go still            stand wavering         head down

                                                                     Snow sharp

Like raw rice in my face in the wind
The neck of my guitar warped snaking
Like a dry river bed in the neon ruins

Soon I watch the women drift
                                              In and out

Scented like a frozen stream,
Obvious, oblivious, thin

I don't want sex
I just want to give you
Your cello lesson












Except for a couple of days of intermittent, dribbly rain, we've had the kind beautiful days that cause people to move to San Antonio before anyone tells them about August.












lost and found

lost in yesterday's
gloom  and rain
I  almost missed spring's bright
smiles

old Broadway,
shining in the morning sun
like a new polished
silver spoon,
a festival of sunlight
having chased away
the rain










Greek poet Haris Vlavianos is my next poet from this week's anthology. Born in 1957, the poet is  professor  of history at the American College of Greece.

His poem was translated from Greek by David Connolly.









De Imagine Mundi

         For John  Ashbery

"How beautiful,  how unexpectedly sweet life would be
if we were not obliged  to live it..."

Yet once things were different.
The messages brought by the seasons
were part of an  absolute truth;
the looks, the gestures, the trivial talk
meant something,
the chance indications
these two with their secret  conceit  confirm
that love is something more
than a game of longing.

A clear  sky
or a handsome man
poring over a manuscript
(metaphors concocted to contain us)
can't preserve you face in my memory

can't color the charred area
with the precision this recollection's shadow
demands.

I ask for more
much more.
A living context that's able to accept me,
a density of light that can reveal
imagination's true  possibilities
a specific language  whose subtlety's
                                                 command
can give to that dazzle the depth of your
                                                          beauty.

What power can check the gallop
of the disfigured dream vanishing beyond the  horizon
what desire can interpret this decisive
                                                    gesture

that nothing can interpret?

The day comes to its end.
We have to remain here.
In this silvery haze
       the soul embeds itself.












From 2008, meeting someone who reminds me of a first love.

Actually from about  the age of this picture.











Sheila

her name is
Sheila,
but she's black,
not white,
and at least
40 years
too young
to be
my
Sheila
who lived
down  the road
past the irrigation
canal, my first
girlfriend-
would-have-been
if I had stopped
kicking
clods
in front of her
house
and knocked
on her door,
but I don't care,
black or white
old or young,
her name is Sheila,
the magic
magic
Sheila
Sheeeeeeeee
la
the exact
same name as my
lost-to-kicking-
clods-first-
love
Sheeeeee...
Sheeeeee...
Sheeeeee...
la
and that's
enough
for me

I would
tell
her
I love her
but she'd
probably
have
me
arrested








Last this week from my library, I have this poem by John Phillip Santos. The poem is taken from his book, Songs Older Than Any Known Singer, published by Wings Press in 2007.

Born in 1957, Santos is a freelance filmmaker, producer, journalist, author, poet, and in 1979 became the first Mexican-American Rhodes Scholar. Born and raised in San Antonio, in 1997 he joined the Ford Foundation as an officer in the Media, Arts, and Culture Program. After living in New York City for twenty years, he moved back to San Antonio in 2005.




Oxford Punk

We ate biryanis de camaron and borrego
spiced anise and rock salt like fistfuls of posies
sluicing it southward with silky porter
boasting hopeful new tattoos under x-rays
until they glowed ad gradually faded
amidst gorging ourselves wondrous
in and ancient Sunday vindaloo parlor
on the Hindu furlong of old Crowley Road
in our penny-wise broke-down city of learning
another frittering dusk in a darkening yuga.
One name had gone off to Brighton, she wrote
"to mediate on a being in my belly,"
one stepped barefoot on a fishhook
one had hit the road with a blighter
she said was once back-up bassist
from the original Teardrop Explodes.
We, the inscribed, we who were left behind
had since forgotten the original question.
First came the lightning of the pleroma?
First fierce winds across mute earth?
Or was it always the word, the word, the word?
One by one, holding breath, each of the forsook
dove for scarce gold coins in the river of Beaujolais.
Hey, somebody start a fight now, he said
no easy task in a warren of wet, empty streets
fling a bicycle as far into the night as you can.
Over the wall, into a garden full of topiary sky
or  better through a living room window
where the last progeny of empire
would be sleeping through reruns of Benny Hill.













One of my previous week's misery day poems.











looking for a poem  not about me

trying very hard
to find a poem that isn't
about me,
but it seems for the past several weeks
most everything is about me,
the rest of the world and all around me
just a sideshow of shadows
and pain
that won't, unlike my brighter visions,
desert me...

slogging
through a dismal swamp,
that's my day...

so sorry I couldn't paint
rainbows
for you. maybe
tomorrow, it's what I've
been  counting on,  tomorrows,
but stuck  in yesterdays
instead...

(this is where I would insert
a clever close
if I had one)












Croatian poet Anka Zagar is the last this week from the New European Poets anthology. Born in 1954, Zagar is a librarian and, one of the most acclaimed Croatian  poets, has published six collections of poetry and a number of   limited editions illustrated with original etchings by famous Croatian graphic  artists.

Her poem was translated from Croatian by Tomislav Kuzmanovic.







Journey

   just  as we pass we pass
  and if we meet we meet

in the morning I milk  the  cows ans spill the milk into the sun
god, that's why the eclipse passed across my face
like a pencil like a birch like a blind man's cane

and I don't speak with my mouth because all of me speaks, just like when
the sea cuts into itself, it hurts in your mirror, giorgione, when all
all art moves south, a plain glade will  stay behind like
a blueprint of eternity, because I build my voice from snow, don't let
the earth see you there, I will, for sure art equals
solitude, go ahead, take a bath in your eyes, though what will  I then
glance at the bottom like through clear water, and then you play
a little like because the water runs HERE COMES THE NIGHT, LET'S
    GO THERE
I'd like to take one innocent sip of that darkness
your snail coils into home verse and carries me, but
the wind unwinds that picture again, like in the spring when
I start learning foreign languages so that I don't go out, so what if
I walked to humiliate myself  under the white skin of  the wall, what drives
on saliva, dark happiness  itself, when the sun splashes you in the morning
and you wake up: make  a note  of  that window and close it shut, not that one,
that's my poem, a  dog barked, goggled its eye, you
can leave you can  leave, as the stainless steel NN hails
the roses on the state lawn, make them wake up everyone
just make them once come down after they've slept enough, but I enter my hand
like the plane, and see words are fireflies that
glowingly fly and if they pause, they just go out

















I finish the post with a new poem from last week, especially appropriate for this week's  photos.











the future former you and me

some say
I'm  obsessed with death
because I write about it, but
what more fascinating subject
can there be  but the end, writing
about one of the two enduring mysteries
of  life, birth and death, the beginning and
the end...

and how, both, but especially death, can be  done by
everyone, no special intelligence or training  required,
and we all do it equally, at least in term of outcome, equally
well - Socrates did it, Aristotle and Karl Marx did it, along with
all the other Marx brothers, Harpo, silently and with a smile, Groucho
wise-cracking all the way, each  proving at the end that they could do it just
as well as the rest...

and famous people do it and get their names in the paper for one last time,
and  people no one never heard of do it, getting  their names in the paper
for the very first time, good people and bad people too, some doing it
together, Bonnie and Clyde, Butch and Sundance, and all the long-
suffering  heroes at Gettysburg, Guadalcanal, and Verdune
and Gallipoli and the Alamo and, like Liberty Valance
and the man who shot him, some who deserve it
and some who don't - except like Clint said,
"deserves got  nothing to do with it" -
cause deserve it or not,we all get
it and I"m talking you and me
now and it that don't make
it and interesting thing to
think about it cause
what else could
there be more
interesting
than the
future
former
you
and
me








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)



´╗┐Poetry
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




















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