TO THE ORIGINAL LOS ANGELES DAILY NEWS!
by RIP RENSE
November 4, 2013
crass, profanity-spitting L.A., in developer-ravaged $2500-a-month
“elegant density” L.A., in have-and-have-not ethnically separated L.A., in
get-out-of-my-way-asshole, hit-and-run texting-and-primping-while-driving
L.A. . . .
Gentle things still happen.
She sat at the front table at
Papa Cristo’s, the Greek place at Pico and Normandie in the so-called
Byzantine-Latino Quarter. Across the street from St. Sofia’s Greek Orthodox
Cathedral and St. Thomas the Apostle Catholic Church, or, more appropriately
considering that masses come with mariachis, Iglesia Santo Tomas Apostol..
IT'S BACK! THE ANNUAL RIP POST THANKSGIVING POEM!
“This is excellent!” she said,
and, really, it was amazing she could say anything at all, let alone in a
clear, commanding voice. The withered and dry autumn leaves on the sycamore
trees in the neighborhood were stronger. This was, to be indelicate, a
corpse that hadn’t gotten around to officially dying. Stick limbs, prune
skin, sunken cheeks. Talk about frailty, thy name is woman. . .
“Okay, Babe,” said her
companion, a young guy with brown curls pulled back in a pony tail.
“I’ve got you.” And he steadied her as he removed her walker, and then
helped her ease into a wooden chair at one of Papa Cristo’s wobbly tables.
She didn’t seem comfortable.
“Does your butt hurt?” said
What butt, I wondered. Nothing
there but bones.
“Okay, we’ll get you another
chair. One with a cushion on it. Is that what you want? Or do you just want
to sit at a different table?”
“I don’t want to be any
trouble!” she said.
“Whatever you want is
absolutely fine,” said her companion, and they moved to the table by the
window, the one next to me. The guy with the curls ran outside, came back
with a pillow, slipped it under the talking skeleton.
“Is this better?”
“Excellent! Just excellent!”
Curls got up to order food,
and in a few minutes he was wolfing down a salad and they were splitting
a big bowl of lentil soup. The woman repeated “Excellent” every couple of
minutes. I thought this was a tremendous achievement, to speak the word,
over and over, and with gusto.
After a while, Curls---who
addressed her as Grandma---got up to go to the bathroom or something. The
old lady just sat there, putting the blank in blank stare.
“How was your lunch?” I said.
She looked at me. I was
startled. There were lyrical blue eyes hiding in the ancient face.
“Well, good. You have a good grandson, to bring you to lunch.”
“He’s my buddy! He’s a
“Yes, that’s a blessing.”
“Yes! A blessing! You know,
I’m very, very old," she said, as if letting me in on a secret. "I’ve
been here so long. And I have a lot of problems, but I won’t tell you what
they are. I’ve been here a long time. I don’t know why they keep me
around! I’m a good girl, but I used to give ‘em hell! I tell my family,
don’t say goodbye. I don’t say goodbye. I say hello! I greet people!”
that’s wonderful. That’s how it should be.”
Grandson returned, sat down. I
“She said she greets people,
likes to say ‘hello.’”
“Right,” he said. “People
should do this. I think of it as recognizing their humanity.”
“I say hello!” Grandma
continued. “I don’t want anybody paying any attention when I die. I don’t
say goodbye! I’ve been here so long.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m ninety-two, no,
“Congratulations. That’s an
achievement. I hope to match it some day.”
“Thank you! I used to raise
hell! I was pissed off! I was a communist socialist! I called everyone
‘comrade.’ I said, ‘hello, comrade!’”
“I’m sure you did.”
Grandson nodded, laughing.
“She did. She fought for a
lot of causes. She went to the south in the ‘60’s to register voters,
during the civil rights movement. She worked in hospice care, she’s been all
over the country, protesting for people’s rights. She’s been arrested many
times. I was raised in a communist socialist household!”
“I prefer to say humanist. I’m
really a humanist. As she is. We were going to go to the anti-nuclear
protest today, weren’t we?”
“But she really wasn’t up for
I was going to say something
about how there was a time in this country, largely in the Depressed 1930’s,
when every student and young person with an ounce of compassion either
attended, or was tempted to attend, communist meetings. That the word did
not carry the hoodoo of later times, and essentially meant “humanitarian.”
But I couldn’t get a word in.
“I’m Esther,” she said. “I
never say goodbye. I say hello. Hello!”
Her grandson got on a cell
phone, as most everyone does. Some creative confusion with a fellow
musician. I spoke to keep Esther company, but she did most of the talking.
“I say don’t hold back!
Live! You’ve only got so many years. We’re all gonna die. I say if
you’ve got something to do, I hope you are inspired! And then it’s so long,
Her blue eyes and her voice
were as lively as the rest of her bent old body wasn’t. And we jawed a
while, Esther and me, there in the front window of Papa Cristo’s, while all
manner of people filed in and out in search of spanakopitas and plaki and
good cheap Greek wine.
“My grandson is a genius! He’s
wonderful! He’s my buddy!”
“She saved me,” said Curls,
clicking off his cell phone. “Saved me from my parents, didn’t you, Babe?
Not that my parents were bad or abusive, but when I went to visit Grandma,
it was fun time!”
“You’re the greatest!” she
said. “I am so lucky to have you! Did we eat yet?”
“Yes, we did.”
“Oh, we did? Okay, then let’s
And Esther the 93-year-old
communist-socialist-crusader for human rights got up to leave, and told
me how it was good to talk to me, but she broke her credo and said goodbye.
In her way.
“So long, Toots!” she smiled,
and leaned on her walker and moved her twig legs along with surprising
agility down the sidewalk outside, as bicyclists and ladies with strollers
weaved and dodged around her.
About an hour later, I was
sitting on a bench in Little Tokyo, as the sun went down, having my dessert
of imagawayaki, a Japanese hockey-puck sized pancake full of sweet
red bean paste. A burly guy from Detroit, a Little Tokyo regular, sat a few
yards away, playing shamisen, a three-stringed instrument plucked with a
plectrum, with banjo-like resonance.
A compact, older
Japanese-American lady with beautiful, straight, shoulder-length white hair
sat down on the bench with me. She was also eating imagawayaki.
“Do you like the music?” she
“Do you want a happy answer or
a truthful one?” I answered.
“Well, he’s very good, very
skilled. But sometimes he plays a kind of rock ‘n’ roll shamisen, which
I think sounds boorish, and does not serve the instrument. He kind of
“I see,” she nodded.
“But what he’s playing right
now sounds fine. Traditional Japanese music.”
“Pentatonic,” she said.
“Are you a musician?” I asked.
“What do you play?”
“I’m a composer.”
“Really. Orchestral pieces?”
“Piano and voice. I just wrote
two Christmas songs.”
“Ah, well, wonderful.”
She took a bite of her
“My husband died two years
ago. I had a B.A. in music. God has given me a long life, so I decide to
make music again.”
“Lovely. I can’t think of a
better thing to do with one’s time than to make music.”
Her face was gentle, her voice
clear and matter-of-fact, her skin still smooth. She wore a merry,
multi-colored quilted jacket, black slacks.
“I am celebrating my birthday
week,” she said.
I tried to pronounce the
Japanese word for “congratulations,” which I picked up from a Japanese TV
series. She smiled appreciatively.
“I am 18!” she said.
“Of course you are!”
“Right. Well you look
“Thank you. I just came from a
little restaurant where I had a birthday dinner. Bratwurst and a tall dark
“Good, sounds just right.”
She smiled, and stood up.
“My name is Pat,” she said,
and shook my hand, and went on her 81-year-old---I mean 18-year-old---way.
In brutish, crass,
profanity-spitting L.A., in developer-ravaged $2500-a-month “elegant
density” L.A., in have-and-have-not ethnically separated L.A., in
get-out-of-my-way-asshole hit-and-run texting-and-primping-while-driving
L.A. . . .
Gentle things still happen.
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PRODUCED BY RIP RENSE FOR ZOHO ROOTS
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LISTEN TO SAMPLES AND ORDER
BY RIP RENSE
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by Barbara Weeks
review:Susan Christian Goulding's
Daily Breeze column on "The Oaks"
MAN CHAINS SELF
TO OAK TREE, READS 'THE OAKS' AGAIN AND AGAIN!
"I stayed up
to finish the last 100 pages.”
---Dave Allen, Thousand
""This book deserves to
be read by hundreds of thousands of people It is a
gem that talks to a diverse group of people: those
who grew up in dysfunctional families(!); Southern
Californians who will love the suburban anecdotes;
teens and everybody who has ever been a teen with
all the awkwardness those years impart. It's also
quite funny. Readers simultaneously laugh while
groaning over these horribly insensitive 'adults'
raising Charlie, who is much more adult than they
columnist for the Daily Breeze,
People Mag. Correspondent.
Rense interviewed about "The Oaks"
in Ventura Star
RIP POST BOOKSTORE:
"Less Than Satisfying Encounters With Humanity"
LESS THAN SATISFYING ENCOUNTERS WITH
THE DECLINE OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION. . .
Measured by its attitude.
"You have more 'less than satisfying encounters'
than any three other people I know. I've
given this some thought and my conclusion is
that it is your unhappy fate to be something of
a "schmuck magnet." Unpleasant-incompetent-self-aggrandising
people enter your close orbit with greater
than the rest of us."
---Bob Ballenger, Encino, CA.
230 pages of LTSEWH's.
A LINGO CZAR LEXICON
OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION---
Measured by its language.
is---210 acid-dripping pages exposing rigidly
conformist slang, pin-headed outbursts, 'cool'
patois, abominable cliches, infantile drivel,
smug rejoinders, mandatory peer-enforced
buzzwords and idiot-speak that Americans are
spewing from their 500-word vocabularies as
their knuckles hang ever closer to the sidewalk.
IT IS: THE MOST IMPORTANT SPEECH MADE BY ANYONE IN
THE LAST 60 YEARS. WELL, MAYBE.
The Rip Post
ALL FOR TAIKO, AND
TAIKO FOR ALL.
How two educators and a
scientist came to
devote themselves to the drum.
CHINESE MEDICINE DOC EXTRAORDINAIRE!
AND. . .
AUTHOR OF "WHILE
MY GUITAR GENTLY WEEPS: THE MUSIC OF GEORGE
teacher, deejay, recording
on Mata Hari, Daktari, high school
students, John Donne, the future of the planet, and
his album. . .
plus: 'Breakfast With The Beatles'
host Chris Carter, and more
Verse to You:
Starring Rip Post resident laureates:
the late great Scott Wannberg (Salud!), Jack Oakes,
Charles Bogle, Raj Bavnani, even Rense himself.
Enjoy samples below, and. . .
visit the big poetry archive
I walked into the Vagina Hotel
just because of the name
Tell me, I said, why is this
hotel named for a vagina
and the proprietress
who claimed to be a poetess
said, why, does that threaten
No, I said, I've never been
threatened by a vagina
but then, I've never met one
that could talk, either,
so I can't be sure
Misogynist loser, she said, so I moved on
Feeling hungry, I stopped at Vagina Burger for lunch
Tell me, I said, to the waitress,
Why is this place called Vagina Burger I mean
that's not very picturesque
Oh, she said, are you threatened by the word, vagina?
No, although I admit I find it a rather ugly sounding
I mean, couldn't they have called it a morning glory or
a midnight moon or something
She snorted and walked away, mumbling "asshole"
So I left and went to Starbucks where a woman on a
had a bunch of books next to her called My Vagina, Your
Vagina, Our Vagina, The Cat in the Vagina, Of Mice and
Vaginas, Huckleberry Vagina, and The Vaginas of Wrath
Oh, and that one by Naomi Wolf called Vagina: a
What are you staring at, snapped the laptop woman
Oh, sorry, I said, I couldn't help but notice your books
Do they threaten you, she said
No, books don't threaten me, I rather like them
Then why are you staring
Oh, well, I've never seen so many books about vaginas,
it piqued my curiosity
Are you threatened by vaginas, she said
No, I'm threatened by aggression, mostly, at least to
But I do wonder how a vagina could have a biography
Does that threaten you, she said
Well, let me think about that, seeing as this question
keeps coming up
Stupidity and arrogance threaten me, and hostile,
defensive people threaten me, and guys with lots of neck
tattoos of bloody knives and Jesus threaten me, but a
biography of a vagina, no
that's too ridiculous to be threatening
Laptop woman's eyes got as big as ignorance and she said
What do you mean, ridiculous!
Oh, well, it's like this: the idea that retreating into
a frame of mind where one's sex organ is exalted, where
one's very self-worth is focused on one's sex organ,
where an obsession with one's sex organ is conflated
with philosophy, and in the case of the vagina, is
somehow construed as "feminism" and "empowerment," well
this strikes me as asinine and puerile
and a mite indelicate
Laptop woman's eyes got as big as vaginas and she hissed
get away from me you fucking pervert or I'll call
I momentarily wondered what security's phone number
might be, and happiness's, goodness's, and joy's
Then I moved on because I felt threatened
Il perche non so
mi chiamano mimi
il perche non so
my name is this
I don’t know why
things pump into
groceries into bag
dogs play in yard
bestial shouts from windows
supernova roses expand
petals to Betelgeuse
super apes trail offspring
sun nuclear fire
little mites feast
wail impotent trill
murders of joy
painter wipes fix
moment gone and beauty
crack and fade
universe and skin
blue eyes and harlequin
il perche non so
it once? Hear it twice!
to Raj Bavnani's
end-of-year poem, as read on KPFK-FM.
slums of gold
the slums of gold
are having open houses for all the affable c.e.o.'s and
financial wizards who have taken their bailout money to build
shiny brand new executive bathrooms and finance relaxing weekend
retreats far from the noise and fear of the street.the slums of
gold have king size beds that will make the most tired and achy
executive feel so human and tender.
special guarded elevators will take these new stylish tenants to
the penthouse,but wait a second, sometimes the penthouse has no
roof and the vultures soar overhead awaiting their next happy
the slums of gold find themselves eventually under a fierce rain
which washes that fake gold off revealing corroded iron and
it's a new year
homicide will soon reach its deductible
and its bills will reduce greatly.
the slums of gold are having a block party.
bring all your favorite yes men and women,executives.
bring your bylaws and meeting minutes.
you'll have to budget the air
inhale just so much oxygen.
the banks glow in the dark.
they begin to pull up stakes
and slither across the earth
looking for food.
meanwhile,all humans with no health care whatsoever become kings
and queens for one day.
they are asked to pose for high profile pictures.
as soon as you're through coughing up blood could you smile and
the c.e.o.s have blood in their underwear.
should they panic?
should they take a happy pill?
all the happy pills forgot their distemper shots.
they are not agreeable this morning.
when you go to open them up to ingest one they bite your
---Scott Wannberg, 1/24/09
Get me up in the morning to
wash dishes brush teeth feed cat
scratch ass stare out the window
wonder why and what
At least I wonder don't I
Get on the phone with hungry ghosts
asking for money calling me sir
India outsourced peasant fool robot
stealing lives for corporate America
Stare at the tube and write things
Go fly a kite things slight things
email eat a snail step on a nail
stomach burns world turns
might as well
be quacking ducks
Out on the street meetin cretin
nearly run over by el spunky
surrounded by savages yelling scared
sunshine superman yacks about script
into unseen cellphone
isn't he impressive makes me
Wait in line with 80 stunned people
gifties weight shifties while amorphous
postal clerks take breaks
giggle and make very small talk stealing
time ain’t it fine
just makes me pine for
better days other ways Shakespeare plays
Drown in ego suffocate with self
hide from horror might as well turn off
Betelgeuse screaming jokes from the
Humans never get the punchlines
Too busy fighting terror speechifying
leechafying preachafying chicken frying
Facebook, book my face out of here
A face can be a book but a computer
screen is no face
And I can’t face most books
They are designed to screed, not read
They are bankbooks
Making fins for hucksters, not Huck
The last book I read was the last book I
Kindle is a swindle
Twitter makes me want gin and bitters
And someone told me he was tired of all
About how this has been the worst decade
of our lives
And how he’d been hearing this same moan
Get over it, people, he said, well
I’d like this guy to tell the people who
lost people in the desert follies
In Iraq and Afghanistan that they are
I’d like this guy to tell broken people
who lost their jobs to automatons in Sri
Lanka and the Phillipines to get over it
I’d like him to tell the people whose
people died because
They could not afford health insurance
to get over it
Wounds don’t heal, they scar, but then,
as George Harrison said, with antidote
time wounds all heels
It’s a time of ephemera, chimera, and
Everything is a substitute for substance
Demographers are the cartographers
antacid is the new acid
Pop a few and it’s way cool consuming
fool office pool
Drop a stool think its jewel you’re just
a ghoul out of fuel
Sloganeering domineering my eyes are
Reality shows, reality slows
Social network since you can’t get work
Media mavens are terrorist havens
Mexican mafia al qaeda being paraded
How’s it rated are you sated hell’s not
gated don’t you hate it?
Salute the stars and bucks
Stars and bucks forever
May I help the next guest?
My mind is the fresh daily grind
Decaf short two percent Americano
Senior citizen barista tip jar bank
Fatass cheap suit laptop cell-phone
short-sell frappuccino freelancer
Oh say can you see
the dying of the light
Political correctness porno erectness
Mayors and presidents blowing smoke
Makes me choke kills all hope
Say okeydoke have a diet Coke take a
you’re getting soaked
It’s all set-up for same old joke
Internet has privatized everybody’s ears
Everyone’s a hustler, a corporation,
Everyone is a
Every man is an island
I post, therefore I am
none can flee
Friends in Alabama Antarctica Alaska
And Bismark, Nice, and Raton Boca
You’ve never met them and never will
Nostalgia youtube is your pill
Beware the nice police
They will come in the night and
Steal your irony and kidnap your sarcasm
And hold your truth for ransom
And they will torture your reason with
Euphemisms and smiles and platitudes and
And waterboard your psyche until you
Like Larry King and Oprah and Tavis
Sometimes I find poetry in cigarette
butts that will soon
Go down storm drains and stop up dolphin
And sometimes I find poetry in blue
And the other day I found it in a
Dialogue bubble when I went to erase
And it said “All history will be
cleared. This action cannot be undone.”
And I thought it sounded like Nietzsche
And should have been read aloud by
As he gave that astounding speech in
All these moments will be lost in time
like tears in rain
child species walks and flops and sings
and drops dead
full of curious eyes and larcenous lies
Upright two-legged tool using fool
usurping and burping
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time greenhouse gassing
Humans are on the way out and winds on
the way in
Winds that will whistle through ancient
rock and petrified log
For no one to hear and no one to fear
Winds that no one will hustle or paint
of sing or ride
or rhapsodize with ecstatic soliloquies
Oh, tiger lily please
i didn't see all that much but boy do
my eyes hurt
in the hallowed building
that forgets where it lives
i saw a way of life
try to shove itself into a tube of
the teeth of the world
when love runs naked
through the battle
that dances up and down
the road out of town.
periodically the reaper fellow
comes through selling subscriptions
but frankly his pitch needs grease
and the navy can't tread the water
you shower in.
i didn't see all that much
but boy do my eyes hurt
every time you ask me to leap off the
i remind you i still haven't earned
resembling a wing
tell the rage
to act its age and smile
once every now and then
anything it can throw at me
i've already fielded
in a time
when popcorn fell from the sky
and wounds grew gardens.
going home time
finally slipped through the wire,
treat it gentle,
pass the veneer
ache no more
for at least a minute, anyhow
heard a rumor
we were being pulled back
to a rhythm
that wouldn't break us.
killers will eventually get monuments erected in
and the pigeons will rejoice
through impending snarling weather
asleep on the side of the road
you will find civilization
rolling dice in pitch black night
one more round for the survivors
wherever they crawled off to
the highway refuses to comp you
pay as you attempt
meteors aim their best profiles
at our hacienda
raise your vulnerable face
to their fire
tell them the story
you never finished
the one about the woodsmoke
the shiny people
and when its time
to wander upstairs
to a room that goes on for hours
place your heart on mine
make some music
they claim vaudeville is coming back
we'll bring down
blood and candle smoke
Here’s a rhyme
On a rainy day
When there’s no time
To while away
The drips drip down
And drizzle, too
And the clouds crowd
And the coffees brew
and hatch their schemes
And cats are furry
Asleep with dreams
Do ants ignore?
And do they snore?
Trailing in and out of particulate ant reality
Pushing sandgrain boulders aside
Do they know that they know only what they need to know?
People, though, are blessed with peepholes
Through which they can see
To shade and color their thoughts
With pointillist light
So why do they ignore
(And they do snore)
Trailing in and out of particulate people reality
Pushing the sandgrain world aside
Pushing the peepholes aside
Content to burrow inside anthills
And closet in caves
Of no thought or art
No daub, no sweep, no dab
Of synaptic brush
And scarcely a blush
A marvel to be unmarvelous
A miracle to be unmiraculous
A thinker to be unthinking
The ants have an excuse
Survivability is their be
But what of we?
Going to Townes
The latest failure
turned the curve
with the herd.
the last thing,
failed to compose
why don't you
to let it fade
to sepia like
Going to town
Old man of
No lines left to
time to slam
Call it a day
I've seen my day
no more struggle
for one last verse
I'm checking out
without a doubt
Will survey landscape
one last time, not a
pleasure trip, not even hip.
Down with the ship
Chilly winds blow
Closing the show,
last one tonight.
What does dancing have to do with anything?
What does anything have to do with dancing?
Prisoners of skeletons, unite!
When all is said and done, there will be nothing more to say
So do the exclamation point while the sun shines
Come on baby, let’s do the twist
Mashed potato yeah yeah yeah yeah
It’s the latest
It’s the greatest
But dancing is confused with groin and loin
By the banal and anal
When it can just as easily be done on paper
Or in silent thought
Or turn of brush, trill of flute, stroke of lute, expression
The trick of the steps is in forgetting the stepping
The trick of the thought is in forgetting the thinking
The trick of the being is in forgetting the being
The thought of the being is forgetting the tricking
Dancing is moot
Come on baby, let’s do the quark
Mashed electron yeah yeah yeah yeah
It’s the latest
It’s the fatest
Synapse bone’s connected to the sun bone
Time bone’s connected to the heart bone
Night bone’s connected to the moon bone
Poem bone’s connected to the math bone
Now hear the word of the Chord
Shake rattle and roll
From Betelgeuse to bell toll
Toe tap tree sap sky map noon nap
Blood pump eye blink live die sigh think
The best stuff of life is the best life of stuff
It’s all important and it’s all fluff
Trip on toes and bump your knees
And fall down waltzing if you please
Be a fool’s the golden rule
While hosted by the molecule
We were better off
When the sun went around the earth
And the seas had an edge
Where ships full of heart sailed off
And gods made the stars wink
We were better off
When books were read by monks
And there were no lights
And no galaxies tumbling through universes
Tumbling through other universes
And pictures were painted
And saints were sainted
We were happier to have a sky
Instead of infinity
And deities to control our destinies
Instead of DNA
Howling at the moon was science
Trees were television
Words were mathematics
We were better off
Frightened of the dark
---Charles Bogle 6/22/09
A Great Long While
It’s been a great long
fortune did smile
incantations and recipes
longer on file.
sides and participles
best to have no disciples
draw a following
sketches and explanations
chosen few, rent asunder,
amidst lightning and thunder
Assiduous students practice darshan
greet Ezra, Rimbaud, Don Van Vliet
Kleptomaniac kelp gatherers convene
beaches, cobblestone robbers
pebble unturned as tidepool
count galaxies amid sandy grains
against the grain, we embrace
and salute the sunset, it is
traditional ways that we have lost
fabricate new canons of the soul
Ginsberg and Snyder might
appreciate the noblisse oblige of our
rhetoric and rusted-out meteoric
resonance with the cosmic spheres anew
this and I’ve got you, callay calloo!
propensity of humanity toward density,
the obvious and reviling the propitious
curse and a conundrum without cure
choice for bliss, the devil blues abjure
for all, last chance, last dance,
aside your curses, select a path that’s sure
time left, so best play on through
-- Jack Oakes 2/19/09
What can you
imagine for a
Where can you
roar like lions
at the dawn,when
forgot, if not gone?
It's a new era
of hope, so we
are again told.
But I don't
is so easily
bought or sold.
Who are we to
is the infinite
trapped as we
are in this amber,
we call "years"?
What we know
is soon enough
caught by the tide
and swept to
realms well beyond
blood and tears
We'll all fall prey
to some malady,
all in the script,
your lines before
the curtain falls.
Meditation on the
it open windows
or just pass time?
Take a step back,
you want to be fed,
and patted on the head,
like some good dog
who fell from the sky
with a mission unclear.
Must you, great huntsman,
always be barking
up wrong trees?
Your friends and kin
will always embrace
you, provided you've
learned the right
dance steps and
keep in perfect pitch.
Beyond that, what is
there than this surge
of billions of souls
we deem humanity,
arising and dying
under the light
of ancient stars?
You think you've
found one star that
will grant each
wish, but you
for more wishes
when soon enough
all will be gone.
No raging at the
dying of days,
last train takes
you way out
west, far past
long gone are
faded away are
the songs you
your soul to.
that will be that.
-- Jack Oakes, 2/7/09|
You wonder at what
you’ve heard and you
of songs no longer sung
You await now until
the last bell is rung.
You’ve slowed down
the playback to the
point at which you
can hear the real words.
Then someone pulls
out the drum again,
the 11 dimensions
convolute and unfold,
leaving our slight lives
in the dust of stellar
---Jack Oakes 12/08
A Verse to You Archive