History.

I dont know which thing hurts more
The extended hand or the drum sealed door
Wounds burn and sting and bring pain ever more
Tidings that ring singing dark metaphors.
I’m on my own and alone this New Year
The flesh and bone of a crone lives here
Long gone is the thrown of the insincere
I sit alone chilled to bone feeling insecure.
A forgotten vow now drowns out the past
An unbidden sound pounds in wicked contrast
A downtrodden clown bound to eventually laugh
A filth sodden town crumbling down when I pass.
I don’t see how things perceived
Can cast the runes of possibility
At last I do grasp the doom you conceived
The fact that you belong to my history.

Dumbly Mused.

My mind reeled sinfully as my gaze found its lazy way upon,

your eyes drilled into me through the haze of shady recognition,

how the shadowy cobwebs of distant times,

have smeared many edges and blurred out the lines,

but the instant I saw you,

and knew you saw me too,

the moment I bowed my head in gratitude,

it seemed a flash of lightning,

something jarring and striking,

took my knees from under me,

so I dumbly mused hungrily,

on distant things resurfacing in plenitude,

an emotionally messy,

however, very sexy catastrophe,

was the spark of fire ignited by memory,

was the bolt of energy flashing between,

in its own way defining the physical being,

in that instant recollection,

of that distant connection,

when our bodies intertwined nakedly,

and our times were confined to history,

while our eyes were still quite blind,

and we couldn’t hear a thing,

the sense of touch,

was left to us,

the warm rush of skin in flannel sheets,

and in that moment,

so long later down the line,

our eyes got to touch one last time,

I touched yours,

yours touched mine,

and you remembered me.

 

Just a One-Page-Entry.

We…
you and me…
it turned out –
not quite so,
meant to be.

Feet…
carry me…
right on by –
the desire,
for familiarity.

Me…
I’m angry…
at the truth –
and the lies,
so eye-opening.

See…
the humanity…
finally drain –
of these veins,
I stand empty.

Be…
my history…
more vague –
with each day,
a memory.

Buried.

It was just last week,
he claimed “now, more than before”…
that his heart stood true.

In reality,
there’s me, and at least one more…
what am I to do?

Unsurprisingly,
all the drama is a bore…
unbecoming, too.

So don’t tread on me,
you are not a King, anymore…
I’d have followed you.

It hurts me to think,
of the dreams of mine and yours…
buried in our youth.

Now – decidedly,
it’s time to let those dreams go…
and sleep with the truth.

Ancient Proverbs: 14 – The Persians.

“Even the hand of compassion is stung when it strokes a scorpion.”
~ Persian Proverb

Darius Army Iran ArtifactsOne of my very favorite dudes from ancient history would most definitely be Cyrus II, the first Achaemenian King of the Persian Empire AKA “Cyrus the Great”. The story of one the most advanced and lucrative civilizations from ancient history began with him in 559 BC; and his dynasty stayed in control for over 200 years after his death.

Notable Ancient Proverbs: 2 – The Crow.

“Man’s law changes with his understanding of man.
Only the laws of the spirit remain always the same.”

The name of the tribe, Apsáalooke [ə̀ˈpsáːɾòːɡè], meaning “children of the large-beaked bird”, was given to them by the Hidatsa, a neighboring Siouan tribe; they became known in English as ‘the Crow’.
Other tribes also refer to the Apsáalooke as “crow” or “raven” in their own languages as well.
One thing that has always stuck with me about the Crow is something I saw when I was very small and could barely read: an account by a Crow Warrior about his home and homeland. He wrote something along the lines of:

“The Creator put my people right where it is most perfect for us to be…protected by mountains and hidden by valleys. When someone is here, all is well; but if you travel out of my home in any direction, trouble will find you.”

Running Distantly.

I remember these things,
the late afternoon’s lulling,
“G.I. Joe – A Real American Hero”,
the ‘Three’s Company’ opening theme,

the sound of an overhead airplane’s engine,
fading away to the south, as the evening draws in,
the sounds of a lawnmower, running distantly,
cutting down grass and sending the scent to me,

I remember the pipes in the walls that would moan,
a surefire way to know when someone was home,
the sound that the front gate’s dragging board would make,
the dogs in the back that always scared the Pizza Boy away,

Anticipation of dinnertime and seeing my Father’s face,
every evening, the hope of seeing him walk into our place,
the leaves skipping up our walkway alongside his tired feet,
the Gods blessed me with a Dad so dedicated and hard-working,

these things I remember, they are mine to recall,
only because of the good I had – my Dad, after all,
and I’ve never been sorry in the slightest amount,
for basking in his warmth before it was snuffed out.

Winner Takes History.

It was in the flash of a light,
in the blink of one eye,
in the crash of a thunderous wave,
by the shoreline’s firelight,
in the midst of the telling,
of a horribly painful lie,
with the ease of the sun’s,
rising once again, bright –
that I found myself wondering,
amidst the lows and the highs,
there I be: ever-questioning
and inquiring as to the solidity,
of the truth behind the truest things –
the tales of many kings and queens,
in rule over this primordial life,
who was wrong or right?
which was the winner,
of which meaningless fight?
a winner doesn’t choose,
who was wrong or right –
the winner tells the story,
of the loser that’s left behind,
and so – history is told,
letters – big and bold,
no matter, the accuracy involved,
just another perk for those,
left standing on their toes.

As We Know It.

I have been re-reading the 800+ page book, Carrion Comfort by Dan Simmons, in my limited downtime i.e. lunch breaks and smoke breaks etc. This book (in-coincidentally written by my all-time favorite author) is so profoundly elaborate and intricately designed throughout; historically rich and speculatively mind-bending in content, it unfailingly causes the reader to re-evaluate certain pieces of “history” as we ALL think we know it.
I was wondering to myself, upon actually beginning to read the emotionally jarring first chapter again, what it is about this author’s works that enthrall me like they do; and I realized it is exactly what I described above about this specific story, that envelopes me in each one of his stories: the bold twisting of “facts” and “historical events” as we know them, and always have.
The Hyperion Cantos (my all-time favorite literary saga) attracted my attentions, and has held them ever since, for the very same reasons. The span of time that Dan Simmons is notorious for including in most, if not all, of his stories is difficult enough in itself to wrap one’s mind completely around. He tends to create FAR FUTURE science fiction, CENTURIES old speculative fiction, and incorporates numbers, the ancient mysteries, Romance and Victorian Eras, with a sprinkling of specific historical characters from Jesus to JFK. His writings are so infused with cross-references and obscure connections to various things throughout time and space.
As an example:
The 800+ page I am reading now is called Carrion Comfort, which was a direct reference to the celebrated Victorian Era Poet and Priest: Gerard Manley Hopkins, who designed the piece as a Fuck You to God during one of his infamous melancholies. There is no reference at all throughout the storyline of carrion birds or scavengers – on the contrary, the plot revolves around the loose concept of “Mind Rapists” – far from any scavenger. So, to any true lover of puzzles or literature, this strange title prompts the reader to further enlightenment through the age-old sense of curiosity. And THAT, is what makes a damned good writer, in my opinion.

Let’s Go Home.

lets go home

If You Believe in “Thanksgiving” as a Reality – YOU ARE A SHEEP.

Custer's Last View

Custer’s Last View

 

Not sorry, this my opinion – like it or don’t:

As a (half-bred Shawnee) Native-American, Thanksgiving as Holiday has always brought seriously conflicted sensations up from the deepest recesses of my blackened heart, without fail. I have never been able to really put a finger on why…but the older I get and the more that I recognize the bullshit “history” we are taught as “Americans” in school, the more clear it becomes to me.

I wasn’t there, obviously; I have NO clue what REALLY went down between two highly on edge and vigilant parties that supposedly bonded over a huge and plentiful turkey feast at a picnic table somewhere in the country, way back in the day – but I can say with certainty that it COULD NOT HAVE POSSIBLY BEEN THE WAY IT HAS ALWAYS BEEN DESCRIBED TO CHILDREN IN GRADE SCHOOL.

Come on, now…we’re all adults here now…

You expect me to believe that there were not tribe folk scattered thoroughly amongst the trees surrounding the picnic table to which their kinsmen/women were likely being forced to “share” a meal of their own with strangely clothed white folks that seemed to appear out of nowhere? I don’t.

 

You expect me to believe that the Tribes tell a story anywhere similar to the Americanized version of what was more accurately a strong-armed robbery in some sense or another? I don’t. I have thoroughly researched the OTHER SIDE of the coin on this topic; I have heard the words with my own ears – coming from people who pump the same blood as my own.

This holiday should be renamed as: “Gimme that. That’s Mine Now, Bitch.”

It’s a fabricated BULLSHIT HOLIDAY that epitomizes American Capitalization at it’s very bluest and whitest. Fuckers.