Is real?

The Other

Magikal smells, swirling clouds of
Thick aromatic fumes of exotic, spicy,
Doe eyed, nympho Women,
Churned out of bespectacled chimneys
And Orientalist pens; gushing forth
Tall tales about Dark people,
Harems, and Love, and Subjugation.
A haze of crazy trickster gods, their
Heretical squint-eyed oily men
And a generally ‘come-hither-to-fuck-me’ East.

And here we are sitting,
Wondering, is this us? If so, then
Where did all the Magik and the Temples
And snake-charmers go?
Must’ve slipped out of the scene,
Slithered away into obscurity
While we were still too young,
Too young then, compared to them;
And what do we know?
It’s why we read our histOree
In foreign books.
Our lineage interrupted thus...


So defiled, we shed our skin, unsure
Ashamed, impure, revealing more
Of what we thought was Our lore
But was in truth a lie, a cloak to hide
A festering sore. We undress to cure.
Meanwhile, to add insult to injury,
Our flag smiles sideways:
A green eyed, flashing white,
Toothy grin, like a crescent.
And one feels somewhat uncertain;
Does a plan lurk behind that starry eye?
Watching over us all -the while we’re
Voting for the lulls? A laughable Democracy?

"We’ve got no Magik Smells," we moan,
"We borrowed everything we own;
Beneath this flag we’re all alone..."

And just when we were getting wise
They rearranged!
The Spice has gone; The books have changed;
A bit differently we're now portrayed.
In a different light and a different shade:
In columns high of ash and dust
And fiery clouds and burning lust
-An awesome sight- Gun-powders rise!
Piercing through Their modern skies,
(We're bombing Them and taking lives...)

-Or thus their pens exoticize-

So is this us?
We're foriegn still to Ourselves, upon Their shelves,
Magik sells, it's true, we know, but
Smells must change when the price is right;
How does one fight the flow of ink?
When they've all been spreading the word on how,
A threat has just been sighted now:
A new -coming-hither-to-fuck-US- East
There is no way to tame this beast!



To Israel

Go ahead and kill my zebras
I have two donkeys white
I shall paint them black in stripes
And will children still delight

Plokij Pack (Kettle to Pot)

Yes, I say, it’s all ok, but
All that tiresome jumping
Will end with you asleep
And in your weary snoring slumber
When tie is loose and tongue dumber
Surely you shall see...
And perhaps then, friend,
You'll feel a fool
For having stomped upon my dreams.


The Carpenter and the Washing Lady

Inviolate is my cupboard; how it smiles. All those neatly folded laundered rolls of towels that I see, surface smoothened by a hand. It is standing on its feet, by the seat there next to which upon my desk is my own clock that has a face and you can see how well it shows that all the time of all the world is going round. It has a door that I must close and I must guard it really well or those old moths will sneak inside and there they’ll hide and leave a hole lot of mess.

And I can see with my own eyes, how the door smiles, when the light is bursting out and deep inside sitting there upon a chair working hard the working man of whom I am an only son and how he smiles when he can hear the creaking sound of my footstep and then the gods of squeaking hinges laugh and merry are. And merry are the pets and all the pots and all the pans and there are reasons why we can thus always smile but who knows how it all began?
There was a girl, who was in luck, and then a boy of whom I know who made with wood the very form within now which I keep my towels well insured against the moths and all the time that goes on round. How it smiles; my cupboard is inviolate.




The Auditorium

i deleted this poem
and i am not afraid
because i know that it was
the best one i ever made
and who would ever wish
to be remembered for one?
when i have all the stars
what would i with a sun?