Boy! Your eyes, wide open, was intensely trilling and humbling, simultaneously.
You brought a sense of flow and continuation that was absent from my years of intense struggle and isolation to define my “self”.
You were a reminder that mortality is as much real as a fallacy
of the limited representation of self as the ultimate reality.
That from time to time we may seek solace in the cycle of life-and-renewal
that brings a sense of stability to our representation of nature;
the eternal oak trees and roses.
I also realized that if all goes well, you’ll be there at my funeral
with your 10 or 15-year old, telling him/her stories of your idiosyncratic uncle.
And if not, you’ll be having pop-corns and watching Oscars,
or having sex and celebrating life,
as that mortal singularity that defines my existence dissolves and my body returns to the mother earth.
That which the traveler in his journey experiences will eventually shape his identity. So, here are the events as they unfold ....... © copyright by firstcomet
11/1/12
10/30/12
By moon, by Sun
I watched a thousand drops of rain
Pour into these hands again
Flooding very rivulet
Where destiny begins and confines
In love and indifference
In life and death
By moon
By Sun!
Pour into these hands again
Flooding very rivulet
Where destiny begins and confines
In love and indifference
In life and death
By moon
By Sun!
10/12/12
Facts
The fact that clouds scud across the sky is a fact
The fact that somebody just took a bite off an apple is a fact
The fact that this crisp air is adulterated with cigarete smooks is a fact
The fact that the flu shot has delivered the poetry virus into me is a fact
The fact that autum is here is causing the leaves fall,
falling leaves make the birds fly,
and flying birds must fly is a fact!
The fact that this autum sun is keeping me warm and cooling down my tea
reminds me of
The fact that the world is more complex than simple maxims and partial facts!
But, since when I smile, I smile in fact
The fact that your smile makes me smile is always a fact!
The fact that somebody just took a bite off an apple is a fact
The fact that this crisp air is adulterated with cigarete smooks is a fact
The fact that the flu shot has delivered the poetry virus into me is a fact
The fact that autum is here is causing the leaves fall,
falling leaves make the birds fly,
and flying birds must fly is a fact!
The fact that this autum sun is keeping me warm and cooling down my tea
reminds me of
The fact that the world is more complex than simple maxims and partial facts!
But, since when I smile, I smile in fact
The fact that your smile makes me smile is always a fact!
9/30/12
9/25/12
Fly
Fly down to that dungeon;
where no bird can fly,
where no window can bear
the unbearable weight of the wall!
Set up a stand;
where you may attend
to your restless mind,
and confront that which resides
in the dark dungeons of your mind!
Let alone that heart;
let it sing of no regard!
let it take those deep sighs,
let it tumble on its own rhymes
where no bird can fly,
where no window can bear
the unbearable weight of the wall!
Set up a stand;
where you may attend
to your restless mind,
and confront that which resides
in the dark dungeons of your mind!
Let alone that heart;
let it sing of no regard!
let it take those deep sighs,
let it tumble on its own rhymes
8/26/12
POETRY OF THE HOUR (or a little Monroe Moment)
Your voice was the poetry of the hour
Like the half moon
my heart half contentment
half pure desire!
Just as the ringing bells
reminded us
of another passing day....
We were being filled by feelings;
Of a summer night,
Of smoothie dates,
Of meeting of lovers,
Of melting of souls,
Of Life,
Of being Alive!
On top of the green hills,
where wind comes to pilgrimage of wild roses;
gently caressing one petal at a time,
in a moment of unbearable lightness,
barely long enough,
bare enough,
Heaven's promise of beauty and grace!
And I will Always remember
the color of your petal tiered dress.
Like the half moon
my heart half contentment
half pure desire!
Just as the ringing bells
reminded us
of another passing day....
We were being filled by feelings;
Of a summer night,
Of smoothie dates,
Of meeting of lovers,
Of melting of souls,
Of Life,
Of being Alive!
On top of the green hills,
where wind comes to pilgrimage of wild roses;
gently caressing one petal at a time,
in a moment of unbearable lightness,
barely long enough,
bare enough,
Heaven's promise of beauty and grace!
And I will Always remember
the color of your petal tiered dress.
8/13/12
friendship
"Do not be content with showing friendship in words alone. Let your heart burn with loving-kindness for all who may cross your path …" ~ Baha'i Writings
8/2/12
The American Mashed-Potato:
The egalitarian mindset of America- which for sometime now has been desperately trying to reconcile itself with the dominant economic ideology of Capitalistic Christianity, i.e., believing in salvation through financial success- has resulted in a cultural milieu of rotten-mashed-potatoes served on every party dining table:
Tiny little sprouts, a few white spots, and an oozing nasty brown liquid are good signs that a potato is not edible. Cook it for a while in a POT and smash it for a few decades under the heavily commercialized dominant pop culture of “get this cheap entertainment till you eventually realize your American Dream, You Bitch”, and the outcome is the 5-to-95 percentile of the youth in this country. Their favorite party activities: Movie Trivias; the ultimate intellectual teaser for this couch-potato generation. The ultimate fantasy of the liberated @Bostonian-girl is to suck on Oscar Wild’s (or some other 1880 counter-culture) #bonner-dick, as she shamelessly tweets it to the world. The Southern-Jewish-medical-school-intern-girl can’t wait to get on that time-capsule to finally meet Moses as he raises his “rod” and shoves it up her tight ass-hole. The white-blonde girl flirting with the muscle-douche is sure she’ll meet both of them at the local mall tomorrow; and yes, those extra small Ballerina Flats and Skinny Jeans are a bit loose on her delicate feet and thighs, but comfy nevertheless!
ps. In no event shall the American Mashed-Potato LLC, its affiliates and its third party providers be liable to you or any third parties for any illness or damages of any kind, direct or indirect, arising out of, or in any way connected with, your prolonged exposure to our cultural products. Consult the appropriate pharmaceutical drug companies or see a shrink for necessary tranquilizers before dropping by, wasting your youth and losing your sanity. We appreciate your business.
The egalitarian mindset of America- which for sometime now has been desperately trying to reconcile itself with the dominant economic ideology of Capitalistic Christianity, i.e., believing in salvation through financial success- has resulted in a cultural milieu of rotten-mashed-potatoes served on every party dining table:
Tiny little sprouts, a few white spots, and an oozing nasty brown liquid are good signs that a potato is not edible. Cook it for a while in a POT and smash it for a few decades under the heavily commercialized dominant pop culture of “get this cheap entertainment till you eventually realize your American Dream, You Bitch”, and the outcome is the 5-to-95 percentile of the youth in this country. Their favorite party activities: Movie Trivias; the ultimate intellectual teaser for this couch-potato generation. The ultimate fantasy of the liberated @Bostonian-girl is to suck on Oscar Wild’s (or some other 1880 counter-culture) #bonner-dick, as she shamelessly tweets it to the world. The Southern-Jewish-medical-school-intern-girl can’t wait to get on that time-capsule to finally meet Moses as he raises his “rod” and shoves it up her tight ass-hole. The white-blonde girl flirting with the muscle-douche is sure she’ll meet both of them at the local mall tomorrow; and yes, those extra small Ballerina Flats and Skinny Jeans are a bit loose on her delicate feet and thighs, but comfy nevertheless!
ps. In no event shall the American Mashed-Potato LLC, its affiliates and its third party providers be liable to you or any third parties for any illness or damages of any kind, direct or indirect, arising out of, or in any way connected with, your prolonged exposure to our cultural products. Consult the appropriate pharmaceutical drug companies or see a shrink for necessary tranquilizers before dropping by, wasting your youth and losing your sanity. We appreciate your business.
7/24/12
I have a Dream
“I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.”
King invokes a colourful landscape (the red hills of Georgia), stocks it with human characters (the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners) and gives those people something to do (sit down together at the table). Not until the end of the sentence does he deliver the abstract noun at its heart. Brotherhood, King shows us, is not just an empty ideal but a place, an action, a shared meal.
King invokes a colourful landscape (the red hills of Georgia), stocks it with human characters (the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners) and gives those people something to do (sit down together at the table). Not until the end of the sentence does he deliver the abstract noun at its heart. Brotherhood, King shows us, is not just an empty ideal but a place, an action, a shared meal.
7/15/12
Today
"Yesterday is but a dream, and tomorrow is only a vision. But a today well-lived makes every yesterday a dream of happiness and every tomorrow a vision of hope."
7/10/12
Do Not Stop Writing!
"Do not stop writing," he said
Since your blood is dark green
and it makes a good ink,
when you mix it
with your deep turquoise heart.
"Do not stop writing," he said
Since your pericardium is
broken, cut open on the top,
and it makes a good bote de tinta
Or else, it's of no use.
"Do not stop writing," he said
Since when I said goodbye,
when I cried and cried,
you looked through me
as if I was not there already ...
How do you wash your eyes
off your lackadaisical soul
if not by writing?
How do you cry out your heart
if not by scribing?
I felt how heavy it was
and you're no champion lifter
Just sit and pour it out
Since you are not a drifter
Write my friend, and do not stop writing!
Since your blood is dark green
and it makes a good ink,
when you mix it
with your deep turquoise heart.
"Do not stop writing," he said
Since your pericardium is
broken, cut open on the top,
and it makes a good bote de tinta
Or else, it's of no use.
"Do not stop writing," he said
Since when I said goodbye,
when I cried and cried,
you looked through me
as if I was not there already ...
How do you wash your eyes
off your lackadaisical soul
if not by writing?
How do you cry out your heart
if not by scribing?
I felt how heavy it was
and you're no champion lifter
Just sit and pour it out
Since you are not a drifter
Write my friend, and do not stop writing!
7/4/12
And so you were born
As of 2012
Between 12-23% of new mothers
Carried certain feelings with them:
They were happy and persistently sad,
As their hands caressed their babies’ vulnerable flesh
Their bodies extra sensitive to the little one’s needs
They slept through their cries
Excited and anxious
The heavens were made for all mothers;
Some lost in feelings of guilt and worthlessness
And the song writers wrote their songs:
Some will win
Some will loose
Some with always sing the blues
Maybe you have been born into such a life
Many years passed you by
And you wondered what just went wrong?
Since your life was normal, to you
Since your priors were in fact YOU …
Between 12-23% of new mothers
Carried certain feelings with them:
They were happy and persistently sad,
As their hands caressed their babies’ vulnerable flesh
Their bodies extra sensitive to the little one’s needs
They slept through their cries
Excited and anxious
The heavens were made for all mothers;
Some lost in feelings of guilt and worthlessness
And the song writers wrote their songs:
Some will win
Some will loose
Some with always sing the blues
Maybe you have been born into such a life
Many years passed you by
And you wondered what just went wrong?
Since your life was normal, to you
Since your priors were in fact YOU …
6/24/12
Alastor, or The Spirit of Solitude - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Alastor, or The Spirit of Solitude - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Nondum amabam, et amare amabam, quaerebam quid amarem, amans amare.
"I was not yet in love, and I loved to be in love, I sought what I might love, in love with loving."
Nondum amabam, et amare amabam, quaerebam quid amarem, amans amare.
"I was not yet in love, and I loved to be in love, I sought what I might love, in love with loving."
6/22/12
Judea Pearl - A.M. Turing Award Winner
Judea Pearl - A.M. Turing Award Winner
Daniel’s values of “uncompromised objectivity and integrity; insightful and unconventional perspective; tolerance and respect for people of all cultures; unshaken belief in the effectiveness of education and communication; and the love of music, humor, and friendship.”
Daniel’s values of “uncompromised objectivity and integrity; insightful and unconventional perspective; tolerance and respect for people of all cultures; unshaken belief in the effectiveness of education and communication; and the love of music, humor, and friendship.”
6/18/12
SYMPTOMATIC RELIEF OF THE CANTABRIGIAN SYNDROME
Call me the Master Hunter.
My blood is dark green.
The viscous elixir flows through my veins,
filling my lungs, tickling my sinus,
all the way to the pituitary.
In this town of overpriced
fries and smiles,
bars are crowded
with noisy characters,
spitting out words;
words but no language.
Playing notes;
notes but no music.
No hay banda! There is no band,
yet they dance to a band;
in their horrific struggle
for a late night escape
from an Edward Hooper painting.
As that old Harvard prof once put it:
On this side of the river
you suffer from “status insecurity,
incipient mononucleosis and sexual privation”;
an epidemic of this Cantabrigian syndrome strikes me.
The clock in the bar is ticking, only to
slowly DIG my tomb.
And I can hear a bluebird crying to get out.
Here, where 20% tip is the standard price to pay
for a farewell smile,
and a sense of belonging to the tribe; I sigh!
And ask the waitress to bring me the key
to the bluebird’s cage.
She brings back the card,
One last drink, and a PEN.
A smile spreads across her face,
as the wings of a butterfly!
The bird is set free, as I write these lines
Rushing out, singing a little ♫ ♫ ♫
It drops the dark green liquor, onto my pants.
Charles smirks.
I feel wet.
I close my eyes,
and the salty breeze caresses my face.
My boat is waiting,
so are my crew,
Fellow literary souls.
Lifting the anchor
into the unknown.
The catamaran standing tall,
the Great Wall
and the Niagara Fall,
I hear them call!
It’s time to sail
where the whales dwell.
Beyond those turbulent waters,
There is Baudelaire’s orderly and beautiful
promiseland of “Luxe, Calme et Volupté”.
The bluebird guides us,
but the beasts threaten our ship
and try to start a fire.
My HARPOON fights the
Moby Dicks, Kafka’s cats,
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
The bankers, the bosses,
The bullies, the Scrooges,
Human traffickers, drug dealers,
Economic advisors to the President,
Parties of elephants and donkeys,
Fake preachers of love and peace,
Average lovers, perfect haters,
Genius killers and racist police.
Ayatollahs and Popes,
Judgmental moralist priests,
Genocidal warlords of the Middle East.
Brain-washing radio commentators,
Demagogues and hypocrites,
The Exxon Mobiles, the Shells,
The OPECS, IMFs and G-8s all the way
To G-20s.
The professors, the smart Alecks, the PIs,
Anal bureaucrats,
Grant committee members,
Greedy landlords and landladies.
Those lost infernal spirits,
I send them all down to
Dante’s circling whirlpools of Hell.
An iceberg shakes my existence,
my comrades lost in the wreckage.
(No Rachael in sight coming to rescue this orphan.)
There remains a lone floating frozen soul.
A few mirage islands on the way,
casting away, casting away …
I wake up.
Back in the bar, my Ithaca,
rests in a corner of the cage
the weary bluebird.
I am offered a PINT.
The girl next to me takes a sip of
her cranberry juice.
It’s that time of the month,
In the middle of June,
In the middle of living.
I refuse and ask for a refill
of my green liquor.
Charles smirks, again.
I am the Master Hunter,
and I want it split in two glasses!
I have it in two glasses, to slowly melt
my frozen soul and dissolve it
in the minty liquid, for others to drink.
In this tragedy of the commons, which we play,
I open my heart to the Marys, Sarahs, Evas,
Elissas, Mirandas, Manjolas, Daniellas, Rachaels,
Rosies, Ginas and Monas;
transient relieves of my incipient mononucleosis.
But they take it and they cut it into pieces,
and mix the shaken pump of my existence,
in their favorite cranberry juice.
I am the Master Hunter,
and I went to Hell and back,
just to hunt you here tonight,
and find myself in this Purgatory;
like a sinner before the gates of Heaven.
Take my hand, my green fairy Beatrice,
my bitch, my doctor, my nurse,
as we navigate through these rivers
of bodily fluids, pheromones,
phlegm, sweat, oxytocin, and blood;
come with me Beatrice to this heavenly Hell,
as we disrupt the blissful repose of nothingness,
and attach value to life.
--The Master Hunter
My blood is dark green.
The viscous elixir flows through my veins,
filling my lungs, tickling my sinus,
all the way to the pituitary.
In this town of overpriced
fries and smiles,
bars are crowded
with noisy characters,
spitting out words;
words but no language.
Playing notes;
notes but no music.
No hay banda! There is no band,
yet they dance to a band;
in their horrific struggle
for a late night escape
from an Edward Hooper painting.
As that old Harvard prof once put it:
On this side of the river
you suffer from “status insecurity,
incipient mononucleosis and sexual privation”;
an epidemic of this Cantabrigian syndrome strikes me.
The clock in the bar is ticking, only to
slowly DIG my tomb.
And I can hear a bluebird crying to get out.
Here, where 20% tip is the standard price to pay
for a farewell smile,
and a sense of belonging to the tribe; I sigh!
And ask the waitress to bring me the key
to the bluebird’s cage.
She brings back the card,
One last drink, and a PEN.
A smile spreads across her face,
as the wings of a butterfly!
The bird is set free, as I write these lines
Rushing out, singing a little ♫ ♫ ♫
It drops the dark green liquor, onto my pants.
Charles smirks.
I feel wet.
I close my eyes,
and the salty breeze caresses my face.
My boat is waiting,
so are my crew,
Fellow literary souls.
Lifting the anchor
into the unknown.
The catamaran standing tall,
the Great Wall
and the Niagara Fall,
I hear them call!
It’s time to sail
where the whales dwell.
Beyond those turbulent waters,
There is Baudelaire’s orderly and beautiful
promiseland of “Luxe, Calme et Volupté”.
The bluebird guides us,
but the beasts threaten our ship
and try to start a fire.
My HARPOON fights the
Moby Dicks, Kafka’s cats,
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
The bankers, the bosses,
The bullies, the Scrooges,
Human traffickers, drug dealers,
Economic advisors to the President,
Parties of elephants and donkeys,
Fake preachers of love and peace,
Average lovers, perfect haters,
Genius killers and racist police.
Ayatollahs and Popes,
Judgmental moralist priests,
Genocidal warlords of the Middle East.
Brain-washing radio commentators,
Demagogues and hypocrites,
The Exxon Mobiles, the Shells,
The OPECS, IMFs and G-8s all the way
To G-20s.
The professors, the smart Alecks, the PIs,
Anal bureaucrats,
Grant committee members,
Greedy landlords and landladies.
Those lost infernal spirits,
I send them all down to
Dante’s circling whirlpools of Hell.
An iceberg shakes my existence,
my comrades lost in the wreckage.
(No Rachael in sight coming to rescue this orphan.)
There remains a lone floating frozen soul.
A few mirage islands on the way,
casting away, casting away …
I wake up.
Back in the bar, my Ithaca,
rests in a corner of the cage
the weary bluebird.
I am offered a PINT.
The girl next to me takes a sip of
her cranberry juice.
It’s that time of the month,
In the middle of June,
In the middle of living.
I refuse and ask for a refill
of my green liquor.
Charles smirks, again.
I am the Master Hunter,
and I want it split in two glasses!
I have it in two glasses, to slowly melt
my frozen soul and dissolve it
in the minty liquid, for others to drink.
In this tragedy of the commons, which we play,
I open my heart to the Marys, Sarahs, Evas,
Elissas, Mirandas, Manjolas, Daniellas, Rachaels,
Rosies, Ginas and Monas;
transient relieves of my incipient mononucleosis.
But they take it and they cut it into pieces,
and mix the shaken pump of my existence,
in their favorite cranberry juice.
I am the Master Hunter,
and I went to Hell and back,
just to hunt you here tonight,
and find myself in this Purgatory;
like a sinner before the gates of Heaven.
Take my hand, my green fairy Beatrice,
my bitch, my doctor, my nurse,
as we navigate through these rivers
of bodily fluids, pheromones,
phlegm, sweat, oxytocin, and blood;
come with me Beatrice to this heavenly Hell,
as we disrupt the blissful repose of nothingness,
and attach value to life.
--The Master Hunter
Fernando Pessoa (1888 – 1935 Lisbon, Portugal)
Fernando Pessoa (1888 – 1935 Lisbon, Portugal) Follow your destiny, Water your plants, Love your roses. The rest is shadow Of unknown trees. Reality is always More or less Than what we want. Only we are always Equal to ourselves. It’s good to live alone, And noble and great Always to live simply. Leave pain on the altar As an offering to the gods. See life from a distance. Never question it. There’s nothing it can Tell you. The answer Lies beyond the Gods. But quietly imitate Olympus in your heart. The gods are gods Because they don’t think About what they are.
4/15/12
3/8/12
Mehr Lecht!
Contained in a Boxed space
No name, no sounds
Where is the light?
Mehr Lecht! Mehr Lecht!
A reaching of hands,
Fingers meet, exploring
Grasping, curling, twisting
Grabbing, holding, embracing
A moment’s worth eternity!
No name, no sounds
Where is the light?
Mehr Lecht! Mehr Lecht!
A reaching of hands,
Fingers meet, exploring
Grasping, curling, twisting
Grabbing, holding, embracing
A moment’s worth eternity!
2/26/12
Laughing with Kafka: DFW
"Alas," said the mouse, "the world is growing smaller every day. At the beginning it was so big that I was afraid, I kept running and running, and I was glad when at last I saw walls far away to the right and left, but these long walls have narrowed so quickly that I am in the last chamber already, and there in the corner stands the trap that I must run into," "You only need to change your direction," said the cat, and ate it up.
That the horrific struggle to establish a human self results in a self whose humanity is inseparable from that horrific struggle. That our endless and impossible journey toward home is in fact our home.
That the horrific struggle to establish a human self results in a self whose humanity is inseparable from that horrific struggle. That our endless and impossible journey toward home is in fact our home.
2/5/12
1/30/12
Terence
"Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto"
"I am a man, I consider nothing that is human alien to me."
"I am a man, I consider nothing that is human alien to me."
1/14/12
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