30 April 2013, Seven New Poems and Seven Old Ones


You bought in
to the principle (al)
that profit is king, and this
was noble
thinking, considering

what the market has
done for you (and me?) but long
ago, after your
brother and I met square-on
in a chicken match

over on
the west side of the
chosen lake, Canandaigua,
Jack put his
foot down on any

with Stuber, except maybe
as client, from a
distance, “managed” once a year
regardless of trite

order to
sell. So we met once again
floating your
fortieth birthday,
but I let you have

your day, skipped
Thirstys, it being your joint
not ever
mine. I’ve done well for
labor, planet earth.


Snow flies through closing
door, bark peels
away from fire log
placed on embers entices
old friend to new play.

Cross country
ski, or boat purchase,
defense on Navy’s
hockey club,
barefoot skiing on

the lake where your Dad
bought the house
my Dad built with his
bare hands. Luck, eh? And down
to Rake’s to fill up,

campout on Squaw, the
small island inn such
shallow green
on a lake of deep blue.

Smokestacks for
the environment, roller
blades for hot
weather exercise.
Children mostly grown,

and the joy
of being a unit for
as long as
possible in the
human realm. Peaches.


Soccer star,
hoop magician, stunned
when A/C gave you all you
could handle
since I was on the

victorious team.
Ah, but I the bench
warmer, was
not you, star center.
What’s new in the lab or out

in the field?
Far astray from our
Barnard Track days, away from
wedgies to
Goldberg, chasing Kim,

Screwing up party
plans by calling on
the day of
the gathering, I
still remember between- the-

leg passes,
wicked slap shots, your first time
stories, as
they were first in a
neighborhood full of

playboys, but none worked harder
to attain
sports fame. Long lost, it
could take time to know…


Commissioner, how
did that chance
to save your family land
work out? Lewis and
Clark sure did

not steal land
as they went, and our
friend Jefferson ended up
millions in debt back when a
dollar was a good

week’s pay. So what of
these bailed out
bankers while austerity
rules the land? Got a
new plan that

can save a
town, village, household?
That’s it! Stay local, make a
place that works outside the damned
globalized, profit,

fascist hold
on the planet. True, people
would have to form new
cooperative farms,

urban style
and barter, to stay
clear of tax-
as-war-support, or
we’re all culpable.


You, thespian, moved
not just into my building,
but down the hall. Showed
up at a party in a
gold Lemay mini that gave

Lee a run for his
money, yet
his hip-high
out-cake did ice the fact

Ben preferred to break
down his own door than
to risk a couch sleep
among such company. Then
the novel-length text message

we had about the
you caused to
yourself when first struck
then annoyed, then let loose by

dreamy one,
only to make eyes at an
Irish soft-
eyed wonder, only
to lose out again,

just in time
for Ben to re-enter, so
to speak, whisk
you from Brooklyn to
Boston. Stay young Q.


The Red Lion Inn,
no matter
who owned it, or ran
Country Curtains,
or who tended bar

in the basement tin-
ceilinged, red velvet, Stormin’
Norman and
Susie-styled stage size,
could never equal

the pure New England
touch of its
ultimate man-of-
the-house, Church
Davis. His navy

blue blazer always
welcoming guests from the porch
to the round
tables-for-ten served
family style. Old

briefly lost then regained your
finesse in
dealing with things
like the stolen glass

in some alcoholic’s small
Stockbridge was/is a
Rockwell/Davis thing.

Lorant Forizs

Your wife wrote

a response to a Christmas

card to let me know you had

died.  You, the swimmer, the one

who escaped

Andropov, leaving


eating out of  a

can, if at all, and

making it to the


Already wise, before “The

Loops and Interfaces of

Man” appeared: you managed to

convince an

inveterate, cheap

liar that

my main goal in life

was to seek the truth.

Not once did  you blurt


stuff, like it was myself I’d

have to fool

to become a truth

sayer.  I’m less off,

less rattled,

less depressed, more able to

love, thanks to

you.  And you liked my

paintings, no kidding.


Fall orange winters
down to riverbed not yet iced
but dry from drought.


Labor Day 2012

Today’s troops include cross back suspendered shorts
strutting hard over very high heels with a tight fitting black
cotton shirt barging through the usual suspects: schoolgirl
uniforms, parental friends carrying children, well-suited cell
phone salespeople handing out glossy paper quickly discarded
to the messy square bricks of Shinae, the sexy, color-coordinated
monster friend strolling zone over here in Gwangju. Bobby coifs,
sculpted boys with well-done girls, now a solo lady a complete
rarity in this duet-driven land. Hard to believe the gay scene
is microscopic with so many mono-sexual walk-mates. Anyone
even two inches off normal is way off here, but the ultimate
eye-opener now appears: shorts, a deep blue shirt and fluorescent
green fake suspenders that are sewn on at the top and clip on to the
bottom of shirt or shorts depending on cup size. Eighty-eight cent
coffee deal awaits on Labor Day (May 1 here) celebrated the same
day Russia does. Russian picked the day to a series of successful
1889 strikes in the USA. By switching it to September in the US
the real history is lost, but not on Helena, the star professor
who wants to write her way out of Russia now, in order to join
this street club, as a social member, for four months come June.

Fog portends hot day
at harvest in Korea.
Some lose, some
win; the best share crops.
The worst take without working.

There is no
limit on mother’s
endurance for her
children, likewise men’s
penchant for war. Churches tote

the conservative
line, thus expanding greedy
infusing evil their flocks

can live by.
Just as many still
retain peace, love and
understanding, so
brotherhood itself fights as

hard as the
abused mothers, choir boys and
aware children who
work, beg, plead, kill

to survive
without sanctuary in
villages torn by
drought and starvation.

Gang Bang

Molly, from upper-middle class London
“joined” a gang due to family arguments and
too much academic pressure at home. She was
forced, emotionally, to seek love, and used sex
with violent gangsters to replace a hug and
soothing parental interface. Instead of “School
Without Walls” (see Rochester, NY) she’s passed
her rite, and this has gone on for decades, but as
soon as she starts her own sexual adventures
she’s demonized as “sket,” Jamaican slang
for slut. This only differs from fraternizing
and sorority-izing in comfort level, as both groups
excel at manipulation, winner-take-all, libertarian
capitalism, unfettered by law, rules or regulations
while free to beg trillions when their Usury schemes
fail then cripple the blue collar backbone over here
in the land of polarization, as in Ralph Nader, Noam
Chomsky and Michael Moore against O Reilly,
Gingrich and Palin. On paper this is a smear,
but in reality we’re as fucked as Molly ever was.

Green M & Ms

Rain rolls past silver “Folly,” clouding chances
for ballgame fun, distributing spring water to
farmers as four suits two bondage-heeled, well-
perfumed, mini-skirted forty-somethings, still
beautiful, now trading digits, and this speaks
louder than the announcer who ushers in another
round of K-Pop that will forever mark this
off-trampled peninsula as being silly capitalists.
As in all things, Korea has copied a product (70s
disco) and repackaged it with brilliant marketing:
tall, thin singers prancing around in, uh, mini-
skirts. This behavior so enamors practitioners
of good taste: Chinese men, and the French, that
K-Pop is now making inroads in Korean-American
neighborhoods as well. “Baby one more time,” and
similar lyrics may not change the world but could
nudge shy boys into action in countries that still have
them. Note to audience: just ask, you never know
what he or she will say. Two ladies answer phones
at the same time, one walks out providing noise relief.

Gwangju Christmas 2012

Sa Sun and
Beop Jeong trusted deeds
over words even if their
words were so well known.
Christmas rolls

into town and for
true believers and
novices alike, simple
saves lonely souls who

might have slipped away.
So raise a glass to Jesus,
the uniter of

Even if the deeds
of many devote
Christians lay people in their
graves via Lee Myung
Bak’s water cannons,
Bush’s Abu Graib.

A toast then
to righteous Christians, in hope
that they can
help their priests see the
error of their ways.

Nothing in
the bible sanctions rape
of choir boys,
or Falwell’s use of
coffers to back the

Hold hands and shed a tear for
three thousand
cultures lost when greed
filled “Christians” went

across to
steal the land from better men
and women
who loved the land. Rise
Christians, take a stand!

April 28,2013, Two New Poems,Two Old Ones, Copyright Doug Stuber


You got quite a ride
the day the cat flipped
over and I wasn’t yet
adept at righting
a capsized sail boat.

You, the first
in a long series
of “could-have-beens” have been the
hardest to clear from

brain. Canandaigua
remains your home, and
if, as they say, heart dictates
where our homes are then
this is another

choice not made,
strike two, if you will.
This heart first throbbed for you; yet
I never moved the
Way you had

To have me
move, even uttering that
jewels” line. Legend
has it another

trumpet man
entered, but I still have the
letters you
sent to Holderness.
All’s well, good to hear.


Described by Janz as
adolescent,” but art is
an adult sphere for
those who end

being in
among the swarms of
color-flingers, bright
bulb idea guys,
women with

a brush to grind, you
still wear the
fedora, still hang, Weaver
Street itself knows your
foot beat, smell

laugh. The Louvre
Shack was an art piece
in itself, socked-assed
puppets, some nudist
handed his

to sophomoric coeds who
snapped away
anyway. Your stash
of music was one

of many
lures ladies young and old could
rely on.
Dennis Oppenheim
never had this life.


New Ones Above, Old Ones Below


“Excuse me
are you from New York?
I thought I saw you
there in May
or June.” “No Shanghai

but I visited
Manhattan in June, maybe
you did see me there.”
This is how
the opening lines

are played in
his head, but chess is
simple compared to
size, culture
generation gap.

He’s up, the ruse is
a refill at Foster’s in
Chapel Hill two days
after a
home loss too…

But dude boy
is not about to lose this
one, no; cup
in hand he weaves through
tables, stops, pelvis

eye level
as she peers over laptop.
“Yes,” she says,
“Excuse me, are you
from New York?”
“No, but…”


Drenched girls scope
Uchiro, the road
that defines
Chonndae from Humun
scholars from hunters.

Style points must
be made at all times,
now Burberry umbrellas,
black tights and
high-heeled rubber boots.

My love struts
confidently rain
or shine, her
new smile displays what
her mouth cannot tell.

spreads to all who know
her, making
this a spring she will
remember as love

unfolds, brings
new horizons into view.
She may be
only seeing them
in isolation,

but this is
when we need the breathing space
the most, is
it not? Time to see

April 27,2013 II, Two new Ones, Two old Ones,Copyright Doug Stuber


He organizes
volunteers for Sung Bin, the
for girls, young women
here in Gwangju. Former man

with “wheels to the stars,”
everyone feels his
presence when
he enters a room.
Often a room to

raise money for yet
another cause, or quaffing
water at
Alleyways, he’s a
miracle in shades, glad to

be here. He caught the
Gwangju spirit and
as both thank you and
diligence, thus a

card Gwangjuvian, is one
of two I
know who lost daughters.
Such unexpected

sadness was
debilitating only
a short time,
smoothly he returned
to cheer us all up.


Her mane, that
of a Chow Chow, and
DSL beauty
that defines
modern Korea,

walks into Kino
on her birthday, no less, to
celebrate via
of old music stars

she hardly
knows. If the place had
been full she
and her friend
may have stayed longer,

but she’s on to you
and that’s unusual in
a place where square has
a quantum
definition, the

layers of
which can be hidden by light
blue mini
skirt, open
philosophy, then

exposed first
by nondrinking status, then
confirmed as
banter meant to spark
pushes out the door.


New Above,Old below


Does one blushing smile,

innocent in its attempt

to say hello and

good-bye at

once qualify as


Or must there be some


underpinning that

jumps to the fore?  Peace

means adult red face

as an opportunity

to blossom, and a


where time is itself

worth noting

on this bloody earth,

starved, parched, war-torn tears

flowing, cruelty-

filled type of planet.

So if you’re

munching on plastic chairs at

some seven

eleven, able

to watch life flow by

for an hour,

imagine just how good you

have it, when

in front of backdrop

that’s not so easy.


Dark mountain causes
purple fog
minutes away from
being burned away
as assorted insects use

legs to chirp morning
calls in shady breeze
that soon yields to heat
that welcomes
blanket picnics and

daring lovers to
disrobe just
meters off beaten
path on Sunday in
homage to the creator.

Earlier two girls
crossed paths three times with
the man: bus, store, street.
Laughing at
coincidence, they

just miss a
fourth, which would have caught him full
thrust with
his adventuresome hot
baby-doll. But, just

as they might
have heard the two, a pheasant
squawked, flew low
overhead, scared the
two, who ran away.

27 April 2013 One New Poem,One Old, Copyright Doug Stuber


Kyle, you man
among men,
your musical taste
changed with the L.A. scene, sun
setting on strip clubs,

but your guitars soar,
the best at what you
do is collaborate with
lyricists, punch up
would-be dull tunes with

rhythm and
lead riffs. You
break into some of
the most unexpected lines
since Zappa, so don’t do

in music what you’ve
done in love. Find the
driving beat that sets you free.
Free to explore your
gift, free to achieve

what some god
of music must have wanted:
notes many will not
ever forget. Push

your own ass,
or I will come there, wallet
in hand, to
ensure your best shot
is taken. Gadflies?


Dunhwa gets
water-heating pot,
slips on orange hand-
knit or crocheted
slipper socks, rattles
cups behind drawn shade, then she

reappears, uncurls
new rice paper paintings for
to see. He wants them
all, picks one.

Her kindness
comes from magic heart
connected to roots
sunk in old markets:
men without eyes, Eve creates,

men think, women birth,
are attached to earth. First woman
means new life
but paint dries in so
many ways:

over and
over to find the right flow.
Dunhwa hides
nothing, moves forward,
discovers her path

as she goes,
creates as a woman should,
as one who
is directed by
universal tug.

April 26, 2013 Five New Ones and Five Old Ones,Copyright 2013 Doug Stuber


Banana pudding
shows up as a solo act
on a stool at Club
drinking, laughing. No

longer twisted by
what was one of the
notable break-ups
in that it was so
personal, yet the

band held together.
Beehive-professional, she

garnered equipment
knowledge from
her brother’s bassist,

but never could or
would blow the time to
figure the guy (me)
out. So surrounded
by musical clowns,

those who could
and could not stand the rigors
of shit gigs
in order to get
even one Geffen

CD deal.
But SCOTS is forever. She
met him at
a Butthole Surfers
show, quit school, voila.


Oh how could
you remember all
the words to the three hundred
songs we chose
from? In no way a

one-nut, but
mixed nuts can of love,
available to
any woman who so much
as glanced your

way. Oh how
we young men admired
your ability, only
out-gunned by
Charles, in the business,

ever so
delicate, of kind
serial one-night
de-flowerings. If you’ve been
settled down,

do not let
her read this. It is you gift
of singing
that matters. So few
are lucky with this

Fewer still form the right band
that catches
on. It’s now a “Psy”
world, with dancing girls.

Virginia Decker

She was the
consummate hostess,
usually to cats and the
scallywag, but not

to be messed
with, a true friend to
all, and anti-war
activist, and late-in-life
lover of

my third eye,
third oldest friend, and
man of letters whose heart got
the best of
his formidable

brain power.
Oh she could drink back
in the day, dance and
sing all night, keep odd hours and
almost not

care who cared.
onetime she painted her house
and we all
would have lost bets on
that happening. Where

are her type
of neighborhood nurses now?
How can we
raise our children to
share the way she did?


Peace corps professor,
one of a handful
of Mikooks here in
Gwangju in
the early eighties, he must

have fallen in love,
been able
to convince her the wonders of
the Shenandoah
Valley were

worthy of a move,
raised two daughters and
remained a baseball
fan, even
if saddled with the Twins. His

thesis was brave: John
no less. I desperately
want to read the type
of poems

this poster-
man writes, but perhaps he does
not write them,
he devours and then
analyzes them,

his theories with others, the
perfect choice,
the-year, and happy.


Youngest of eight, not
surprisingly Latin, but
acting the part of
charmed American high school
romantic well past your teen

years, your heart,
full of music and
movies, great ideas, and
now one of
the top three fathers

in Durham, if not
North Carolina, you gave
up your shot for a
while, but it’s time to regain
your place amongst unchained

Your back burner done
burnt the pot through, starting a
fire in your
brain that no hose can

put out. Much
more of this self-denial
could be the
cause of permanent

Huh? You? No longer giving
A rat’s ass
About your own voice?
Please sat it ain’t so!


New Ones above, Old Ones Below


When facing the loss
of job, home,
family, each word
uttered counts
on spiritual levels.

Save others,
mend yourself later.
Use time once wasted hurting
your lost love to grow
a new heart.

Admit to errors,
but do not
give up everything
just to save
a life full of misery.

Reach out to
friends, give yourself a
pat on the back. Stop tears by
finding new outlets
for your love.

Keep anger
away from your children, but
speak to them
about challenges.
they will help solve them.

Hard work can
solve problems, save love, retain
some aspects
to ease transition.
Keep children happy.

Gentle Handler

Lowell hands out cameras to women whose
insanity banished them to a shelter few visit.*
Lo and behold, instamatic masterpieces, a snapshot
never meant so much, as the ladies chronicle their
neighborhood, put their stamp on it, and smile genuinely,
as if they were part of the mainstream. By giving
in to their sadness, anger, frustration, these creative
humans have survived outside society’s box, but for too
long jailed as a means of keeping them from reminding
worker bees that everything is not hunky-dory
for everyone. Unleashed, freed of their routines,
their normal impulse to interact is rekindled, as the
first five sentences are script from the project, not who
ran away leaving mother-and-child to fend for themselves.

Staunch Cedar
encircled by vines
continues up though
frail, thin-boughed,
dwarfed yet resplendent.

Winter sun
illuminates triangular
patch for two
herons fly
minutes before clouds.

Poplar whip
sprouts canopy
in January.
Bright autumn
brown remains aloft.

Ten pines sport
pink chop ribbons, so our Cedar
will be rid
of her fierce
old competitor.

But will the
logging crew spare the creature?
Her trunk is
less than ten inches
from tomorrow’s saw.

New spot-lit
needles oscillate light as
if controlled
by adolescent
prankster Koalas.

Cactus Mints

“Don’t cry because it’s over, be happy that it happened.”
(Be happy that is was once good, or that it ended?)
If pushed, or by your own courageous design, you take
a month off and find stress level relieved by fifty
percent or more, the trick is to keep that level when
she returns. Tip: keep your mouth shut, attend to
every detail even if your mate won’t notice: the clean
tile grout in the upper reaches of the shower stall.
Resist looking at, or introducing yourself to the Asian
Claire Danes-alike when she walks slowly into and
out of view. Allow cold concrete to freeze your ass
and smile as her lateness becomes an absence. This
fleeting annoyance provides the impetus to continue your
series of lecture/inspiration poems; though not as polished
as Beop Jeong, they may one day be read by a kindred bereft
lonely-heart. One clot or another passes through your left
lung while dancing at Bubble Bar. This causes a momentary
scrunched face look that some wild woman in a Budweiser shirt
actually notices. Then your shoulder’s tapped by JY, the long
lost gift-giving friend. She’s happy now. Hey wait, so are you!


Can lavender push aroma past these troubles to reach

olfactory solutions where bullets make none?  Are cherries

enough food to alleviate starvation in North Korea?  Can

back rubs cure mutual distrust between the haves and

the have-nots?  Is a visit to a Chagall able to change

a despot into  Gandhi?  Can jokes, good jokes, turn

an angry mob into farmers?  Can cello lessons raise a

child who never hates anyone, nor raises his voice to his

children, nor cheats a business partner, nor backs his own

country’s wars?  Can printing on the back sides of already

misused one-sided documents make love?  Can banning the

movement of goods allow laborers to prosper thought they

rarely have?  Can grandmother’s advice or cooking or tireless

work inspire her family to embrace endeavors that lead

to success?  Can fresh voices create the basis for the next

“revolution form below?” Can cooking pans drying after

use and washing cause the next user to write an economic

solution that is fair to all?  Can your next hair cut provide

the fresh impetus to finally ask her directly?  Can green,

ever-present, inspire us to slow down and save the earth?

April 24th, 2013, Four New Poems and Four Old Poems, Cipyright Doug Stuber


Soaring guitar, melodic
symphonies cranked via new
midi you
saved up for working
as nanny, tailor, unpaid

music star.
Your struggles were matched
by success,
until finally
you wound up

in Miami twenty years
later. So you stopped by my house,
found Kwang Suk,
and the next winter
I was slammed domestically

so our long
awaited meeting
waits in the
corner, another dance
to be a

growing a life of its own
despite your
best efforts, and my
book on Russia. I

hung up all
three bass guitars to make a
better life,
but Roanoke was
“better life,” and you?


You are too young to
know these are
my love poems to
those who may have a large
or small chance of tears

if ever
they heard of the demise
of fat flame
left many
wondering why. As

in WI dance or darts
or other
ways to fend off the
confusion losing union
can bring. It’s good you

know your Dad
again but your Mom
needs you more,
fought for you,
stayed in desolate

until she fit in, but with
nothing like
the life she knew. You
get to make any

life you want.
So go out and grab it, do
not be tied
nor bound to follow
anyone but you.


Yours was the
first I felt after
a four year layoff.
It was in the hall
at Anclote,

you expected a
whole lot more
so we retired to a
bathroom in
the back of the hot

kitchen I
washed dishes in to
complete what had been
started with a kiss,
a finger,

a smile, and this strange
longing for
human contact where it was
banned for odd
reasons none of us

could get a
handle on. A Florida
sub-group as
small as sequestered
grand juries, yet, though

love starved to
the point of insanity,
were thereby
restricted from love.
They closed that fucker.


There have been billions
of crossroads, but none meant more
than the time, up on
Leslie Lane, smoke in hand, when
your roommate was in

laughing full
romp, and I failed to
grab a left turn, stayed
straight, and twisted in the wind
of bad stars,

my own poor life that
turned good to bad, and simple
bad matches. Oh you had
a huge heart for me, and a
compost pile, and the

exact same
outlook, but I had
not grasped the hint your
mother threw, nor did I know
I could be

so lucky.
Your art, your humanity
Must be a
Great mother by now.
I checked out of the

co-op, not
knowing I would never see
you again,
but never has come
and gone. I fucked up.


New Ones above, Old Ones below:


Once, when I spilled,

No one cared.

(The cleaning was so simple.)

  Imagine the tender

  Thoughts that evolved

  From an experience unseen.

  Feel with me

  What I felt that day.

  Share, if you can

      (with me)

  What I have done,

  What you have done.

  An experience


  Our own, to own forever.

  Eachness into a

  Oneness of unseen . . .

Now, when I spill,

Someone cares.

(The cleaning was so simple once.)




There, in the bush

At the hill

Under leaves


On this blue

And often hazy day,


A soft reflection of you.

Memories of the times

(few of them ever knew)

A slender subtle line.


A curved, not bumpy rock

Apparently not hard.

It came as quite a shock

To find the grain so sharp.


So, there, in that second,

While it lasted

In its warmth,


At that moment

Loved you.




Two needless chairs expire,

Water drops on rust.

New color happens.

Man-made polyethylene lasts

While metal slowly syrups

To a puddle on cement.


The splashes splash

Much smaller in the

Thicker, sadder pool.

At the time of April

Water (loving self)

Splashes higher into water.


Needles drop on scene

On time, from pines.

Dark and bending branches

Promise further litter,

It changes green to tan

Then brown amidst the rain.


Sand is hardening, to

Become a crystal image.

Chipped-off paint adds

Yellow to a widening

Scope of dismally

Contradictory experience.




A oncebush, nowtwigs
Juts into the plane of
A window. Someone cut off
All the flowers, leaving
Sticks in the air.

I would have thought
This to be wise
Except that this is April.
Gray shadows interrupt
A piercing spring sun.

Spiny arms reach out
From a hanging plant.
Uneven knots combine
To hold the pot, attached
By rounded hook to roof.

Shy little light pokes
Out of the wall, its
Shadow doesn’t cause a stir.
Oncebush nowtwigs solid
In its presence stays.

April 23, 2013 Four New Poems, Four Old Ones, Copyright Doug Stuber


You stayed a
friend when most just up
and disappeared. You
are surrounded by
complete, low

uncultured fools with nothing
better to do than
shoot up the neighborhood. Your
patriot glory
was short lived,

but you keep
smiling in the face
of adversity,
a lesson we could
all learn from

if we were in the mood to
actually lend
an \ear to such a hard fought
life. But who takes the
time to sit

and talk when
keyboards, pads and unmet “friends”
take us from
real banter, real needs,
real community?

Techno beat
our ass with screens long ago:
settled for
TV characters,
let’s gather again.


One day, while flying
Solo at Occoneechee
Golf Course, I
paired-up with someone
who would become my best friend.

It’s the best
Moment golf ever
Brought me, and that, up
Until then,
Included: ESPN

sending my brother
and I on the Concorde full
of major
stars, to the British
open, a handful of sand

blasts, putts and
six-irons for eye-
opening eagles
and growing
up on CCR, with scratch

golfers as
friends. Still, that day, maybe in
’02 or
so ranks as golf’s large
contribution to

this small life.
because this upstate man is
so kind, raised
great daughters, always
is happy, loves well.


Songwriter of the
highest order, you also
reminded me to
keep playing.
one story turned the

Roanoke days to
The Gadflies, and your
CDs kept coming
even after children blessed

your home, and the ups
and downs of life stretched your time:
squeezed into
precious spare moments.

You did it
your way, married for
love, gave your knowledge
and true kindness to
everyone in your path, so

lucky we
have been know natural
human love
expressed without thought:
a daily practice.

You must have
Achieved more than most, since your
Self-made pure
Karma remains near
its peak: nirvana?


Chris Craft in
boat house: a touch of
as solid as your winter

summer eight iron
chips that save five or
ten strokes per
round. “Consistent” must
be a trait that helped

our forebears
to flourish: allows
us to play
on weekends, teach and
read or write during the week.

I don’t take lightly
those who witness golf’s
Mine? One twenty five
over water for

eagle. Yours? An
ace at Tobacco Road. So
you saw some
serious hacking
too, but always cheered

even small
luck, the constant supporter
of friends and
family, being
human, do mess up.


Old Ones Below


Atlas Shrugged
(BB #6)

Lotus leaves in fountain pools behind the
Metropolitan Art Museum reflect sun rays,
but not in ways Monet would understand.
Cellos ascend to bless the ears of diners
from the donor class, while those lily pads
and lotus landings resonate on levels only
guessed at by geniuses and amateurs alike.
Room after room after room after room after
room stun mere humans with the peak
moments of nearly all the masters: ancient
relics full of universal hum. Feeling visitors
tear up, once cynical multi-cultural couples
soften in amazement. The hoity-toity mingle
with Asian tourists in a surreal scene Yves
Tanguey would get a kick out of. But it’s the
quiet ripples in the pool out back, the tumbling
leaf in the now-safe park, the sad chatter
of the magnet peddler whose addiction isn’t
clear, but whose profit must be small, that fill
sensory memory to capacity.


Beauty Realized

Aspiring long-trunked Lindens
send leaf seeds spiraling
into Highland Park. The Peace Wave
dances, sings, paints, plays and eats.
A fully trimmed church social
for progressives, pot heads and artists.
Activists all.

Five women in pajamas dance
fertility, entrance patchouli-laden
jaw-dropped gawkers as their
seductive gyrations glaze
the eyes of men and women alike.
Loins slither, mingle, fling
jubilant torsos across the full stage.

Red scarves tie waists together
in a sweet maypole offering
officiated by throngs of soft naturalists.
Star city of the South nurtures
self-made lives, little cash flow
but long on love. One family fills
buckets with magnolia pods: art objects.
(BB Poem #4)

Frowsy ne’er-do-wells, agitated tennis fans, nervous
businessmen and large-rimmed ladies angle for seats
on an overbooked flight to La Guardia. Takae enjoys art,
travels from her post in Tokyo to tour the U.S., perhaps willing
to yield to a man with strong character, but not in a hurry
to give up her homeland, her dreams, her loves, or her smile.

Sewer gas diffuses from the “innocent” stitcher who claimed
the last seat on this bird full of humans, so close, but so far
apart in the way they respond to this life. Unattainable goals
rule the minds of most yankees; gold is religion, nature is
hostage. Instincts suppressed for ten generations, supplanted
by profits then cleansed every Sunday by parochial Baptists.

It’s the time of starvation and gross atrocity, when
genocides play out due to no food, when clubs formed
at Yale control the whole world, when one country’s
debt causes collusion resulting in deaths to thousands who
have no idea why the bombs explode. Internal resistance is
labeled “insurgent,” while TVs spread lies to zombies back home.

The scuffle ends at Detroit’s Metro Airport when NWA 427 finally leaves.
Precious life fades behind us no matter our fate. Takae slumbers, maybe
dreaming of Kawabata’s “Snow Country” cherries, soft spring blossoms,
nature’s offerings plentiful, but how many see? Our stitcher, whose
art is Santa, hollowed be thy name, thy shopping comes, thy
economy hums, the slaughtered allow all these gains.
For Lenette

Big Ed of Big Ed’s drives a big Hummer now.
Down-home antique kitchen supplies hang over
serious conversations: it’s interracial in a downtown
southern redneck way. Walked by this place seven
years without stopping in. Eight waitresses smoke,
waiting for the lunch crowd. A forty-year-old with
tight braids down her T-shirt, bouncing horse-like
in the light that pushes between moving legs, and
customers who openly defy non-existent tobacco
ordinances too, but no one cares or notices except the
pen-pusher plonked in the corner. Braided lady
adjusts her chest by loosening her shirt from her
pants. Does it matter that some pretentious wanna-be
from the factory is more proud of his security badge
than a Cherokee warrior would be, returning from battle
victorious? Big Ed’s sign says, “no checks, no credit
cards,” hence the Hummer. What matters here is a
respite for the homeless. A five dollar warm up
in January, full of info, like “it’ll be fifteen minutes
before we start lunch, you want to wait?” Yep, he’ll
sit in a comfortable chair, pondering how to spend
street-hustled change for some time before deciding
what to eat. Gentle respect and hard work gain large
nods from the spirits floating in bedecked open rafters.

April 22, 2013, Five New Poems, Five Old Ones, from the Roanoke Era, 1986-1991


On lead guitar is
Bradley Carr, adding “Midnight
Hour” to the
long list of covers
sprinkled with original

gems like “Out the Door
and Down the Road.” We
opened for all,
from Bobby Blue Bland to Roy
Buchanan, Toy Caldwell, back

when the Iroquois
rocked, and Roanoke
offered rogues
a way to scrape by
on very little: not that

we knew any! It
must have shocked you to
find Andrey
forced in, but right then we were
as good as any band had

to be to
continue the tour, pay for
small pay, enjoy
camaraderie and
each other’s antics.

Even I
have a child now, and often
wonder what’s
going on up there.
How are you old friend?


Other than being
the creatively inclined
power in the rhythm group
that drove nails into shit shops
and songs into the

hearts and feet
on nice days to be
doing something. You
also went,
by old green Volvo

to count cigarettes
for Mary Ann. We were damned
spies cutting into some poor
sap’s meager extra wages
earned form smuggled tax

free boxes.
My favorite moment
was not on stage, but
when, to her
surprise, you lifted

the covers
on naked Penny. Exposed,
and tasty
one might add,
all she could do was

blush when you
asked if I was going to
join in the
fun. The best times of
my life still ring clear.


How many
bags did you drop off
for Gitsies? When you lost the
love of your
life, broke your Les Paul and dove

into one
bottle after the
next, who failed to tell
you a better girl
would be along? Who

forgot to
force you into your
rightful slot as a full-time
band member?
I guess I screwed this hidden

too. Even morning
sober your guitar
made Dogwoods bloom and
sad men cry. You were

the great one,
but never cut yourself some
slack, some space
from which to re-grow,
as the bean sprouts in

the dead black
cabinet, or down a well.
Recall, please, your own
Kindness, simple times
Down by the river.


You cranked us
up, stole band members,
pulled practice together, and
even bought
a van. By God we

were going to be
rock stars, ,or at least
regional favorites. ‘Shrooms for
the first show at the
Cave at Roanoke College.

Then a run
to Harrisonburg,
opening for Boyd Tinsley:
in the pre-Dave days.

The Coffee Pot break
was as solid as
the glue you used to found us.
Your speed was full tilt
in a group of laid

back. Never
to forget the glory days,
now so far
away, but you found
a niche in music,

while some of
us hung it up completely.
For you the
motivation runs
deep. Rock on young man.


You dropped young Jule
into unknown Roosevelt
apartment, took off with Lee
to scope the Rochester gay
scene, or dance, or to…

She woke up
and cried, fell back to
sleep, woke up an cried, so I
hugged her and in my
mind I cried.

Back then I thought you
could replace the giant hole
in my heart; then two others
tried, but I cannot be changed
so they tired, as you

saw again
in beloved Hamburg;
even Brahms neighborhood
could not smooth over
the fact that

you were with
the new right man, and I had
stayed past the
expiration date
of the plastic key

in the nice
inexpensive place you found
us. You knew,
better than I, how time
flies, makes bad moves worse.

Five Old Ones from the Roanoke era:

God of Death

Jesus Christ would not be proud
To see religion in this state. (Virginia that is.)
TV evangelists preach a canon of intolerance.
Jesus never expected people to hate in his name.

Building amusement parks in homage to God
Makes as much sense as waging war for Christ.
A god who attracts such diverse attentions
Is not a nice god or even a holy god.

He must be the god of money, or,
The god of land acquisition, or, perhaps
Even the god of death. Now that should
Set bells ringing in your bible-belt ears.

The god of death destroys life and love,
The god of death is worshipped in America.

Modern Sonnet One

October hangs an orange half-moon
Necco wafer colored illumination:
Confectioner’s halo, sugar dusted hallucination
Bouncing (barely) between bushes.

Rays, through fog’s insipid blockage,
Hypnotize your member and the mound.
Life-barbaric deca-dents your soul.
Dogs howl at your heart, impure.

Wind infects limbs like lambs unwooled;
Directs your body to hooded lips.
Suggestive steam, libationary longings,
Foreskin forces dextrous dappling.

Sordid yearnings rectify your column,
Twitching tunnels tantalize.


Watercolors fill spaces between
Pine branches as the moon delivers
Inconsistent reflections
To a wandering man.

Winds blow, rearrange
Shadows at his feet.
This starts him thinking.
He angles across a field.

He enters darkness,
Lured by solid colors,
Wallowing away from fields
To a thick-boughed stand:

Crashes into sticky bark
Falling under weaving cones
Crumpled in a mass of blue,
Surrounded, cold, but sheltered.

Soup is Good Food

Coffee grounds, like so much weeping,
Never find a place. You can’t fertilize with tears,
You can’t exasperate yourself with leftovers.

Eggshells, like so much death,
Have no place thinking. You can’t explain their existence,
You dare not whisper in their presence.

Fifties decor, like so much sex,
Never adds to the place. You keep your condoms
Hoping to avoid disease. Never get a chance.

Kodachrome, like so much tax,
Places judgement on obstacles. You grind
Existence into death, snapping housefly moments.

Banana peels, like so much emotion,
Send ball lightning through your place.
Nothing grabs like solo meatloaf dinners.

Face of Death

A certain double-breasted bag-toter
Totters toward a balding muse.
She, red-haired proliferator,
Makes his dreams uncommon
With a mound, abstract, but dense.

She hails from Pennsylvania,
Chocolate covered glasses
Melting into cheeks
Above a smile; two hands
Stuffed in black wool pockets.

Now she laughs at fashion,
Leaks another glimpse: vanishes
Before the double-breasted
Has a chance to grab a piece.
A wake of snow entices.

Our gentle bag-toter
Unprepared to face
Her face of death
But hot to chase the rest,
Lunges, parries, turns into

The safety of a library,
Where he dreams the Muzak
Version of Beethoven’s Fifth:
Imagines Ludwig working up
Five thousand RPMs six feet under.

A syphilitic soul,
Nonetheless adventurous,
Ludwig forges through Bavaria’s bedrock,
Digging a tunnel to her door.
This attracts the double-breasted.

Allowed, by mere coincidence,
To follow Ludwig’s lead,
Double-breasted brings his bag along.
The face of death inspires
But demands sacrifices

Beyond double-breasted’s realm.
He may have to hang on
For dear life. He may have to
Get naked, be inspected
And ridiculed before gaining access.

The bag lends moral support.
“Ludwig is probably playing a prank,”
He thinks, as subconscious yearnings
Drag him through town,
Around rules, above convention,

Into the laughing, bouncing-butted
Body with the face of death.
She snarls. His actions verify
What she suspects: a gap between
Reality and his brain. She blends

Into his dream, asks him what he wants.
“Now I know your body,
It’s better than your face,
We felt good together,
Got some drugs around the place?”

This takes her by surprise,
So she pours a mushroom tea
And offers tea and Oreos
Which he readily accepts.
“What makes you care about me?”

Spouts the face of death.
“My friend Ludwig led me here
After you had vanished.
He knows what I should do,
He wants me to do you.”

She often has to sit and dream
Of proper male behavior,
So she teases him along.
“You want me so much,
But you hang there unappealing.

Why don’t you masturbate
So we can go another round?”
Toter stiffened to the test,
And said, with a wry smile,
“Death on the doorstep.”

April 20, 2013 banter, and a weirdly timed April 11th video


o Did they find him??
about an hour ago via mobile • Like
Ryan Griffith I still don’t think he’s going to be taken alive.
about an hour ago • Like
David Christian Hamblin Pray for his soul…poor kid
about an hour ago • Like • 2
Heather Kerr The 19 year old, right?
about an hour ago via mobile • Like • 1
Michigan J. Pickle Yes, that kid. We need him alive, we must know what he was thinking, and if there is more to expect, and how wide the threat is. And David Christian Hamblin , we can decide later whether we want to be gentle with him or not >:-) (love yooouuuu)
about an hour ago • Like • 1
Mike Stenzel Fresh out of sympathy. Yes we need his info, but if he dies, I’m not going to lose any sleep over it.
about an hour ago • Like
Dave Spiro That’s his choice, Pickle. If he’s not going to stop firing, or start throwing other explosives, he chooses his own fate.
about an hour ago • Like
Michigan J. Pickle I want the London Marathon to be safe, and everything else, and we’ll never know if they had other contacts overseas unless we ask, so please, I pray, take him alive, alive, alive
about an hour ago • Like • 1
Laurel Stone YES! We need him alive! I, for one, NEED to hear (if he’ll ever talk about it) WHY he and his brother did such a horrible thing.
about an hour ago • Like
David Christian Hamblin doesn’t really matter…what is done is done…nothing will ever bring back the people or help those who are torn a-part….HATE and FEAR made it happen…
about an hour ago • Like • 1
Dave Spiro There is no reason, whatever their cause or belief, to do what they did.
about an hour ago • Like
Michigan J. Pickle But David (and Dave! Hi, Dave!), we can find out if they are working with or planning anything else. The London Marathon is is this week, and Susan Henesy of England will be there to cheer her son, and I need to know they will be safe … and that all of our big events will be safe … we all need to be safe and not worry about these little shits bombing us. You know where I’m coming from. Make him talk!
about an hour ago • Edited • Like • 1
David Christian Hamblin safe is an illusion my dear…we are not safe….OK city…NYC…WashingtonDC….PA…we are not safe anymore…this is a new world we live in…
about an hour ago • Like • 2
Catherine Rigoux when you kill innocents well you have to pay of your life! alive and be in jail as long as possible .dead ! way to easy for a killer..way to easy so i cross my fingers to the police catching him alive ..alive
about an hour ago • Like • 1
Doug Stuber OH boy, now I’m started. There is NO REASON any person or country would have violence-level issues with the United States…is this right? Of the 800,000 to 1 million killed in Iraq, how many were innocents? The U.S. has intervened militarily 88 times since World War II, and though Non-violence is even above the environment on the top ten tenants of the Green Party, and I dislike violence immensely, at least one should take the time to UNDERSTAND WHY people hate the U.S.
15 minutes ago • Like
Dave Spiro And how does that apply to the current situation? How will that help the police deal with this criminal, and make no doubt, he IS a criminal. What you’re suggesting is the purview of politicians. What is happening now in Watertown is its own issue.
13 minutes ago • Like
Dave Spiro He’s in custody, and is alive…
11 minutes ago • Like
Doug Stuber Doesn’t it take about 10 years on death row before anyone is executed in the U.S.? plus the ten step appeals process is still in effect in MA, so, uh, he’s not going to be executed any time soon I figure. it was RAMSEY CLARK, the former Attorney general of the US under Republican administrations, AND LEAD DEFENSE LAWYER for Saddam Hussein, who kept Saddam Hussein alive for many months after he was captured so HUSSEIN could continually whip up the Suni troops to keep fighting the Shias. Now, Why would the US allow Ramsey Clark to DEFEND Saddam Hussein, OTHER than WANTING Hussein to stay alive and whip up sect violence? Imagine, if you can, that Shias and Suni killing each other means we Don’t have to do the shooting. hard to grasp? Then why did we sell arms to BOTH sides of the Iraq/Iran war, 1983-1986? In this war we FIRST back only IRAQ. Iraq was our friend then having cleared Turkey of its problem with Kurds with chemical weapons made in Germany and GIVEN to Saddam Hussein by the USA. But wait, under Reagan, the Contras had been cut off form money (thanks to something other than a spineless congress) so how could the Contras continue to be funded? OH, I know, SELL ARMS TO IRAN, our sworn enemy, which Oliver North and a huge team of over and underlings pulled off, shipping ALL PROFITS to the Contras Illegally. Remember Iran/Contra? The result? 1.2 million Iranians dead and 780,00 Iraqis dead. it was the softening period before Desert Storm. Followed by “shock and Awe.” “Mission Accomplished?” a famous banner on an aircraft carrier was only applicable if by this Bush II meant we had Hussein in custody, AND we spent a lot of military supplies so that the military economic complex could keep on humming. But less than two years later Oliver North ran for Senate, and with Jerry Falwell’s Moral Majority backing missed winning a seat by less than one percent. Wow, is the US populace hornswaggled by propaganda or what?
6 minutes ago • Edited • Like
Dave Spiro Londa – Of course it doesn’t! But, it does give us insight into why these people, in this instance, did what they did, and might – MIGHT – help to pinpoint others who might be contemplatingthe same thing. There are, however, never any guarantees.
4 minutes ago • Like
Londa Stenzel Yes Dave, I understand that, but Michigan seems to be under the impression that the why’s will somehow make the world safer.
3 minutes ago • Like
Dave Spiro And as someone else pointed out, the fact that he’s alive means they can grill him on things like any other devices around (they already found 7 IED’s today), and if there are any accomplises. They’ve already arrested people in New Bedford.
3 minutes ago • Like

Dave Spiro Okay…Who did you write for?

I have written for the Roanoke Times and World News, The Weekly Independent, The Florida Alligator, The Yellow Springs News, the Brighton-Pittsford Post, The City Newspaper (Rochester, New York) and for more than just a few magazines.  My favorite work was during the 1987 International Peace Walk when 60 papers picked up my stories about what was happening on a walk form (then) Leningrad to Moscow, in which 250 Americans and 250 Russians took a one-month stroll for peace.  I’ve averaged over 2 magazine stories per month since moving to South Korea in 2007.  I wonder why it matter who I have written for?  What matters to me is at least three sources for each news story, and how close to the truth I can get.  But, as Plato rightly noticed “Poetry is more likely than history,” so on top of last years book “Modern Russian History,” with co-authors Ivan S. Kuznetsov and Elena V. Katshevtseva, I also have published seven volumes of poetry (through various publishers) in the US, and four more volumes here, two of which through the Chonnam National University Press.  My documentary about the Roanoke Virginia homeless population was made in 1988, and exposed the way the Veterans Administration Hospital was dumping psychotic war veterans on the street.  you can find what you might find interesting BLog work on two sites:  https://dougstuber.wordpress.com/   and   http://gicjournal.wordpress.com/  I have a couple videos up on Youtube as well, but more may come along.  One question those around Boston might find fun:  Who is more true Howard Zinn or Richard Hofstaeder, in the history realm.  And then try Noam Chomsky versus William F. Buckley.  Stories are almost always written from the winners point of view in history, and from the point of view of whomever the writer’s boss is at newspapers in magazines, except in very rare instances of multi-faceted journalism, sometimes practiced at the Economist, but not often even at the New Yorker, even though I like their point of view.  Was Seymour Hirsch correct about Abu Graib, and decades earlier, the Mi Lai massacre in Vietnam, yup, you better believe he was.  The problem is, true investigative journalism is dying in the US, leading to a government that feels that it can, and often DOES get away with things that a true democracy would, theoretically, minus propaganda, vote out of office.

Doug Stuber The US becomes safer when we STOP doing the things that piss people off. Political or not, WHEN i mean WHEN will we stop trying to control all resources, human and natural? More importantly, when will we come to the realization that capitalism isn’t working anymore? The ONE+TWO punch of totalitarian capitalism (the US government gives tax breaks to corporations who MOVE JOBS OVERSEAS!) and the military economic complex OWNING our legislative AND Executive branch (heck throw in the Supreme Court, just look at the 2010 Citizen’s United Case) and WHAMMO

The same week that the New York Post first falsely reported the Boston bombing suspect was a Saudi national then falsely put a Moroccan-American track runner on its cover, it accurately reported on Friday an attack on an innocent Bangladeshi man living in the Bronx who some “idiots” mistook for an Arab. Abdullah Faruque, a South Asian network engineer, was at an Applebees on Monday night when he was accosted by a group of three or four men, reports the Post, after they asked if he was an Arab. It wasn’t until he got home, his shoulder dislocated, that he found out about the bombing at the Boston Marathon. “I saw the news, and then it hits me: That’s why I got jumped,” he told the Post.
It’s possible for this sort of baseless revenge to happen, with or without the Post’s help. But it’s worth wondering where these men— and the one who assaulted a Muslim doctor in Boston, and the ones who vandalized the future site of a Boston mosque—got the idea for taking out revenge on a “dark skinned male” in the wake of the bombing.
The Muslim community expects it, at this point. “A certain routine has emerged, in which some Muslims seem compelled to make clear that they denounce the violence and consider it a violation of Islam — often even before the attacker’s religion is determined,” Max Fisher wrote over at The Washington Post. Rather than sit back while people (and journalists) speculate, they attempt to distance the religion as a whole from the situation. Circulating false information about the identities of suspects in major newspapers and TV networks kind of counteracts those efforts.
At this point it’s still not quite clear the link between the suspects and Islam, but even so the Islamic community is preempting more negative responses like the unfortunate revenge attacks this week. Dzhokhar Tsaraev listed Islam on a social media profile, and his deceased brother may have posted a video associated with Al Qaeda. Though, the endearing uncle of the two suspects assured the media today that the actions have nothing to do with Islam. Yet, the mutterings of the word “muslim” going around today have already led to a heightened awareness from the Muslim American community about further retaliation. Several American Muslim groups came out Friday condemning the attacks, including a Boston mosque, the Council on American-Islamic Relations, the Masjid At-Tawheed of York, and Ahmadiyya Muslim Community USA.
Want to add to this story? Let us know in comments or send an email to the author atrgreenfield@theatlantic.com. You can share ideas for stories on the Open Wire.

April 20, 2013 5 new poem 5 old poems Copyright Doug Stuber



Triple Dee
an early light on
dark South Glendale until jazz,

yuppies and taco-stands made
a complete street out of Lee
Hansley’s locale.
We glued, drew,
made work I never

would have thought
to do, except your
infectious verve, love
of colors, insistent push
to pull us

together for art. Does Boone
offer opportunities
so sinfully young?
is what I love, so

I stayed, and
you played along, not many
do. Your luck
is the same as your
children’s: youth need not

be left, dumped
or forsaken if you find
a “young” job:
youthful tuning in
sixteen, C-Major.


She will dart you into dust,
she was thrown at me by Joe
Wabe, she has a
Real need for closeness
Yet tires and bores easily.

Salwa, the
love of her life, gets
easily attached to all
new house friends;
she goes it alone,

sometimes appearing late
night in that loose-fitting top,
or bowling. Lately
serving sexy meals,
Egyptian morsels to fund

into a program that is
changing to the post

Shin era.
Among a growing throng who
have settled
here, so far from home,
but safer: safer

than war torn,
rebellious, terrorists camps,
or millions
of refugees. Kim
Jung Eun is a joke.


Back in Japan, where
he must pace himself
or face the certain aging
of a man fully
drained, depleted each

night by fun-
seeking art fans, or
mere passersby, he
just got a
write-up in an art

magazine based in
Osaka, city
of culture, which means we all
want an entrée under
his umbrella now.

Your women,
your self-taught art, your
Duke-level thinking
pushes late
conversations that

stay frontal
in a world overflowing
with stupid
“philosophers,” rank
hate-mongers. Thus friends

get bonus,
ladies learn more than body’s
viewers take in more
than strong images.


Bunch the usual
ne’er-do-wells into
an alternative
Franklin Street, Chapel
Hill art café, and

presto! For
that brief period
she brought/gave
us the chance to let
it fly, hang it out in the

breeze for all to see,
some to comment on,
few, very few, to
purchase. That marble
effect you gave me

lingers, though
myself far flung to
just under
missile range on this
mountainous peninsula.

Carolina life seems so
happy, yet
only pictures tell
a story that must be

as complex
as you always were back when
we had time
to wander free, be
ourselves, love each other.


Leaf man, branch
collector, and rock
dangler, your feather
network flew to Florida
leaving us

to fend for ourselves.
Carved conceptual
art into
a scene both rigid
and experimental at

the edges.
You are one of the
few who deserves to
“make it,” whatever standard
That means. What

Now mailbox greeter?
ideas to a
once-stale coastline. If nothing

happens here again, we won’t
forget the
fast years you blew through
and tweaked the nose of

once-smug wives
of creepy bankers and land
deal con men.
Now surrounded, are
you at peace, in love?

Chuseok 2008

High heels, shorts and parasols stroll from shop to shop
Perusing protest pamphlets before they let them drop.
Students lounge in luxury, forget the bloody past.
Still barbed fences guard the tower: freedom forced to last.
Cosmos under sycamore feels the silver shine.
Girls in pairs and triplets relax with cold rice wine.
Here they call it Chuseok, Thanksgiving at the graves.
Reverent parents, another chance to teach children to behave.
But by afternoon they’re drunk, lucky traffic’s slow.
A loudspeaker reminds the guests to pay for this year’s mow.
One asks if grandparent’s graves are a long U.S. drive,
I say we don’t even visit parents when they are alive.
Tradition hangs on mandatory days of industry closure.
All time off is gobbled up by familial exposure.
This may be better than the adulterous sneaks back home,
But leaves no time for adventuring minds to roam.
She comes dressed in black, with wings and bangs for hair,
Offering no snack, which stops your questionnaire.
The US occupies Korea for only four more years,
When we leave will it bring happiness or tears?

(PS. The deal for the US Armed Forces to Pull out by 2012 was rescinded in 2010 by Lee Myung Bak after the Choenan Corvette was sunk.)

Communal Land

Hydrated winter
sleet taps, rabbit has no dog
pursuing. Calm rain
soaks chicken
feathers, firewood tarped in blue.

Edible grape leaves
infuse light-spiced rice, rolled out
mini Ho-ho style.
Ladies, two
stark, one open, dig tree holes.

Over cubic foot
of stones go in to deter
moles. Young roots grow right
through them. Ten
years hence pecans sprout protein.

My three closest friends
all lost work. Jane Tyndall closed,
meaning art is dead.
Gather nuts,
consolidate, work the land.

Edo Palace Mix

Takae, so simple, fluttering on the wind of vegetarian
existence, refusing to eat up more than her share,
presenting herself a second time, but finding no taker,
is less than joyous, yet remains so gentle. Two swans
glide, bobbing for minnows, mated for life, fed by ample
moat, seen by hundreds each day. Mostly Takae yearns
to be the swan on the right, head held up, pet of the palace.
Instead, like the sour gooseberry picker, Chekhov’s Nikolay,
she labors at city hall. Better, like the clerk job Kafka had, or
Poe’s daily grind, Takae, so full of wonder, but now resentment
too, as youth slips into middle age with no permanent necker,
glider, lover to snuggle with. Yellow petunias with purple eyes
stretch open to us, and I think that Takae will see this exact
pattern and find comfort having spent a day in Chiba
with friends that will, over time, form a second base.
A dream fulfilled erases previous disappointment. How to
meld dreams into the closeness that supports? Elephant ear
plants glisten under gray. Bamboo rustles, imperial reminder
that one generation can be the foundation of new style, culture,
love, beauty, art, strength, ethics, for centuries to come.

Article 9 a.m.
At nine a.m. this group of twelve waits at Makuhari. 아침 9시에 12명의 이 사람들은 마쿠하리에서 기다리고 있다.
Inside the air-conditioned hall dust floats over chairs. 에어컨이 설치된 홀 안에는 먼지들이 의자 위로 떠다닌다.
Speakers will again insist on peace within and everywhere. 발표자는 다시 한번 이 안에서 그리고 모든 곳에서 평화에 대해 주장할 것이다.
A train leads to a monorail, but the ladies ask “where are we?” 기차는 모노레일로 이끌지만, 여인들은 묻는다, “우리가 어디에 있는 거죠?”

They are asleep, in fear and rage, refusing to take part 그들은 졸린다, 두려움과 분노에 휩싸인 채, 증오의 또 다른 날을 피하려고
or mired in over-studying to avoid another day of hate. 참가하거나 혹은 지나친 공부로 궁지에 몰리게 되는 것을 거절하면서.
But now, alone together, will they realize it’s not too late? 하지만 지금이라도,그 둘이서, 그들은 이것이 늦지 않았다는 것을 깨달을 것인가?
Or will green jealousies again arise to squelch their hearts? 그렇지 않다면, 새파란 질투심이 그들의 마음을 짓이기 위해 다시 한번 생겨날 것인가?

The ladies who are of an age to have seen it all 이 모든 것을 볼 수 있는 나이가 된 여인들은
arrive an hour early so they can sit on the front row. 한 시간 일찍 도착했기에, 그들은 맨 앞줄에 앉을 수 있다.
On day one they waited in the rain, only to be told no. 첫날에는 그들은 빗 속에서 기다렸고, 오직 “싫어요” 라고 말할 수 있게 되었다.
So the main attractions repeated their words out on a grassy mall. 그래서 풀빛의 산책로에서 주가 되는 인기 있는 명사들은 그들의 이야기를 반복했다.

Multitudes flee guns these days, arms never solved a thing. 군중들은 요즘에 총을 피해 달아나고, 전투부대들은 절대 문제를 풀지 못했다.
A new type of globalization erupts when witnesses testify. 새로운 형식의 세계화가 목격자가 증언을 할 때 생겨난다.
A photo or two from Abu Graib is enough to expose the lies. 아부그라이브 감옥에서 찍힌 2개의 사진은 거짓말들을 폭로하기엔 충분하다.
Aiden and Cora speak about what our actions could bring. 에이든과 코라는 우리의 행동들이 무엇을 가져올지에 대해 말한다.

Youth is missing at this event, it’s enough to make you scream. 젊음은 이 일에서 실패하고 있으며, 이것은 당신을 비명 지르도록 하기에 충분한 일이다.
As the earth devolves into war over depleted food and oil 이 지구가 고갈된 음식과 기름에 관한 일을 전쟁에게 양도할 떄
children play at computer games, knowing nothing of the soil. 아이들은 컴퓨터 게임을 한다, 농사에 관한 것은 알지도 못한채.
Optimists persist: we teach, we sing, we hug, we dance, we dream. 낙천주의자는 주장한다: 우리가 가르치고, 우리가 노래하며, 우리가 춤을 추고, 우리가 꿈을

Luo found out about a chance to sing for
Myanmar’s poor. She sang the Jasmine and
Embroidered Wallet from her Hanzhou province.
Her smile bespeaks last hour’s visit, five days
abroad, cradled, swinging, laughing with music
and stabs at Mandarin, while unjealous wives
fix their hair, aware that spoken flow creates
great passion after Manli leaves, the old man
remains. Somehow the spirit of Tang Dynasty
poetry is shy tonight, a new moon, so dark,
hidden by clouds, coolly whistling through
skies visible to beings we don’t know about,
the rabbit is out there, but how can I offer a
hand or a finger, a mouth or a toe to this
late-spring flower who persists, as a human
while cousins wither, and father reminds her
that life’s many sweet moments are tempered
abruptly, even as the reflections shimmer on
the West Lake. They come, she now tells me, to
dance, act, perform, laugh, embrace, renew, live.

어찌된 일인지

루오는 미얀마의 가난한 사람들에 대해 노래 할 기회에
대해 알아냈다. 그녀는 그녀의 항저우로부터 유래한
자스민, 수놓은 지갑을 노래했다.
그녀의 미소는 지난 시간 동안의 방문과 외국에서의 5일,
흔들리는, 요람에 눕던 날들, 음악과 함께 웃던 날들을 보여주고,
중국의 상급관리를 찌른다, 질투심 없는 아내들이
그들의 머리를 고정시킬 동안, 말솜씨가 유창함이
만리가 떠난 후에 만들어내는 대단한 열정을 알고서, 그 늙은이만
남았다. 어찌된 일인지 당나라 시대 시의 혼은
오늘 밤 밝게 빛나고, 새로이 떠오른 달은, 너무도 어둡고,
구름으로 인해 숨겨졌는데, 뻔뻔하게도 하늘을 통해 휙 하고 소리를
내면서 우리가 알지 못하는 존재들에게는 보이는 구나,
토끼는 밖에 있으나, 어떻게 내가
손이나 손가락, 입, 그리고 발가락을 사촌들은 시들어 버릴 동안에
한 인간으로서, 살아남은 이 늦봄의 꽃들에게 줄 수 있을까?
그리고 아버지는 그녀에게 인생의 많은 달콤한 순간들은 갑작스레
가라앉을 수도 있음을 알려준다, 심지어 투영물이 서쪽 강 위로
비추고 있을 때에도 말이다. 그녀는 이제 나에게 말한다, 그들은
춤을 추러, 무대에 서기 위해, 공연을 하기 위해, 웃기 위해, 포옹하기 위해,
새롭게 하기 위해, 그리고 살기 위해 온다고.

April 17, 2013 Two New Poems Two Old Poems


Rouge cheeks and
bright eyes over the
same loose-fitting hippy dress
and gray T-shirt, so
I wonder

how her family affords
tuition and guess
she works and studies, uses
make-up to try to
cover exhaustion.

Straight As, and
a team player, she makes
new friends: most do not. Once she
sat in on a class long
enough to

see it was too hard. She said
she would be back, so
here she is, striving not to
be known as best but
happy anyway.

Too many
students never get involved;
they waltz through
classes as if their
looks or family

name should be
enough to score a grade, as
if Chonnam
were Harvard: then comes
this fresh real learner.

T-50 Fighter Jet

Every noon they take
flight over Gwangju,
not just as a check
nor reminder of
air force glory from

the nineteen
fifties, but these days
because noon is not
enough. Continual guard,
vigilant patrol

in case Kim Jun Eun
is not “kid”-ding, but
truly will goad a
reaction, a step

up ladder
to ramp the creeping
World War Three that, as
historians will recall
began on August

thirty first
nineteen ninety seven when
and Dodi died “by
accident.” Then nine

now a forevermore war
for oil and
resources that can
make the rich richer.

Saint Valentine pulls
flowers from
his frock. Do all saints
wear monk’s clothes? Here’s to Mom’s our
working saints.

I love you,
though my mouth causes
huge rifts, please stay close now.
Our nation of three
remains strong.

Since love conquers all
allow this
small ink flow to wash
past agony away. Your
heart needs me.

Busy life
leaves short hours to be
alone with you, but your heart
beats inside mine all
day and night.

Let the smiles
return, let me support your
art, teach my
slice of the world to
Hyuntay, our hero.

Take clues from
him, the son who asks questions,
the light that
brings us together
with daily magic.

Dilemma Dance

Peripheral sunrise elongates table shadows, initiates morning calm
five days before the trip. This mixed-race neighborhood
finds curious children stepping toward friendship while parents
remain closed in busy lives with no time for old friends no less
a new batch. Small dose of warm leads to ping pong, kickball
and lacrosse. Fifteen Korean kids experience the U.S., try new
sports, speak English to strangers, love nightly contests, yet
bored by Disneyworld. Orange rays turn yellow, cause
dew-sparkle as a clank of dishwashing jolts early work-day
to life. This heart, shredded, strewn like superfluous jet fuel,
scatters onto February snow so remote no living thing can
detect the agony caused by having to choose between family
and friends or prime faculty position in a culture that routinely
rejects emotional outsiders and is built on hundreds of rules
that strictly judge behavior in order to instill “maturity” at the
price of spontaneity . No natural omens, like a darting cardinal
that prefigures any sound move have appeared. Aspirations change,
fulfillment occurs when newfound silence replaces blabbermouth
stupidity and yard play warms frozen tears as well as crowd cheers
ever did in the days before finding redemption in family and work.

Savage Garden Of Knowledge, an Asian CUutural Center Symposium, Gwangju, Sout Korea

The Asian Cultural Center’s Conference “Savage Garden of Knowledge, –Asian Potentia for the New Society”
By Doug Stuber

Gwangju’s version of Boston’s “Big Dig,” the Asian Cultural Center (ACC), is due to open in 2014 after the building and grounds are completed in December 2013. With that in mind, “Savage Garden of Knowledge” an international symposium laid out both the real goals of the Center, and potential uses. Curators, art directors, professors and performers gave a wide variety of reasons why the ACC has the potential to be such a success.
None more so than Lee Yong Chul, the President of the institute of Asian Cultural Development (and early curator of the Gwangju Biennale), who listed: archival contents, the cross-disciplinary approach, performances, themed exhibitions, planned programs, programs for children, multi-functional Performance and Exhibition Halls, laboratories, and Sound Lab and even a Food Lab as part of a multilayered Center that is “meant to be used, so please, come here and exhibit and perform.”
None of the presenters ventured to guess how the ACC would attract visitors from outside Gwangju, or inside Gwangju, so the positive economic impact can not be estimated until it comes true. The impact for local artists, however, is slated to be larger than once thought imaginable, due to the commitment to having regular performances, and a multitude of themed exhibits.
How can the ACC serve both as a showpiece venue for all of Asia, and represent local creators? The key lies in how adaptable the building itself is.
Fram Kitiwaga, distinguished Japanese curator gave the best reason to continue to foster art:: “For 500 years the process of globalization has been led by missionaries, merchants and armies, and resulted in colonialism, imperialism and nationalism. Under such circumstances spaces become homogenized and controlled, information is made consistent, and life and labor are standardized. Under the recent crisis of global warming, the collapse of financial capitalism, dissolution of community, decline of agriculture, proliferation of inequalities and apathy in societies, we have lost the feeling of physical embodiment and sensory richness, and have become nothing more than mechanical pieces of a robot, without any face….I am seeking out connections that engage the marginalized elements of society — the outsiders, the minority voices, the dead – for this is the very essence of art.”
Brend Shere, of Berlin’s House of World Cultures also gave his advice: “Just now I changed my speech to “Changing Conceptual Approaches to Art, Which are Being Developed in Different Cultures.” “The new ways of making ideas via research and art-making are being segmented by specialist who use untranslatable jargon and become detached from society. The universal approach to academia no longer works in the entire world…so when you are launching a multi-cultural Arts Center, you should allow each country to define itself via its creativity.”
He mentioned that though in Berlin, the House of World Cultures, in 1989, just before the Berlin Wall came down, the art world was seen as First, Second and Third World, and the “museum” was focused on Africa, Asia and Latin America. “After 75 years the house was “purified” through the ‘Walls and Windows’ project so that it encompassed a larger world view, as the old world view no longer made sense. Only the architecture, a 1957 gift from the U.S., was left behind.”
Its new beginning, then, like the new ACC building (finally completed after an awfully long time mired in the politics of whether and when Joellanamdo should receive money from Seoul) is a chance to internationalize the entire cultural scene in Gwangju. Not just once a year at the Gwangju Biennale, or Design Biennale; not just via the Architectural Follies, that are continually growing, at least officially; not due the myriad star artists who live here, but must sell elsewhere to survive, but through a living, working flexible structure that invites locals to collaborate not just with living artists, but with digitally archived material as well.
If enough international collaborations in performing and visual and audio and video and animation and conceptual art take root, then the ACC truly will be attracting people from out of town. This is why it has been worth the investment of time and money: not just as an economic generator, but for a chance for blue collar and white collar to mingle under the umbrella those human beings still brave enough to defy corporate commands and strike a chord for the creativity in all of us.