Four New Poems: July 25, 26 2013 Copyright Doug Stuber

(Happy Birthday Tad!)

Reality Terminal

A chance meeting for the last ten minutes before departure
to different ports allows high school friends, twenty years
removed to line up histories, clap into solid laughs about current
families, one old shared event. The same scene finds one
sixteen-year-old boy hosting two like-aged girls for doughnuts.
It’s clear the odd-numbered table will remain platonic due
in part to his rotund physique, but mostly due to the girls
respect for each other and that neither could be caught dead
with the goofy comedian dough-boy even if he is oft’-
toasted for slamming square high school teachers when their
backs are turned to chalk the board. Clouds give way to
bobbed hairdos, so Marlo Thomas, circa sixty nine. Didn’t you
love those comedies, like Dick Van Dyke, that taught us all how
to surmount the daily grind via humor? “All in the Family,”
albeit racist, towered over such dreck as Ozzy’s reality Osbornes
or dragging Paris and Nicole to a farm. “Once they’ve seen Paris
they’ll never go back to the farm,” in reverse: “Once Paris is
seen on the farm, even pigs will grow boners,” at least for a day.
Bestiality is not entertainment except for the brain dead remnants
of electronica-culture. Simple joy found in real people’s meetings.

Quick Glance Romance

Sixty years of occupation. Still the old men spit when they see
anyone remotely American. Camouflage dressed on young
duty-by-law member lets fly as he passes. You can’t blame
him on one hand, but South Korea’s no Vietnam on the other.
The majesty of steep downtown hill, Buddhist temple attached,
towers over Mokpo’s Maritime cargo carriers, beach goers and
marine trainees alike. Giggles give way to moans as gender-separate
culture crumbles under KPOP siege. Confucius and Psy do the
waist-band tug wrestle made famous in between each’s reign. Psy
wins easily, but, in the end, men remain so picky according to looks,
women due to looks, wallet, personality, job, sincerity, love-of-potential-
mother-in-law, that the romance has fled all dates, as measuring tapes
and complicated social-scientific devices are held, like Geiger-counters,
to the temple and other body parts of “partners” leaving all- or-
nothing choices, or one-night-stands, the exact opposite of what
conservative parents expected, but how could anyone be shocked
when, like the all-important tests in school that force youngsters into
rote learning, and even majors are picked by test results, and marriage
has an age window, value judgments pervade based on not kindness,
empathy, forgiveness, but stature obeying, lying without getting caught.


Her smile, a
beacon, enters bright,
inserts emotion
into their flat town.
Her schedule

is full with new friends
and old. What
can she do to help meld the
two into
the life she wants? You

guess she will
leave to find what she
needs, needs what to find
in something more true
than what she’s

used to. Everyone
finds home, but
not everyone’s home can remain
the same. You
want to jump in and

swim this strong
inviting current until
paths diverge
in a blue sky, one
direction: out, not

in space, but forever in
spirit. This
is your connection
note. Fly away now.


Six floors up is not high enough to give this would-be jumper
relief from a hell of his own making. Once again she boils at
his personality. Friends are no longer enough relief, outpouring
of art is also not enough. Clam bush leaves coax, one recycler in
blue hesitates, drops plastic into plastic. Jumper’s had enough.
This building is fifteen, so a slow ride up nine, stair walk to roof,
and he’d be toast. Everyone would cry longer than they’d read his
poems, so he turns, waits, embraces some other way; it’s not
enough, and because he knows it is his fault that some other
was is not enough, he contemplates a two-step one point five meter
high-jump over retraining wall. It may only result in a second
broken neck, rock solid paralysis, no more baseball with his
son, his son, his son, the only reasonable person left, since his
personality ruined her, and her reaction to it ruined him, and
that was half a decade ago. Is this funny anymore? Well it has
caused a genuine gut laugh at Lonnie Lotte last night, so laugh on
you imbecile. You still can’t get this place right, your still expected
to change. You still want more than you can have, you still waste
time chasing love, when there is none. It’s you ace. It’s not that there
is no love, it’s that you are a child, on who is impossible to be loved.


This will end up a blood bath. Rich V Poor, White V Black, and any other divisions
the news can whip up to keep us from NOT making a revolution against the owners
of the means of production. WOW. At 120 gun deaths PER DAY we are already
in a category 1 Civil War.

Should it spread and more “DC Snipers” start picking off rich folks filling up with gas,
it will be a blood bath.

Should the DA and Courts grow ever more cozy,

Should the military trials that convict and leave people with Russia
as their homes,

Should the examples (Many) of how communities can survive the carnage laid out
by GATT 2 and NAFTA continue to be squelched into non-existence,

Should the environment melt even one grade further,

Should money rule over love in ways hitherto unseen (currently at a peak mind you),

Should all semblance of charity, and plain helping one another fade,

Should religions become even more fundamentalist (read greedy) and exclude
even more, thus creating yet another layer of divide,

Should even one more PC game, Chat, TV show, movie, “Pop Song,” newspaper or
social media site cause even one more to give up on life in favor of cyber-life,

Should Monsanto sterilize and cancer-ize the known world,

Should the population retract toward one Billion,

Should the Koch brothers demonize even one more truth-sayer,

Should the brains of Johnny Six-pack sink lower toward Vonnegut’s Harrison
Bergeron – complete with bells and whistles going off for those still smart,

Should 1984, which came to roost before 1984, become even more a reality
via even more surveillance,

Should parents, already horrified by their neighbor’s children, become even
more xenophobic,

Should the any-excuse-at-all increase the military police state:

then we’re fucked.

2013 July 18 “This Life” Copyright Doug Stuber

This Life

Seven left to squeeze past empire’s excesses,
create a sustainable community from scratch. As in
the past, but with far more decimated earth, horrors
to relieve, uncertainty not experienced since
fire first got tamed, or the last war. In such a
small group love must prevail, but it’s been so
long, this unending war, this miserable ruination
of a once happy planet. Why couldn’t we
stop them before it was too late? Why couldn’t
we stop ourselves? It’s Polly and her drummers
versus the night time drug peddlers and those who
investigate them. It’s the regulars cowering in their
no-longer comfortable homes…yet by day these are
luxurious garden estates when spectrum-placed on
a world scale. World, we apologize, but now fight
our own battles to survive right here in River City,
Star City, communal beat, a siren to moon-glow, a
call to those who ignore elders, but, with little to do,
meander into street highs, pregnancy, no shame, but
solved when youngsters take any work, stop dreams.

2013 July 17 “In Stages,” Copyright 2013 Doug Stuber

In stages
small, significant,
his life changes due,
this time, to weather,
unstoppable pollution,

gone sense of nature
coupled with
ninety percent pain,
gap between rich and

poor, with the
tiny few at the
top destroying it
all to keep the stock
markets rolling. This young man

just figured out how
crawdads move;
he understands the
importance of food,
how nature sustains

even these
ugly abuses. Words can’t
explain the
forty year gap in
our youths, and “outside”

culture of
children versus inside, cell
phone chat, how
PC lifestyle means
no revolution.

Morons Unite, Copyright 2013, Doug Stuber

Morons Unite!

Even inner peace is a rare commodity in the days of scarcity
and resource wars. When poverty does not mean one small
meal per day, but none. For God’s sake forty five thousand
Indian farmers have committed suicide since they discovered, too
late, that they had to purchase and repurchase seeds of Monsanto’s
design. Uh oh, if a super-poor subcontinent looses it agricultural
knowledge base, what when Charles Taylor, who doubles as V.P at
Monsanto and Obama’s Agriculture Secretary, “follows orders” to make
sure Africa is one hundred percent “modified?” Is this earth or some
Will Smith end game movie, for real? The food, alcohol and motel
room rent make up the “turning tricks” industry, which represents
thirty percent of my town’s economy, how about yours? Forgiveness
still holds promise in a world rapt with quick kills, over-reaching black
versus white existence. Damn it all, must those who speak the truth about
crime (Mercury?) be jailed? This means history’s worst moments are
upon us daily rat-a-tat-tat: pokers to the eyes of anyone who sees, spreads
news. Oh, Obama sucks alright. Manchurian Candidate from within, as
Clinton was. Wage slaves, youth, laid off and former union members do
not ever vote, or vote Democrat, which by now is a whopper oxymoron.

Propaganda 1 (a poem), Copyright 2013 Doug Stuber

Propaganda I

Each day new revelations propel the rightful belief that fascist
crooks have taken over, despoiled, enslaved for their sweet
greens, sun-baked yacht decks that those below still believe they
or their children can attain. The war devolved to occupation,
another war and present-day occupation on the most sought-after
peninsula since 50’s Florida swamp sales. Young studs impress
new ladies with six dollar juices in muggy heat relieved by rain,
only to restart when streets steam up. Camouflage sticks out on
two day leaves that stroll past grandmothers who have seen it all
come and go twice by now. Real happiness outlasts the current boom
by about a year. Ensuing depression is real in emotional, economic,
blood and guts ways that leave mom and two children huddled in the
corner fighting off winter with a single blanket and a three-way
hug. Soon generations realize the sacrifices their parents made
but when the horrors worsen past heroics fade, suppressed by
survival instincts and scrounging for food when the crops no longer
yield seeds just blanks tucked within sterilizing soy beans. How did
we let it get to this, where is the rage? Oh, it’s absorbed in the grind
of 70-hour weeks, trying to keep love alive when the money’s gone,
love songs no longer sung or played, protests go mute on the mall.

Fascism Versus Micro Loans

Polly Branch
I must admit, those days were so filled and often cloudy, and my naivite’ and fears kept me also shielded from some truths. While the creativity oozed from our small collectives, I delighted in the opportunity to jump into unknown waters. Fun memories and others not quite banked. So glad our paths did cross and that you left this small pond of beautiful big fish, to stretch and be the full extent of you-ness. There’s a potential relapse or rather reocurrance of a generational anqst of late. Young people needing the rennaisance we seemed lucky to be a part of then…I’m surprised at the lack of creativity among the youth, who depress the streets, walking in a fog. Perhaps more saddened that I (we adults) don’t have a better trodden path for them, or a means of inspirational communication. There has been a new entrepeneurial essence for the 30 – 40 yr olds creating, but I feel a void for the teens + Looking for ideas. Sharing that need among friends has been good on this here computer network, but I need to be in a current to feel the waters again, and know which way to flow.

Doug Stuber
I agree. Maybe it’s time to volunteer more with the Migrant Workers Suppoort Centers, or  the projects and streets of Durham where I used to teach for the Literacy council. Dangerous but fulfilling. The lack of REGULAR jobs turns into a lack of creative coolio businesses like three brother’s baker, because there isn’t any money left to support those ideas. This is why they call it a depression. Youth see very little to inspire, so, ahem, we better start working hard. Even a once-a-week place to let loose, be creative any way you want, and start to build local economies that are not involved with the globalized exploitation. Best way? Agriculture, as you know. Say you will do this and I will return to Roanoke. Recent MAJOR awards in Russia, plus up to 14 books now in poetry means I have a slim shot at a Hollins Adjunct spot. If one ever opens up. But i wouldn’t need that much to be Roanoke bound. Think about this a lot. See if “SEEDS” a program in Durham where people have a plot can work in Roanoke, or Probably there already is one. SOMEBODY must protect the crops that are not GMO and DO create plantible seeds. Otherwise Monsanto wins, and then the sadness in the eyes of youth will resemble Biafra, circa 1965. One last factoid: 45,000+ Indian farmers have committed suicide once they realized they would have to buy seeds every year due to Monsanto infestation. Oh? 45,000 skilled agrarians out of work due to suicide in INDIA? Yup, and Charles Taylor (Obama’s Agriculture Secretary) has been given the task of polluting all of Africa with Monsanto. Guess what, he is ALSO a Vice President at MONSANTO. OH la la, spreading this male-sterilizing stuff AT US TAXPAYER expense. what a disaster, really. Nice “change” Obama. ick

SO isn’t that one of the keys to solving this? Places like Ecuador taking donations so they can LEAVE THE OIL IN THE EARTH? Sweet idea. and what of the compressed-air powered TATA car, why aren’t they mandatory? Alternative energy? Only Germany has put in a very concerted effort, and they are up to 8% ONLY. Here in South Korea we are the most dependent on Nuclear energy per person in the world. Oh not joyous rapture, since the Fukishima plant in Sendai Japan just blew a couple of years back. Building nuclear power at the ocean…in the path of Tsunamis, kinda like building nuclear plant on the San Andreas Fault Line in California…they’ve “been there done that.” Who are the maniacal Apacolypse Now movie watchers that are praying for a lower population? Is it JUST the Group of Rome? I don’t think so. All of us, anyone outside “the bubble” has a chance of perishing now thanks to global warming ALONE. and then what about all the limbs lost in factory jobs that we DO NOT seem to scream about?: the value of labor is going down everywhere due to GATT 2 and globalization. Developed countries ship their high paying and high polluting jobs…Asia and South America in particular, get the brunt of the “never-to-be-in-the-middle-class” pollution laden jobs, and the corporations get fat on what amounts to slave labor. OK Wage slave labor. Man oh Man. Solution above perhaps. “Peace Boat” floats out of Tokyo teaching Asians how to better their local economies on micro-loans, etc.

The indigenous people will have to lead us out of our industrial sins. March on hard-working mothers and fathers. Wipe the sadness away via closeness and love. Remember, if you can…no money is a way to attain happiness.