Gallery Ark “Color Dance” November 2-16, 2013

Gallery Ark is located in the MOA Leports Building behind World Cup Soccer, Pongam-Dong Gwangju. It is downstairs. You can reach Gallery Ark at +082.62.3853839 You can reach Doug Stuber at and can look at stuff at Here are some of the paintings that will be on view.

The Opening is Thursday, November 7 at 7:30pm

There is an artist talk on Tuesday November 5 at 5pm







Opus 1930

Opus 1938

Opus 1936

Opus 1935

Opus 1928

Opus 1925

Opus 1924

Opus 1940

Opus 1939

Opus 1937

Opus 1932

Opus 1873 medium

Avatar Transport

Opus 1843 - Copy - Copy - Copy

Opus 1838 - Copy - Copy - Copy

Opus 1826 Medium

Small Opus 1814

Opus 1812 - Copy - Copy - Copy

Opus 1788

Opus 1720 very small

Opus 1648 Large

This Terrifies Me, How do we fix This?

What terrifies Samantha, my niece, is the Porter Stansbury report the selling off of America. She’s worried about what happens if the USA sells all its assets to people overseas. My response was not direct, it was this:

But this is my newer post, and since you are terrified about the USA being sold off in order to protect that last few months of solvency before going completely bankrupt,geesh Samantha,we’re cooked already on that note. Our $17 Trillion debt will rise geometrically since our debt problem is out of control now. We can’t even afford to pay the INTEREST on our debt. UNC-Duke economists club estimate that 26% of the money we borrow we borrow in order to PAY THE INTEREST on money we owe. It’s flat out absurd.

It started between 1980 and 1988 when, in order to avert financial problems, Ronald Reagan and the federal reserve combined to TRIPLE the national debt. YES TRIPLE IT,in 8 short years,from $1 trillion to $3 trillion dollars. A LOT of this happened due to defense spending and wars. But the defense spending boondoggle and wars have continued unabated. Once 1989 happened,and the Berlin Wall came down, and the big huge Iron Curtain was no longer a viable threat, the USA went into the business of creating the “enemy of the week.” none more confusing than William Jefferson Clinton, who made five decisions that put the democrats squarely into the republicans mindset.

1) NAFTA: This trade agreement, as even Ross Perot knew,cause millions of American jobs to move to cheaper labor in mexico while doing nothing to replace those jobs with jobs that paid the same amount. We were told the manufacturing jobs would be made up for by the service industry. Problem: The Service industry looks for people with at least a bachelor’s degree,and the USA only has 25% of its population holding a bachelor’s degree. Reagan and Bush I had already stripped a ton of vocational school money,so when the jobs left that paid $20 an hour,folks scrambled ot make $8.00.

2)After shipping many jobs to Mexico,the problem got worse via GATT 2. GATT 2, which created the World Trade Organization and put trade concerns OVER all sovereign laws of ANY country, then paved the way for American jobs to be moved to China, Vietnam, Argentina (The FTAA came later), Indonesia, The Philippines,k etc. All manufacturing companies were given INCENTIVES to move jobs overseas via TAX CUTS for those who abandoned American workers.

3) After shafting the workers (is this a Democratic party?) Clinton then pushed through the Welfare Reform Act of 1995, thus beginning the cutting of aid to families with dependent children. This terrible 1-2-3- punch left many scrambling for jobs and working two or three jobs to be able to live in decent neighborhoods. Of course,indecent neighborhoods were growing rapidly, as was the jail population which DOUBLED from 1 to 2 million under Clinton.

4) The Banking Reform Act of 1995. This whopper of a Boo-Boo allowed banks to lend out $30 for every $1 they had in deposit. The previous law allowed $12 to be lent out for every $1 in deposit. OH #$12 was TOO MUCH believe me. but 30!? By Golly with such lending freedom there were NO LONGER viable candidates to lend money to,so the bankers invented Sub Prime Loans,and bundled those loans into the billions of dollars worth and sold the bad loans to each other round and round like a game of musical bankruptcy chairs until WHAM, J P Morgan, Lehman Brothers, CitiBank and famously AIG all ended up holding the “bag” while Goldman Sachs,who was also in neck-deep got bailed out FIRST because Hank Paulson was the Treasury Secretary then, DONTCHA KNOW!! His friends got bailed out and his enemies (Lehman Brothers qualified as such) sunk. AIG had done for Europe what Europe would not do for itself. When European banker whined that US banks got to lend so much and they were stuck with rules that said $10 for ever $1 was the limit, the EURO-CHIEFS said, OK if you can find someone to insure those extra loans above $10 for every $1 you have, we will let you do it. Enter AIG,exit common sense. SO the Trillion or so tax dollars that bailed out AIG was sent (via Goldman Sach,surprised?) to EUROPE to COVER its meltdown, as AIG promised it would. YUP US taxpayers bailed out the richest European bankers VIA AIG. The ensuing enlargement of American debt may have occurred under Obama due to this, but it started under Clinton and was exacerbated by George W. Bush, whose penchant for WAR kept the US debt growing at a 100s-of-millions-of-dollars per day clip, on war funding alone,forget trying to service the interest on our loans.

5) Clinton himself,though never held accountable,continued the sanctions on Iraq, bombed Iraq, and spent money bombing Belgrade too. Nearly 35,000 people died when we bombed Belgrade in order to get Milsovic to stop. Hmmmm. Clinton was Bombing innocent Islamic folks in Iraq, while also stopping the genocide of Islamic folks in the Former Yugoslav republics. This added up to eve less of a safety net for American workers who were starting to lose jobs,and who now have witnessed 10s of millions of jobs shipped overseas… including SERVICE jobs to India. This gives corporations added profits on one hand, but not ENOUGH profits to make up for the rapidly declining dollar on the other.

Add to that global environmental destruction,70% bee population decline, J.P Morgan controlling the price of oil though not an oil company and a whole laundry list of other problems created by the fascists at the top, and WOW, we could be in for a massive downturn, wouldn’t you say Samantha? The best way to combat this is to prepare to grow your own food, live in a town where people still understand the value of community sharing and coming together to help those in need,and being lucky enough to be able to prepare and do all this buy purchasing the land you will need NOW before the dollar loses more value. If you worried about all the labor required to run a farm, fear not. If there is an economic meltdown,LOTS of people will be willing to work in trade for food and shelter. Sincerely, Doug

What if Simon Cowel Beats Lou Reed from now on? + Fukushima = Hell?

This is the first BLog I’ve typed straight into the net without forethought or editing after the initial rant. What if the death of Lou Reed is not a symbol, not some figurative “death of Rock and Roll,” but the REAL death of Rock and roll?

It would be simple to say that video killed the radio star. But rock and roll, as Dylan once said, is about “Sex and Drugs, Folk is about God,” and some rock bands existed on MTV for a while, at least while they were still playing music. Even Folk Music has been swamped under.

Since the 50s every generation has come up with music that pissed their parents off, but sitting here in Korea it’s come with a new twist that is as wretched as it is mundane. KPOP, now self devouring, meaning I sure hope it’s ending, is the ultimate post-disco assault on any type of music that once attempted to explain what is really going on. So here we have the LACK of radical thought being the music that is pissing the parents off. But not making them mad enough.

Apologies to Billy Bragg and the thousands of Punk, Ska and independent bands eking out a living in bars across the globe, but NOBODY NEW is singing ANYTHING that aims to expose the evils in society, the fascist pigs at the top, the corrupt churches, and also getting signed to a major label anymore.

I’d rather see the Dead Kennedys’ worst show than suffer through one more dance routine with lip synched music piped in, or a Simon Cowel/superstar-K/prepackaged singer croon on about things that just don’t matter.

Does the world have ANY TIME AT ALL left for things that just don’t matter!?

Except for the remaining living bands from an era when fans slept out four days to get tickets rather than out-gunned each other with computer aided ticket buying programs, there are precious few “name acts” signed to main stream labels who utter a single word of defiance about ANYTHING. So we hunt the Indy labels and Yep-rock type distributors, worship Ray Pollard and his type, sneak around to clubs until something hits us as genuine…and then return to our earphones, and to music that once made a complete societal difference, not just a scene at scattered clubs.

Lou Died, I Cried.

So what? Few who are young enough to NOW make a difference will stop long enough to realize they’ve been hoodwinked. At least one entire generation has been lulled to sleep, to PC Games, to never hitting the streets in anger. Occupy is dying off, and sadly never accomplished much except locally.

That’s it then aging radicals. Solve the problems locally. Support local angst bands, make your own farms, pray you live far away from pollution…pray that Fukushima holds up long enough to move the fuel rods…make love on a regular basis, because even rock is so dead it can’t muster FUKU-Aid though jazz did:

and one man made a plea:
And others, at an outdoor concert of the idol “band” NEWS, had health problems, really bad health problems at an outdoor show in Tokyo:

But where is the usual line-up of Sting, U2, Bruce Springsteen, Peter Gabriel and Billy Bragg? Where’s the big “Rod-Aid” to help people figure out how to move the 1300+ spent Fuel Rods without causing a major chain reaction?

If the last of the rockers can’t come together for THIS, then we sure can’t expect anyone to take seriously the “Pop stars” if they put together a show…even if they come out and sing anti-Nuke Songs. Anyone remember James Taylor, Gil Scott Heron, Crosby Stills and Nash, etc. who put on No Nukes in 1979?

Most of those folks are still alive, and, uh WHERE THE HELL ARE THEY NOW, playing with their grandchildren?

For the Love of the CHANCE that MUSIC matters in the REAL world at ALL anymore, let’s get it in gear ladies and Gentleman.

How America Was Packaged and Sold

I never reblog, this is a first. I kinda like this one too much though.

The Story of How America Was Packaged and Sold
By Porter Stansberry
Friday, October 25, 2013
A building – One Chase Plaza – was sold last Thursday in New York for $750 million.

Not surprisingly, the building was bought by a Chinese asset-management firm, Fosun.

Today’s essay is about this deal… and the massive economic forces that lie behind it. The story of One Chase Plaza is the story of how America was sold to its bankers. It’s the story of how inflation plundered our wages. It’s the story of how credit, rather than savings, came to dominate our economy and transform our way of life.

It’s the story of how America was packaged and sold to our foreign creditors – mostly the Chinese…

Since 1996, the Chinese have made 51 major acquisitions in America, including deals to own or control iconic U.S. assets like computer giant IBM, carmaker GM, meat producer Smithfield Foods, U.S. power company AES Corp., major airplane lessor International Lease Finance Corp., investment bank Morgan Stanley, and private-equity firm Blackstone Group. They’ve also bought trophy real estate around the U.S., like the GM Tower.

These deals didn’t happen by accident. They happened because the U.S. continues to consume far more than it produces. We finance this consumption with debt that’s owned in large measure by foreign creditors. Take the U.S. Treasury debt, for example. At nearly $17 trillion, this is the world’s largest pile of obligations. If you exclude Treasury obligations held by the U.S. government and the Federal Reserve, 54% of the remaining obligations are held by foreign creditors. And these foreign debts continue to grow rapidly – at about $500 billion annually.

Debt service on these obligations allows our foreign creditors to continually buy America’s best assets. Today, foreign creditors directly own and control U.S. assets worth more than $25 trillion. That’s roughly a third of all the wealth in America. And that’s far more than what Americans own overseas: Americans only own about $20 trillion of foreign assets.

Every year that goes by, our foreign rivals will earn more on their American assets than we’re able to earn on our foreign investments. They will grow wealthier and wealthier… while we become poorer and poorer in comparison.

As Warren Buffett famously said about this situation 10 years ago: “We have entered the world of negative compounding – goodbye pleasure, hello pain.”

How did this happen? Why is it continuing? And why is it almost certain to lead to an enormous currency crisis? The story starts with One Chase Plaza…

In 1957, America was the most powerful country in the world. We controlled roughly 75% of all of the world’s economic activity, and we owned the three most important corporations in the world: General Motors, Exxon (Standard Oil), and Chase Bank (the Rockefeller Bank). Our country’s products – like the ’57 Chevy – were the finest available in the world. We dominated every foreign competitor in manufacturing, energy, banking, and just about every other industry, too.

At the time, you might recall, our dollar was literally as good as gold: By international agreement, our foreign creditors could exchange their dollars for gold for $35 per ounce at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York. This firm limit on the value of the dollar protected the middle class in America, guaranteeing that every wage-earner in the economy would share in gains from increased productivity. As productivity increased, the dollar bought more goods and services. As a result, real after-tax income increased. What was good for GM actually was good for America, too.

The firm value of the U.S. dollar also protected America from the temptation of credit. By linking the dollar to gold, expansion of credit required an increase in gold reserves. Under these rules, the supply of additional gold bullion (through new production or trade) limited the banks’ ability to create new credit.

This made credit expensive (in real terms) and encouraged savings. Those savings then powered stable investment into our economy. Thus, the U.S. government debt actually declined in 1957, falling by $2.2 billion. Surely, no sane person in 1957 imagined that would be the last time the total debt of the U.S. government would ever again decline on an annual basis.

In 1957, work also began on the first modern skyscraper in lower Manhattan. Commissioned by legendary banker David Rockefeller, One Chase Plaza featured space-age materials (anodized aluminum panels) and soared 60 stories high. Covered in glass, it reflected light, unlike the older sandstone buildings around it that absorbed light. The building would serve as a glowing new headquarters for Chase Bank. It was a towering statement proclaiming the bank’s growing influence around the world.

Even today, One Chase Plaza is a signature piece of New York real estate. It remains the 15th-tallest building in Manhattan. Surrounded by Pine, Liberty, and Nassau streets, it offers tenants a direct connection to the Nos. 2 and 3 subway trains. It is even thought of as a key part of the infrastructure of the United States – housing the largest privately owned bullion vault, five stories underground.

Winston Churchill remarked that “we shape our buildings; thereafter they shape us.” Just 10 years after the completion of Rockefeller’s global banking trophy at One Chase Plaza (construction was completed in 1961)… the link between the dollar and gold would be permanently broken.

Richard Nixon closed the gold-exchange window in 1971. America reneged on its debts to foreign creditors. Even more important, banks no longer had to back up their loans with reserves linked to gold. Now, all public and private credit would be backed by “Federal Reserve notes” – so-called “fiat,” or paper, money.

As a result, banks no longer faced any physical limit to how much credit they could extend. And the U.S. dollar no longer had any firm value. Nothing guaranteed the real value of wages. Nothing linked increases in productivity to increases in wages. Nothing protected the middle class from the rising tide of inflation… or the soaring power of the banks.

You can see how the change is destroying the middle class. Today, gains in productivity benefit our creditors… not our wage earners. Take a look at this chart, based on one originally published by the Economic Policy Institute think tank. Based on Bureau of Labor Statistics figures, the chart shows the cumulative growth in hourly productivity for the total economy compared with cumulative growth in inflation-adjusted hourly compensation…

These changes transformed our economy and the nature of capitalism itself. No longer would our economy be driven by investments fueled by savings. Instead, our economy is funded by debt.

Debt of every kind has soared. Measured in inflation-adjusted dollars, America’s total debt has increased from $5 trillion in 1957 to more than $60 trillion today – a 12-fold increase. Meanwhile, our gross domestic product has only increased from $2.5 trillion to $16 trillion, a six-fold increase. As a nation, we’ve mistaken credit-fueled booms for true prosperity.

But there is a major difference, of course. Credit must be repaid. While real prosperity leads to greater abundances, increasing debt produces greater burdens. The cost of servicing our debts has become so large that our creditors now routinely buy our country’s best assets using the debt-service payments we send abroad. Ironically… the “butcher’s bill” of servicing our debts now includes the iconic building that launched America’s credit bubble.

On August 16, the New York Times broke the story that One Chase Plaza was for sale. JPMorgan Chase & Co., the successor entity to David Rockefeller’s bank, was shopping the building through CBRE, the international commercial realty firm. Speculation at the time was that the building might be converted into condominiums and fetch $1 billion. Last Thursday, news broke that Fosun bought the building for $750 million.

And so… America has become just a little bit poorer. Our ability to generate wealth has been marginally decreased. One of Manhattan’s most valuable buildings has been sold. The rents will now be sent overseas to China. The real earning power of our currency has declined just a bit.

For now, the changes seem small and have such a minor impact that hardly anyone notices. But the compounding nature of this shift in wealth is incredibly powerful and very, very hard to stop. Over time… real wages will continue to fall. Over time… our ability to service our debts without additional inflation will erode. (That’s why the Fed can’t stop its bond-buying program of quantitative easing.)

One day, no one knows when, the world will simply decide that we’re not creditworthy anymore. We will have burned too much of the family furniture trying to keep our house warm.

On that day, you won’t want to be holding U.S. dollars or Treasury bonds… or be dependent on the U.S. government. When that day comes, people will look back on the sale of One Chase Plaza and realize… it was one of the last, most obvious warnings, that something had gone badly wrong with America.


Porter Stansberry

How Did Bible Study Go?

It went very well. I also left Pastor Jonathan Shin my bumper sticker
and previous writing about Christianity.

Well, religion itself has been a part of a lot of my writing, whether as a journalist
or a poet.

I made a bumper sticker in 1988. I still have a few left. It was an important reminder
to those who somehow claim to be “Christian” but then end up to be pro-war, pro-greed
and using church coffers (collection plates) to fund US military operations in Nicaragua
at least back when the sticker was made.  The U.S. Congress had outlawed any more money going to the Contras, so The Mission Street Ministry and its “Moral Majority” took up the cause.

The man raising millions of dollars and buying planes so that guns and soldiers could be flown to war was a major Evangelical “Christian” named Jerry Falwell, who had Liberty University and bankrolled very conservative pro war, pro greed candidates for the U.S. Senate also.

The sticker? It says:

Jesus Is A Liberal

God is and should be pragmatic, but Jesus, according to the bible I’ve read many times, was a
liberal, pro-environment, socialist, pacifist, anti-war Son of God.

That’s why in the USA I attend the Quaker Church. It has strong working groups that actively tackle the problems of the poor, initiate peace rallies every time the USA starts another war (The USA has created 91 wars since World War II, all under “Christian” Presidents with “Christian” legislatures backing them up).

The only President who said “NO WAR!” was John F. Kennedy,who did not see any reason to KILL innocent people in Vietnam just because their had a different style of government. He was Assassinated for that belief. And Lincoln was shot for his belief that “Christians” should not own slaves.

There is little left of the 3000 cultures, languages, tribes that lived WITH NATURE in the United States before the “Christians” came and killed them all. My mother’s family are farmers and Native Americans. With all the Treaties that have been broken, you can understand why she was skeptical about whether Christians can live up to their word.

If I become a member of Gwangju KyoHoi I will ask to start two working groups. One would be an anti-war and anti-greed group, the other would be a group that works day and night to end prostitution in Gwangju.

Those are two of my ideas as a novice Christian. Christians should be stronger than pirates and thieves.

Capitalism has lowered the value of labor by moving its factory jobs to the cheapest labor it could find, at the expense of all the workers in the USA and Europe that used to be able to raise families on factory work. At least 40 million jobs from the USA have moved to cheaper labor, thus allowing massive greed at the top, while decimating the middle class of the developed countries,and assuring there never will be a middle class in China, Vietnam, Philippines, etc. This is Greed, supported by government laws that give tax breaks to those
who move jobs OUT. (Perpetuating the lowering of the value of labor and greedy profits for those at the very top of the money pile.)

And the USA is famous for moving factories into countries just AFTER a War, or using Freeport-McMoran and other USA companies to rebuild countries we’ve decimated (at the expense of the losing countries too!), or moving factories in after decimating economies via absurdly restrictive IMF loans that often get swallowed up by corrupt officials at the TOP but must be paid back by the very poorest who pay taxes at the BOTTOM. This assures USA industrialists more and more poor countries to find cheap labor in. All put together by
men and women who go to Christian church on Sunday. Oh we can do better.

I hope my point of view fits in well with the Korean Baptists Church’s point of view. So far it seems like it does.

Your favorite Socialist, “People over Profit”
PS I am sure you agree that those who claim Christ was conservative are bearing false witness, right?

The Importance of Creativity

Open Secrets, Top Secrets...poemsbelow

Open Secrets, Top Secrets

The Importance of Creativity

By Doug Stuber, Visiting Assistant Professor, English Language and Literature

There is a great book by Rollo May called “The Courage To Create.” Its preface says, in part:

“How did Homer, confronting something as gross as the Trojan War, fashion it into poetry which became a guide for the ethics of the whole Greek civilization?”

Creativity has been a sub-theme of certain conversation classes because it takes real bravery to have a creative life in Korea, yet many still do. To be creative is to risk that no one will like your work, that the official critics will gather and put your work down, that you will be poor, that friends and family alike will not understand your decision to forgo the mainstream lifestyle of earning regular money from an employer which remains the same for life, or for as long as you can stand the job, whether it is creative or not.

Many high-salary jobs, of course, are creative, whether designing new PC Games, making movies, designing clothing or being the curator of an art museum. But something unusual is happening in Korea these days that would make pursuing one of these unlikely careers more likely: 27% of the recently hired university graduates in South Korea are quitting their jobs in less than a year. It’s amazing, considering how hard it is to get a job now.

Being creative has always been likened to being a monk in Asia. You have to be disciplined…in yesteryear that meant mastering calligraphy, poetry and painting. It meant having a life completely immersed in creativity, your soul connected to nature, and perhaps a regular tea, sometimes with friends, and a small garden, or large garden.

These days creativity need not be so reclusive, but the best creative types do spend an awful lot of time alone honing their craft(s). Creative people often lead meager lives…the old rumor is that the first painter do die rich was Picasso. Most of the famous classical music composers were also poor at the bank while providing humanity with a very rich legacy.

KPOP music has given many people an outlet to earn money performing. Their level of creativity will be measured by how long the niche continues, but there are signs it is devouring itself, as one band repeats another band’s melody or motif. The creativity part of music is the songwriter, and too many times the songwriters (especially lyricists) have nothing important to say anymore. These creators are constricted by the norms of “popular,” and thus an entire generation has been robbed of protest music, and outlets for driving social change via creativity.

In the 1950s even the poets (USA) held big sway in the culture, in the 60s through the 90s the poets who could transform their words into music managed to gather multitudes and change society. Which creators will be the ones to point out the wrongs of government and the injustice of capitalism now? How much longer must wage-slavery dominate the earth before the creative types scream out against it?



The most Heinous thing about the pension cuts is that those legislating the further cuts are so rich they don’t need a pension. Their 401 (k)s are supplemented by millions in investments that, though taxable, use loopholes as simple as trust funds to evade taxes for two out of every three generations.

The Federal Reserve Bank (a private bank) can order up $85 million per day to be printed and,in effect,shipped directly into the New York Stock Exchange,thus propping up investments while foreigners and smart Americans get out. Yet, even while there is ALWAYS money for an increasing number of wars, we can’t find a way to salute our workers with a retirement?

Add rotting schools,expansion of jails, the shipping out of more and more jobs, and you end up with Detroit, Watts, Rochester, Buffalo….and we haven’t even made it to the U.S. Debt!

Paulson saved the bankers as a last great “feat” of eight years worth of Bush et al. Progressives do not amount to 1% of the US Congress. Retirees and Veterans may lead the list of those with grievances, but the robbing of the American work force is vast and complex and there is no sympathy for the wage slaves elsewhere,or the jobs lost here.

Gather with friends and grow your own food. Teach your children how to also.

Naturalist Spirituality Tenets Handed down or heard around Canandaigua

1) Always make everyone in the tribe feels that their contribution to the tribe is the most VITAL to the continued success of the tribe. Even to its survival. The Chief would visit the man who tied the knots in the cat gut to form the left edge of lacrosse sticks. This man had a low mental capability, but if it were not for his good part of the sticks, the young men could not learn to be warriors,and if not for strong warriors, the tribe could be enslaved, or worse, wiped out. He would help the man in a welcoming spirit.

2) Follow your dreams. Those who do not follow their dreams can become a burden to themselves and others because they will be angry and frustrated by denying their true heart. Wake up and do as your dreams suggest you to do. Support those who are following their dreams.

3) All Living things are their own God. From the pebble and skipping stone to humans, everything has been given the power by the Creator to do certain things. Some grow strong and honor their abilities, others wither and die, thus wasting the opportunity they have as living things on this planet (the Turtle that flies through the universe). Honor the Creator and become as strong as you can,so that you might help others become strong. Be happy so that you might show others the importance of happiness. Respect every living thing. If you eat a deer or bear, pray for thanksgiving that you have taken the life of another of the Creator’s creatures just so you could stay alive. Honor this by using every single part of the slain God to further human life. Human beings are the highest life form. We have a responsibility to steward the land and the animals…the other Gods that live with us. A man who is cruel to animals will not make a good husband.

4) Life is half work and half play. Work hard and play hard. Having fun is a way of showing homage to God for the life you have been given. Have fun in public, so others can join.

5) Be generous.

6) Making life is the highest homage to the Creator. This continues the cycle. Making love is the highest prayer. Give thanks and pray every day.

7) When we die we go back to the Creator. Some with their heads held high, others in shame, for a bad life. All living things go back to the arms of the Creator when they die, because he created Human Beings, and is fully aware that some will do better than others. Still, the creator welcomes you home, so do good things and make the Creator happy to see you.

8) The three goddesses that feed us are Corn, Squash and Beans.

9) The family lines are traced back through the mother’s ancestry.

10) The chief are men,but ONLY women can vote on who will be chief. The reason for this is simple: a man can and will cut deals with groups of men in order to get their votes. This is not likely in a group of all women,even if a woman was running for leader. This is because women will publicly denounce anyone who is trying to win elections by making deals. Even more to the point: if a man walks into a house where the women are considering a vote, and tries to make a deal with a group of women, they would immediately speak up and accuse him of being a fraud,and he would stand no chance of winning. Only Women Shall Vote.

11) Large decisions require a meeting of all the tribes…usually at Bare Hill. Only a unanimous decision shall create a new way. If even one 12-year-old disagrees with the decision she should say why,and further discussion shall take place until everyone agrees.

12) Dedicate your life to helping others.

And then somehow I wrote this:

Ode to Horace Mann
Be ashamed to die until you have won
some victory for humanity. Horace Mann

Be aware that energy is life, save some for your kids.
Be afraid that our minds are bent by news not books.
Be awed by the healing power of the simple purple cone flower.
Be amazed that after four short years she knows so much.
Be awake before the bombs drop, before the money rules.
Be agile: live in a town that walks and bikes to work and play.
Be amused by ants and birds, goats and potato fields, lilacs and sycamores.
Be angry only long enough to solve the problem, then move on.
Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity.

Christian for Christian

Two Chats worth noting

“I see,” she said.
“I want to see but my anger blinds. I want to feel but my body is numb. I want to hear but the machines are too loud. I want to taste but she won’t let me. I want to understand but my brain only works in its own language so I am alone in a sea of people. I can swim, but to where?”

And another one: “Receive your lord!!!!!”

“Oh my lord is Handsome Lake, the Iroquois (Haudenosaunee) naturalist who would point out these spiritual realities: 1) that the creator gave everyone the power to solve their own problems 2) that all living things are gods with the ability to flourish or wither, thus do what they can to prosper or fail 3) that every living thing goes back to meet the Creator when it dies. The creator made this planet, thus he would not banish anyone, since the creator made everyone. We all go back to heaven when we die. Some with their heads held up, others shamefully for a life poorly led. 4) that to follow your dreams is the most important task because those who do not become a burden to others because they are frustrated or angry because they did not follow their dream. 5) to make everyone in the tribe feel like their contribution is vital to the survival of the whole tribe, no matter what they are able to contribute. To be welcoming, understanding, and to take interest in the different way people do things. To celebrate each human being’s way they live life, as each way is ordained by the Creator. 6) to be creative…to think of new ways of making things, and different ways of doing things, just as the Creator has.7) to make love is the highest form of homage to the Creator. To bring another life into the world and care for it, and teach it and nourish it, is to do the work the Creator expects us to do, thus continuing the wonderful life made for us here on earth. 8) each day should be half work and half play. Play is one of the things the Creator gave us our lives to do. No play leads to a miserable life. A miserable life can become a sad life, and become a burden to one’s family and clan and tribe. To avoid misery, play.”

Balls, Pebbles, Sand philosophy via H.K.

A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, he wordlessly picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was. The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.
The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full.. The students responded with a unanimous ‘yes.’
The professor then produced two Beers from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed..
‘Now,’ said the professor as the laughter subsided, ‘I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things
—-your family, your children, your health, your friends and your favorite passions—-and if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house and your car..
The sand is everything else—-the small stuff. ‘If you put the sand into the jar first,” he continued, “there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff you will never have room for the things that are important to you. Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Spend time with your children. Spend time with your parents.
Visit with grandparents. Take your spouse out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to clean the house and mow the lawn. Take care of the golf balls first—-the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand.
One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the Beer represented. The professor smiled and said, ‘I’m glad you asked.’ The Beer just shows you that no matter how full your life may seem, there’s always room for a couple of Beers with a friend

Open Secrets, Top Secrets,Copyright Doug Stuber 2013.

Back Cover of Open Secrets,Top Secrets

Back Cover of Open Secrets,Top Secrets

Open Secrets, Top Secrets...poemsbelow

Open Secrets, Top Secrets…poemsbelow


Here are the poems. Book Available directly by

contacting Doug at


Open Secrets then Top Secrets


Wheel of Fate
Global Can of Whoop-Ass Open for Business
Division of Labor in Korea
You Know the Face
Lady Recruiter
Ross and Ferdi
A. Stuber
W.J. S.
Catherine Faulkner Spellman
W.C. S.
Nancy Lyn Stuber
Delmar Spellman
Jim Heriot
Jack Spellman
Nude Joo
Thomas A. Stuber
GD ****
Yobo III
James Hyuntay at Five
KBM ****
April 7, 8, 9, 2013
GW, M.D.
Lorant Forizs
LI, M.D.
Stop Driving Cars!
Roy Buchanan
R “H” R
Reality Drill, Spring 2013
4 November 2011, 7 May 2013
Activating Young Haves
Seoul, Oh; So Low; Solo
The Dating Game
The Dream
Blossom Picking
Onward Native Sons!
L aka BH
Merritt A. Cleveland
Margot Cleveland
Charles Stuber
Marjorie S. Cleveland
Paul Heiner
Leo Garel
Bud Shaw
EC “S” C
Invitation to Live
J “L” V
YLJ 191st poem


Play II, Thirty Five Years Later
Chilly Day
Yonge Street Strut
Sapphire Valley
For Smiley
Welcome Back
121 Curves to Happiness*
After a two month
Paradise Lost
Hyoung Jung walks
Mudslide Slim
We’ve woven a web, you and I,
We Don’t
Ode to Kwang Sook Park
Carpe Nostrum (Seize the Night)
Ruth walks in
Heat vents twirl
Truffaut here
Female crane lands on
Zen Dye, Sendai, Send Die
First Grub, Then Play
When facing the loss
Better off Red?
Spring 2011 Gwangju, South Korea
Eunheungsa Two: 8 November 2011
She steps off the bus, my heart aflutter, I crash two
Foul smelling fish juice
Scattered fan-shaped leaves
Grievances outweigh
Saint Valentine pulls
Pittsford, N.Y. Meets Gwangju, R.O.K.
Live Strong
Blaring heat
New Navy Base Horrors
Witness: monk
April 7th Poem, 2012
Blibity Blah, Blibity Blee
It’s Your Duty
“Excuse me
Gang Bang
Gwangju, Korea
Mayan Angelou Prophetic Calendar of Events
My love she lives so close to me,
Labor Day 2012
News Poem #246
Now the blossoms fill the space
Redbuds bloom
Soul Rumble
Stuber Haiku* Labeled “Dad”
Buddha’s No Rae Bang
Kiri pays
Decade dream remains
Does one blushing smile,
Yang Overload
Tae Kyung appears to
Loose fitting
Scraggly crag,
Fieldstone stacked to make
Cooking smell,
You could see
Copenhavn Logo “Have a Good Time”
Copenhagen 2
Memories of Drottninghoff
Skansen Travelogue
Three In Three
Bulgarika 2

Nikolay and Marina

(Bulgarika 4)
Boat Dinner Dance
Hamburgers Come From Hamburg
Fruit Comes from Frankfurt
View From Train Window
Thirty-Four Hour Day
Fog portends hot day
Dark mountain causes
Two merchant types get
Few examples can
Large peach from
24 October 2012
Little Bear
It Happened One Autumn
Gwangju Christmas 2012
Christmas love
Pale orange
New world closed system prevails
A tall girl


Here are the poems. Book Available directly by

contacting Doug at


W. G. Stuber

He started so young, married
well, won awards, got
invited north, Louisville
had served to launch the strongest
Stuber. He

worked famous
twenty hour days,
raised one son to carry on,
bought a gas
station, closed it

for his own supply during
rationing, forced the
same alcohol concoction
on guests, remained on the board
until he

was over
ninety, fixed the whole
machines in France rather than
allow a
new one, and patents!

never his goal, achieved by
hard work, and
more hard work made us
the most well-known clan

in the town’s
history. Why? Because we
kept going,
just like he did, when
Strong Eastman lines died.

Wheel of Fate

Black always
suffices, even
on alpine floppy
hats in old
Gwangju. Complicated math

is required: figures
beyond earth
stroll, hypocrites preach
to children but they
know: strayed already

avoided early parenthood
by pure luck or smarts.
Some big mouth
goes down: broke domestic rules

so cunnilingus,
which was all
he had left, has been
taken away. The death
of intimacy

proves Karmic
payment is never really
complete, as
“it’s over” rings in
Ears, eyes tear, son laughs

No knowing
why a grown man would ever
be so full
of emotions. Ten
years down, where is up?

Global Can of Whoop-Ass Open for Business

Rebels yell to topple greed, are met with chopper bullets.
U.S. backs whoever will succumb to our whims and needs.
Begging babies balance the gated communities, but when
the war machines arrive and you are on your knees, remember
heaven’s not so bad, better than hell on earth. What makes
me sick is how the rich enslave, engulf, enrage, and how
the protest only changes the uniforms of the palace brigade.
So gather Quakers, Buddhists, environmentally concerned, and
keep your village quiet or it to will be among the burned.
If you’re lucky and your jobs afford a safe neighborhood,
your children might find learning fun, and play in rapt awe
of the creek or woods. But most scrape basketball knees
on concrete, stay home electronically, watch this or that
cop show on CBS, as if that’s what police do. It’s not. S.A.T.
scores flounder in the nine-hundred range, community college
recruiters land another private , or criminal willing to “play
cop” so as not to get caught. Upward money flow decimates
once-proud middle class so more become desperate, shoot school
children, parents, rival drug dealers, and the N.R.A. begs blacks
to join so they can shoot at their own government’s police.


The steam age
takes a respite as
Bulmers cider flows, mini
dresses skip to meet old mates,
where the heat grows new skin.

Smoke, unshaved beanie
cap wearing hipsters
mingle with
newbies, freshly off
some flight to teach in

Gwangju. Alcohol
lubes the stress of massive shock
delivered by an ancient
culture: boxes in

more boxes; Russian
multi-boxed life for
used to breaking the
rules. Many end up

jailed here as
they forgot to research their
new surrounds.
Others, used to free
love, find none or pay.

But all men
pay, long or short term
right? It’s the
disadvantage of
hormones far astray.

Division of Labor in Korea

Her heart ticks, his lungs push energy with the
excitement a third grader gets when paired
with the chosen mate. “But she chose me, so
I’m not sure I love her,” he says, at age nine:
primed to be the most popular, he was class
president last year. But isn’t being popular a
curse that leads to egomania, especially in Scorpio
males? The wind pushes elementary walk, three
hundred meters to paradise, then, fore me, on to
a different type of classroom full of students
whose every grades determines career path, marriage
eligibility: attractiveness measured by diligence in
class, looks once out the door. Just like the apex
of suitability, the college entrance exam, one’s grade
point average makes or breaks job interview status.
Forget football star, chess club, five thousand hours
Of community service, it’s all about grades here, so
the East/West cultural divide hits early, say age four.
The East, so good at mimicking and selling products,
the west at developing new ones. Global but unequal.

You Know the Face

He’s eleven, lived on the streets of this city his whole
life. No one knows how he made it to age five, but from
then on, he’ll tell you, he’s been hustling change, doing small
favors, cleaning shoes or out-elbowing competitors to clean wind
screens, with or without a tip. He has shoes now, knows where
to go to get craft supplies to make trinkets to sell, but there’s
a big hole in his heart. He’s not sure what he’s missing, doesn’t
know how limited his vocabulary is, yet most days as happy as any
other child. Well, as satisfied as those around him are on five
hundred calories of begged food per day, on average. His global
contemporaries are mastering division, or the left hand of piano
music, or working the farm, or playing baseball, or glued to TV,
or rescuing some PC-game princess, or solving puzzles, or riding
bicycles, or teasing their younger sister, or signing up for gangs, or
swimming, or losing a fight to the school bully, or Skyping friends
during class, or traveling through Europe with their families (boring
at that age, for sure) or parring their first par four. But not him, no he’s
working twenty hours, worn through his shoes, blistered by sun, frozen
in February. Searching to fill that hole, but with what? Some might
guess love, others safe shelter. He figures regular meals would suffice.

Lady Recruiter

She, again tires of her shield-boy, you know
the one who is the current boyfriend, in order to
shield her line of work. The workers are uniformly ladies,
the customers, men. So, our heroine must never be discovered
since she would have to leave the country. The way she
switches “cover” men is by making them very angry
in public. She might kiss another man, or have her
boyfriend continually buy dinner and drinks for an ever-
expanding group of her friends and co-workers. As his money
keeps flowing to her whole stable, the anger turns to
rage and they “break up.” The problem is, it isn’t just the
men she is “dating” who get mad, but the men she picks
randomly to use as a wedge. Fights break out as five
men buy her drinks at the same bar, none of them her
“boyfriend,” who arrives later, into a trap of many men
Expecting something from her, to the dismay of the man who
Is only minutes away from seeing the aforementioned kiss.
Modus Operandi maximus cum stupido. So she plies her
trade in three different cities, oh, such a sad fate.

Ross and Ferdi

She stood with two-year-
Old child, one
Guilder to her name,
so Dad took
her in, watched as she ate raw

buttered radishes.
Being Dutch, she reveled in
child’s play, so
Ross and I did just
that, on bicycles, in the

water, at soccer
putting on
toweling off shows
as we danced
through Bushnell’s Basin to points

far gone. Twenty five
years later a reunion
near Blackies-
by-the-Sea in warm
Costa Mesa provided

a chance to
know his wife, eat with his Mom,
camp out, while
caddying on the L
PGA tour. I

heard mother
and son moved back to Holland
as his Grand
parents aged. Orgies
of fun all around.

A. Stuber

How can a
kid not love a man
who gives out gifts on
his own birthday? He
also read history

a trick my
father uses to
prolong his
hold on earth. Gramp was
also busy, but got to

be a great
golfer, a sport whose
torch skipped to Margot
and Mike. We visited him
in Naples twice a year and

his son got
married at sunset
in his house
so he could attend.
Mr. Stuber, a Cornell

no one ever saw him sad.
He was too
Busy boating with
Doyle, chasing skirts as

men do, toasting life, nudging
children to
do better via
carrot on a stick.

W.J. S.

Then came Dad, the soft
spoken hero who
had more trials than Salem
and Assisi put
together. How did

you do it?
Trust me, most of the
hells your children went through are
still hidden
from you, yet you’ve seen

enough to make one
thousand moving films,
the ones your Dad helped
Edison refine.
The Greeks never came

up with such
sad tales, but here you
are still smiling, maybe thanks
to your love,
Lori, or stubborn

Desire to
Make sure the three boys survive
Without a
Whisper of hassles
From within. Houses

And guns have
been your collections. Who would
deny you
any pass-time that
could keep your heart free?


Bridge hostess, she loved
Tanqueray, fast cars,
a good laugh, since years of sad
yet dedicated
nursing of her sons

drained the life
from her as surely
as forty
cigarettes per day.
Five years in the hospital

is what saved her third,
and she almost gained
as much post-marriage life as
she had fighting it
out with eternal

(Dad). The fights ended
when others
were around, so he
saw to it they were. Damage

of all kinds
ensued: collateral, trite,
emotional too,
but we all survived

except Tad.
When he died she said “my job
is done,” as
Eastman had. One last
wheelchair-smoke, sunset.

Catherine Faulkner Spellman

“Gosh all hemlock” she’d
say, taking us kids
back a generation or
two. “Wait ‘til the Moon
Shines Nellie,” she’d hum

the way Harry James played horn.
Her husband played too,
and mellophone and
knew the notch was on his door
so hobos would stop in to

feast on her stretched meals.
If you failed to say
“hello,” she’d be offended,
Say “you could at least
Tell me to drop dead.”

Her children, often sad, as
their father died young,
had interesting
lives: wild yet so human, and
grandkids wilder yet, untamed

by normal
corporate constraints, living their
own way, led
by the power she
conveyed, the power

to trust our
instincts, know nature, bake a
great pie, cry
when you had to, but
hum the blues away.


Only one friend saw me run
off then waited to buy Dad’s
H and O set, you
knew I would be back for Mom’s
meal. Only one made sure I

walked off the
altar, part of the number
two wedding in Rochester
alone, but still a

member, one knee bent among
Oak Hill’s finest, singing to
the new bride: “you lost
that loving feeling: without
knowing the words, waiting to

clip the tail
off some pompous hired
gun, but no…your eighth ace, at
the Monroe

Tad was there,
and you came seeking growth stocks
to a land
where big swallows small
before growth happens,

said either
one was worth ten times the fee
as manure
course got in the way
of conversation.

W.C. S.

Billy, the elder,
eldest man to have
a child I
ever knew, proves man
hood is more than just taking

any job to keep
the family fed.
Indeed, you
cut your own path and
taught me how

to follow my heart.
You were right!, as the
nurtures those who use
their god-given skills to solve

their own problems, no
need for church, just
prayer, and
hard work. Yes, our clan
knows how to

work, suffers
the loss of children better
than most due
to diligence and
brain power to spare.

I never
Beat you in chess. I’ll settle
For a draw
In love though. How is
Irene? And the kids?

Nancy Lyn Stuber

She survived
hepatitis C
for twenty one years,
she mentored hundreds off of
alcohol and drugs.

She wrote long letters
when I was stressed out,
she loved all
she met, thus taken

of in schemes,
love, even death. Her
happiness was a
neat house, pet dogs, holocaust
memorial at

Monroe C.C., where
public relations
men also
tried to warp her words.
she never

stopped giving
so people took, yet her smile
stayed alive
long after she knew
she’d been scammed because

she knew the
needs of others, having been
through every
type of misery.
Love was all she sought.


Boat hoist diverted what could
have been a strong
career as concert
pianist, but quick
change to church

hymn composer and
along with major

for mother, husband, sister
med Bev “family
need.” Don’t worry aunt,
we knew and

them all: the worst
day bloody
Korea offered
is wiped clean

just with a
thought of how good you are. How
is Tracy?
Bike rider, vocal
Coach and professor.

How could my
family be so different
than yours? I
learned a lot in “Spring”
seventy six. Smile.


Another day without an
email from me, the ingrate.
If not for you, would
I have activated or
advocated for earth, peace,

common sense;
or walk to work, bus
downtown? No. Golf would have been
my time-wasting salvation.
Please know your beliefs

spread to students here where the
worst forms of feudal systems
remain: dependent
on nuclear energy
more than any other “land.”

I’m split here
in Korea, as
activism loses while
navy bases flourish. Be
calm, this too shall pass.

I hate that
weeks full of weltschmertz still hold
me back, that
I am ineffective
at most things except

writing and
loving. Love burns again but
I am with
you, honestly changed
by your strong actions.

Delmar Spellman

Delmar, the
tall, handsome one,
not the Coen brothers
character, would walk
from Pittsford to Webster, eight

miles, to earn a low
wage, return
home, and play and laugh
as if all was well in the
world. In his

world it was.
His carpentry earned
three houses, boats, and
an airplane! Good luck
doing that with a labor

job now. His
children were pressed
into adulthood
and my Mom took her chance on
a divorced

man, kind at
first, she had a musician
and Kodak
man, so Delmar, all
you need know now is

that they all
did well, laughed when they could, broke
bread at the
lake, carried on through
horrific trials.


Moss, hair flying due
to rear perch on motorbike
going seventy two miles
per hour
on route four ninety.

charming, caring, wild,
but not around the
girls, she picked

relieving me of
a duty I did not want
to relinquish, so Tad got
double love,
which he deserved, due

to running
battle with our Mom.
Amy can
achieve wealth
quickly which

leaves time to
be a great parent: she learned
from the best.
Some people are born
to give. She never

tires because
she taps deep energy to
make sure
everyone else is
OK. Thanks Amy.

Jim Heriot

His Beemer twelve hundred bike
tipped off road
strangers and
second cousins alike that
his life would be

on his terms,
take it or leave it.
His wild child bride could
hardly keep pace, but he once
approved a hitch-hike

for a wayward fifteen-year-
old who was
psychotic from his
adolescent shrink’s
office around the

corner from Canon’s, meaning the
vodka lunch was a
bit too convenient. So I
hitched three rides to make

it to the chosen place, Canandaigua.
What now James?
Can’t get your signal
man, are you alive

out, up and
away there, or, has release
from this realm
allowed enough peace
to soberly rest?


Brother Mike,
fell for the old trap
and bait. Guns and sleds, clubs and
women, one life to live, one
head to head collide

away from
bliss, but nothing as
the Talking Heads proved, for
sure, nothing ever happens

in heaven.
So here we are still
Stressed by the past, relieving
It every way we can, and
Now I spend all day

At the range
so caddies won’t laugh at the twelve
who’s really a full
twenty four, so your group (?) is

not plagued by
an anchor who clobbers the
outward fours
on the large greens. But
there is more to golf

than golf. More
to life than we dare say, as
to mention
anything is a
sure buzz kill. Ace it!

Jack Spellman

Able to talk the coat off
An Eskimo, Jack had
every right
to his rage:
the V.A. treated

him to countless cuts
and experiments
in trade for the drugs
they had addicted
him to. Similar to

his homeless comrades he could
see on the
news, Jack could
also land
the ladies, fish in

Florida, crack wise
or flabbergast with
sarcasm refined
in the heat of World
War II. Once said I’d make a

owner a lot of money
due to thin
layer of peanut butter
on a sandwich I’d

made him. How
about his super-spicy
Touch lamps? Lincolns? Death,
surrounded by blacks?


She works hard,
manages to keep
the hard truth at bay, but, in
the process
loses a son’s love

while faithfully, in
pure love, following
the wishes
of her dying James
request. She could not

prevent this
eternal tear. So
retires, and
waits for a call she

may never get. The
superior brains
can devise
such realities,
leaving broken hearts

to bleed, torn
emotions to heal. But white
blood cells can’t
get at these types of
open wounds, so Chink

puts her best
face on the past. We all know
she’s got the
moxie, at five twelve
to endure and thrive.


Open, Meki, which
is the word
for October in the land,
of his birth.

Large, yet as
gentleman go, he’s
gentle. Dar got the
royal home-
made reception,

and a few years down
the road they
moved back to Yellow Springs to
find Antioch close
to closed down.

Bands, Ha-Ha
pizza and the News
keep retired air force
generals at
bay, even if they

seek local
office to impose “order”
on the last
bastion of logic,
compassion and an

respect for diversity,
earth, wild spare
grass, Horace Mann and
self-propelled movement.


truck, bike, and one
strong will to survive, Ron
fades away, but we
all want him back. He’s

supremely helpful and kind,
works harder than most,
but who knows
what he’s up
to these days. A born

loner, he can
easily be with
or without female,
so it’s down to his
job, and fulfillment

from within. The Spellman
split, notorious
for being
young and a
touch permanent

also seen
in your cousins Cathy,
Brett, Doug, makes
us all sad at times.
Nothing like a home

cooked meal to
soothe life’s trials, make fun of
both physical and
self-imposed. Come back!


We played cards
at your Beach Club meal,
a hint of major ups and
downs to come.
But one child, who knows

Just a touch about
life never waivered.
Never fell
for the bait, always
stuck by what must be

as hard a
life as ever lived.
Amazing how souls unite,
expand with time and

pop up in aspects
only by novels,
Faulknerian or

even from
Leipzig, by Goethe, twisted,
unreal, yet
soothing, as your life
proves it can all be

absorbed, lived
through, toughed out, tolerated,
yet with a
smile, a warm hug and
love intact…love wins.


Chicago art star,
Savannah M.F.
A., he blew into Gwangju
the same time
I did. We waddled

through culture shock but
remained this six years
because we
saw how well this place
works for its own people, while

constricting many
freedoms on the surface, while
of any affair,

political or
personal, as long as its
kept secret.
This mirrors our
beloved U.S. exactly.

So when he
couldn’t find a Korean
lady friend
he ventured to Thai
mountains and may yet
marry an
Asian, because, like some do,
he got tired
of thinking about
Western man’s bullshit.


Not many run off
to become a monk
at the age
of twenty. Found, and
forced back into the

flow due to
brothers who wouldn’t
take care of their Mom, she made
the most of
it: philosophy

major, out to save
the world, she also
possessed the
type of beauty you
can’t shape down at your

local nip
and tuck surgery
center. She posed for
a wayward professor, at lunch

when he could
not find a mate, told of her
woes in a
swap meet, and, until
her child came, stayed glued

to a rare
friendship in Korea, one
between a
student and this long
lost alien man.


His stylish dismount,
bicycle, swinging
one leg over then stepping
off lower

pedal, always on
the left side bespoke
prowess in
all sports. Trevor Court

had its share of jocks,
but only
one gained style points. A
lady catcher, pen doctor,

hockey star, he taught
his younger brother well.
We last met
at the club,
appropriate, yes,

though my verse
was not. Few get such a free
childhood, and
he made the most of
it. Maybe we all

did, but none
with the knowledge-base so
of discerning and
acquiring life’s joys.


I chased you
not just because you
were pretty and lived
next door, but because I was
the pervert who stood upstairs on

my private roof to
read from all
the hot sex books Mom
had around the house.
Libidinous by

birth, there you
weren’t, so I punted
to Nat Zartman once
sure I had no chance at all.
We’d stalk your babysitting,

Streak, at least for a
few seconds,
play strip tag in the
basement at Hitchcock’s
or Preston’s, and so

Many years
later still years for what was
never to
be. (was) I wonder
hot it all came out:

whether your
eternal smile is aflame
or buried?
Pure intentions were
Never meant to harm.


She stops, bright-eyed, yells
Doug! Long days
after Ju Hee joined her in
“interesting” English class
she still has what seems

to be a crush for
knowledge, lust
for life, desire to
try to squeeze any

into another
learning niche.
“What do you want to learn now?”
I think as we stand outside

Center’s aura by
only a
few meters, yet far
enough away to
safely smile,

talk about
the matters of the world: war
greed, the
usual lies and
hypocrisies. This

is why I
won’t forget you: your
quest to know
more plus natural
kindness, searching eyes.


Never, and
I mean never, has such
a beauty graced the eyes, dreams
of young men
at Allendale or

even the women
of Columbia School.
I bet she
never knew Joe and
I cross country skied through back

lots to hole
ten at C.C.R.
to watch you work out. It was
as good as
it gets for teenaged

“men” who had
yet to, but wanted
to prove all
on your (in your?) quite
amazing grounds. Come spring an

outside thought
would creep in. Could we ever
birdie ten
again if the green
itself had taken

our break? What
if either one of us had
the nerve to
ask? We all envied
those who gained your trust.


Every heart beats hard
first and foremost, but
that girl may
not be the one who
yields. So there you were

not the chased
one, but the loved one,
the attic dream come true but
interrupted by the man,
my second father,

who offered a ride
to the lake, but I
hitched out of
huge embarrassment.
Decades later, with

Your child there,
we ran across each
other at Wegman’s and you
were kind enough to
describe me as the
player from outside your lit
window, still
bouncing by streetlight,
yearning so hard, for

what I did
not know, only guessed about.
What a dream
You made. Don’t worry
I’ll be fine, Love, Doug.


Your husky alto
served notice
that though three were in
the Boston
Whaler, orgy was

those firm fifteen-year-
old D-cup breasts now spring forth
to titillate entire
bodies, not just the

erogenous zones. The
third that day,
young “ant bites,” made the
middle-man, a cross

of stunning
beauty and carnal
knowledge due to an older
sister and her beau Rob, who
used to paddle out

in a small
inflatable raft to the
exact place
the telescope, placed
on the patio,

could zoom in
on the “action” that often
led to one
or both in the water
cold enough to calm, quench.


An apple doesn’t
fall far from
the tree. Nor does a
rough start come
close to ensuring

a smooth-assed
finish, yet, between a
scoff-law and addict or
the reverse side of

wanders this father,
lover of
many, ne’er once pinned
down, returns
to Alabama

to avoid
detention, or big
law multiplied by fortune
to add up to more
trouble he

knows how to
deal with. Genuine rebel
aligned with
good astrology,
his path winds out long.

His children
now grown, surely not stress
causers, nor
marginal, two men
removed from past hells.


She poses again,
dances across the entire
floor, sees men
come then leave her, so
hurt, yet happy, able to

support her fours kids,
their father was so
unlucky he went and lost
her too! A
lawyer, a

mover, a shaker
but too often the loosing
end of
heart breaker. What can
you do to quench both heart and

body, soul and mind?
Now on year sic, up,
away and teary-eyed as
your children grow into

adults. No
way to afford his school and
then he drops
out anyway! Now
the girls are ready,

meaning you
must sweat your every choice, be
they dates, types
of fun, clothing or
if you will marry.


Ewha plus
Cambridge equals part-
time instructor in this place
maybe for
two reasons: mostly

your husband
is tenured,
and then how to teach
towers over what
to teach, fair enough, but not

in this type
department, which prides
itself on black suits, proper
schooling in
ideas over

basics. How
unfair is
that? So we strike up
a pro-labor friendship
that also produces an

Auden piece,
thus saving my tenuous
career, as
poetry, you knew,
would never count as

though literature still rules
our great school,
your light inspires all
persistent teacher.


and willing to test
yours if you expect to have
a high position.
Most wilt,

and change schools
if they even want
to stay here. Ah but
others rise to the

learn to be

discreet, keep
up and surpass all
expectations. His diverse
Center leads

culture tours,
guides aliens to
some degree of peace
outside the normal
alcohol-soaked once-

a-week fun
that passes for relief from
eight hour school
instruction days or
marriage: abusive

and their hapless mates rescued,
sent to a
support center. God
bless you sir. Rest now.


complete, curious,
in and out of love
but staying firm, she
camped out in the triangle

at Reiksmuseum
where it meets
Van Gogh, needing a
cash infusion, so
she avoids asking her Dad

and finds a
friend to lend his help,
fair dinkum as she
had turned him on to
translated country female

poets from the rice
growing lands
west of Suncheon. How
can he ever forget you?
The red sweater dress, those eyes,

well hidden
breasts, soft boyfriend, gypsy tales
three Czech beer
imbibes, career dream
come true via two

years slave to
the music world now doing
just what you
wanted. You followed
your dreams: few here do.


Allen Gray
is correct, you have
movie-star looks, loyalty
to a cause so hard to grasp,
ability to

make things work even
when so many
mess-up around you.
was one, but what a

laugh when Ho’s
motel photos were
captioned better than you or
I could, and flew past the censors!
Of course, being an

original type
in a land time left
behind, you
favored the message:

“Yo men, get
over yourselves, be faithful
like your wives’
have been in order
to better raise and

know your own
children, you idiots!” Then
there I was
torn to pieces in
your husband’s calm bar.


Sexy and
in full control of
she would and would
not do, she
caused so many to

fall in love, so few to find
what they were looking
for, but what
a blast we had on
the dance floor!

Blonde wigs, jock
girl is with huge laughs,
major draw, but with
on shield-man in tow builds
wall that could test not

just climbing ability
but also sheer balls
of those so
brave as to try the
steep ascent.

Did they get
full satisfaction? Oh I
guess “yes” they
did, but other than
one Heineken on

the benches,
I avoided your giant lure
and mighty
glad I did, as you
showed up in my class.


consumed experience
until all bike trips to see
wrongfully jailed paled:

causes, brilliantly
led, “evolved”
to studio in
Dae-In mMarket, then

switch from Honnam to
Busan and in-laws I’m sure
relieved you’d
dried out, might a right

proper woman of
their precious girl. It’s
a demanding place
and we went
it together at

what became
the most left-leaning journal
Gwangju will
see. Small differences,
semantics, really,

sometimes slowed
our otherwise equally
world view unsullied
by the nightly news.


She acts like
a boy, spells her name
like a boy, runs like
a boy, but
is all woman when

it comes to honest
caring about her
friends, hip gyrations on the
dance floor, and that deep
laugh that men here do

not know how
to accomplish. She
was part of the “group of six” on
the hunt for western

men, relaxed in her
new job answering
the phone for an organic
food cooperative
while not exactly

looking to
get married, deal with the sad
contempt bred
by knowing too much
truth about him, so

“him” changes,
sadness sets in, out-muscled
by gym time,
diligence on the
job, quiet yearning.


Backgammon, a game
you got about one
thousand points ahead in, served
to pass stress
away, since McGeorge

and smoke house were not
always available at
Holderness School. The
Marblehead crowd had
their own sources of

entertainment, which
consisted of car
rides home and pussy-drenched
ladies in
waiting. For the rest

of us, sports, dreams, and
illusions of summer had
to do. So curfew
was broken with bridge
until Burke or Mark

the Narc broke
it up just for something to
do. Almost
forty years later
and the visits live

on, each of
us with one son to dote on,
scold, pray has
the type of life we
were afforded: great.


His love, to mountain
climb, mixes with a
fine sense of painting, knowledge
brings to his life. He

pulled out a
bag of “anti-salt:”
anti-soju, which I had
downed seven bottles and two
beers, believing the

cute red ovals to
be plum juice. As each
table went up to speak, I’d
rifle their
supply and down it

without a
pour. I barfed for a half hour
right next to the waiting bus,
thus delaying high

members of
the Southwest Development
Council, and
embarrassing my
brother-in-law for

the very
first time, two weeks into
stay. Thanks Park
for your art, moons and
mountains, curing salt.

Nude Joo

She moves sand,
paints the sides of wood
blocks to make fake libraries
to discover a
child’s inner

beliefs and
emotional score,
tuning their engines
via creative projects
that do not

even hint at
accurate measure
of what should be done to calm
these TV, PC

stars who now
have to struggle to
learn in a place that
demands only test scores and

study days.
They have a singular chance
to follow
their dreams, since no one
will employ them at

higher than
taxi driver. “Art on” young
heroes of this
high-stress culture. Help
her to feel better.


He reads in
a room full of wild
generational flux, thus
the fray caused by some

disagreements that
occur in a boy,
girl, boy, girl,
boy household. When first
we met he built the fences for

our kitchen
garden out of small
branches, nails and string. Oh your
silence was
a lesson for a

loud mouth like me. A
loud mouth gets himself
and his kin
in trouble here, while
the calm man lessens problems.

When will I
learn? Quiet means less chance of
being a
hypocrite, more time
for writing, way less

big huge fights
as long as I can, like you
did, agree
to others’ plans for
me: forever loved.

Thomas A. Stuber

Each day we try to
tap your magic, kindness, your
tolerance and fulfillment
because you got the most out
of life, never got

in your own
way, put up with all
kinds of struggle to persist,
you turned life
into a whole new

adventure for friends
and unknowns lugs alike. How
bands did I know
thanks to you? By “know” I mean
quaffing ales back stage.

days cannot return,
life moved me to this edge of
the planet,
torn, not by what we

had, but by
my inability to
capture life
as well. So I write,
do you blame me, bro?

I have two
friends so strong and true to see
me through it:
young James Hyuntay, and
your inspiration.


Some tennis
coach teamed us up so
the year before, when
she chased me,
and I pulled a chair

down behind me, it was
sixth grade, and she tripped hard on
it, had to
be forgiven if
not forgotten. Priscilla

had grown so
large during the short
intervening June
she became
an instant “hit” with

her male classmates. But
I had the inside track at
Harley, that
is, until Durbin
and I published our newspaper.

Dad was so
impressed he ran off copies,
but the school
didn’t want to know
who was screwing whom,

who smoked pot,
or how angry she got when
I snapped her
bra strap; or how Chris
fingered Kim in class!


The tracks for
our absurd pen-race
car game were drawn in a style
Pollack or
Kandinsky might have

learned from. The winner
I would never get
laid. Right, but it was
a far-reaching bit

of Tarot
guess, as it hit long
after expected, further
away, and with a
life-changing set of

consequences, not
pimples: a
domestic war. You
drew cartoons all day,
then the time I said

the French had
two exes and no Y and
got kicked out
of class, or played “it’s
a buzzard” while

lockers, or being asked to
leave when sir
douche hated my hole
ridden jeans. Strike one!


Gray day turns
to black-out night as
the money ran out long, long
ago. At
least it afforded

Hoon a brief four years
of merriment as
evidenced by his
banner grades, string, nay rope, of
girl conquests.

Oh! The weird
way you got treated
by your own school, a major
still too pure to buy

an election. Pure
spelled poor because the
guaranteed job in
honor of your achievements
was denied on the

theory that
the other guy had bought a lot
of votes for
the eventual
winner. Retreat, sir,

beckons, each spring offering
away from the lies
that rule mainstream life.


Dominated by
those around me, I
am free of life’s burden:
making decisions.
In the past I struck

out, playing
music, flinging paint,
screaming for peace, teaching less
educated how
to read when

their governments’ failed
to: fought all aspects
of corrupt authority
with every ounce of
my troubled soul. Then

in a fit
of “true love” I gave
it all up for years just to
attain domestic
calm, but there

has not been
enough calm, the barter was
a bad deal
for everyone, my
rage boileth over,

and the whole
neighborhood knows. Can love win
again? Why
am I no good in
your eyes? Why me?


Karma bit
my ass the way a
Pit Bull bites, holds on, shakes at
the bull’s neck until
a huge hunk

of flesh drops him and
the bull. You were too nice for
me, I, like before
and since, turned
love into daily

battles to
the point when damage
exceeded positive tries
by you and your smart

to mend, heal, care, love.
Ten years away from final
goodbye and the slide
downward has
only had the joy

of my son,
my job, and those formerly
bright spots of
real love, before I
yet again turned a

once happy
home into a slow-motion
reply of
my childhood. Thanks for
trying to save me.

By Dooty Burber

He plays drums,
skates on the pond at
the side of the house,
cooks on a giant
grill with fieldstone chimney, and

eats unusual
items like
home-made donuts and
shares all games
from blind man’s bluff to pick-up

sticks. One day
out on the sail boat
maybe even too
too large for the smallest
finger lake, but a strong wind

blew and sunk this ship
so the whole
family fought
white caps and
swam ashore in the storm, not

the only
storm you faced, and still persist
through summer
log splits, house full of
children, long commutes

connection keeps forward thoughts
alive though
both know trials
in each other’s past.


She owed to
every artist who
ever showed at Sizl, but
it was a joy to
support her attempts

to survive
in a world only
partly in
tune with the
work she did to raise

her son, all
on the chance that some
homeowner would decorate
with the art she picked,
or made herself. No,

the final
struggle was not at
all about
making low
cash flow work, it was

about years
of being alone. Then home
among those
whose lives were exact
opposites of her

best clients.
Her last email? “all is well,
new boyfriend, moving
to better quarters.”


We can never let
loose of the time we
saved each other: me from pure
you from a drug-baked

user who
wouldn’t let go, so
finally you rid yourself
of the best sex you
ever had.

Mornings meant wheelbarrow
chores. Knowing my work
could only attain friendship,
which was all
we both needed. Yes

paintings flowed,
teahouse madness with
the Eileens and Phils of the
world, and mutual
wonder of

plants growing,
simple tea or coffee, beer
and sinful
lustful thoughts denied
for so long, one now

suspects it’s
too late, too much a part of
the best true
lover lady I
ever didn’t have.


She danced
around, could draw the
anatomy of
humans, heartache and

even cows
made of fiberglass.
Where now sister? Remember
The fourth of
July when you came with bags

of laundry
to do, or the art
colony you backed
out of? And
Paul, the picky dumb

ass, what was
he thinking? Your large
emotional spectrum was
a touch hard
to handle, except for those

with equal
experience; such lovers
burn out so
in short or long bursts.

Nothing could
ever fully grab you like
art, but your
blues singing, meld in
to Georgia, came close.


Carol and Tad set you up
with me, and we played
a reverse game of
lovers by
sleeping together,

causing all
to believe, while not
doing the deed, for a short
time at least, thus your
dignity and natural

propensity to be quite
sure before
commitment was quenched
Then what? Eleven

years flushed as
as soon as you got a
Beemer, your name on a house
and a reconnect
with Nick, step-brother, Oh West

came to roost on my head when
he called me
weak to my face as
he stole you away.

I hope he’s been good to you,
but the large
damage you put on
still infests you too.


Queen of Hope
jumps park benches behind
the Inn in Stockbridge. You got
great joy from
drawing me near, but

more from keeping me
at bay. So pool balls flew and
windows broke, ambulance took
me from an
open setting to

closed. Closed for
five more years, yet I
still can’t call you heartless, as
I was the
fool; on the heels of

major sucker-hood
it brought back paranoia,
the fear that no one would
even have
me, and no one did

for oh so
long. But there you were up the
valley from
Roanoke, still on
the farm, weed bags full,

horses fed,
allowing nude rope swing, but
again, just
a tease, me another
man to not dream on.


winner, Dillard’s wife,
purple scarf
for Allan
Chuse, you gave me the

nudge needed to keep
it going, never quit, go
out with a bang, ponder
life’s small and large questions
while also

lust angles
dreamt right in
class, satisfied at

night with others or
myself. Your prose poems proved
the two can meld; I never
believed it before your pen

us all. Your
hooded lips appeared, but
you did not
get the reference
be it ever so

juicy. Your
image, words, luck remain a
blast: a way
to bring the entire
experience back.


It’s never good to get a
student’s name wrong when
so progressive, but
blurt out the
name of the “other” sophomore

who is also proud ,
and an African
American, the same way
you and I are white,
stark raving whiteys.

Henry was smart to launch your
stories, your well-versed
first-hand knowledge on
display, and,
in a sea of books, impact

that resonates in
this scattered mind that
can’t remember what its mouth
ate for lunch. You looked

forward to
having an adjunct Doug as
I cleared out.
that one line meant more
than you imagined

as solid
ink-flow continues to save
the same lost
soul, woeful, lonely-
heart, eat-at-desk man.


The Senator, the
famous art building
that dropped Lee
Hansley, gallerist
now, curator then, yes you

whose friend said
I had done so much
for you, and, with that hint laid
the place we united as
the painter waited.

Muse of the Dinner
Party, having picked
half the wild
known characters for
the novella, as of now

still not quite
published. It’s your eyes,
soccer legs, real auburn hair
and gentle touch that beats down
thick skull, sends sparks from

who knows where.
Cyberspace has yet to yield
your married
name, so this haiku
represents all the

times I came
back to your room, a surprise,
but shoved off:
“you can’t just show up
and expect more love.”

April 7, 8, 9, 2013

Gramp was
born the seventh, and
the lunar one-year toast was
April eighth for the
strong man who

shook Dad’s hand as James
Hyuntay was held out
by Kwang Suk. The ninth is the
birthday of
our patriarch, the

man who would
have made little of
this coincidence. These fine
men mixed hard work with
simple joys

to give offspring all
the chance to achieve
anything they could think of:
large and small
dreams nurtured by such

Harabojay, the first from
Jido to
matriculate at
Yonsei, Gramp, on top

of the ads
and marketing world, friend to
all, William
made photography
a household must-have.


The one who
exudes such
natural kindness
first introduces
her boyfriend, and then because

I sit alone, buys
chocolate-covered almonds at
us on Uchiro.
We met twice by luck

Inside a
Two week stretch.
She can’t help but help.
“You are lucky,” I say
to the man, also

skinny, who went for
the one who could never get
angry, laughs
genuinely and
has the fortitude

to allow
others to be themselves with
no demands,
expectations or
pushes to annoy.

I can’t be
sure of any of this, but
look at her:
the only trick would
be to stay as kind.


Your real tears first shocked
then attracted one
more feeling
creature. He’s complex,
you are not.

He’s old, you are not. But that
square walk. The one in
which you told
of visiting-for
all-hours “cousin” who was

the other woman
even if he was
Even if your heart
Was shredded.

You reached, exposed, but did not
dream. A realist,
all you asked
was that he come to
you. Geography, the test,

a small one,
the only one he had to
pass. He told
me you will press his
heart, pet his arm, take

care of him
when he gets old. He fears you
are trapped and
knows time is running
out. Are you still there?

GW, M.D.

Doctor, a blast form
the past, so concerned,
in touch with
all his patients’ needs. He found

love, he know so much
more than medicine. He, the
muse of the memoir
I don’t have the courage to
Write. You know,

the book whose truths would
be better written
as novel
or drama: a six hour play
resembling Sartre

or Wagner, full of self-hate,
huge errors
from my own hand. Yes,
those P.T./I.N.R. checks

also serve
to remind how short life is,
thus, equal
inspiration, a
touch above home life,

a full ledge to peer
back from. Not enough
practitioners spread
the love like you do.


You danced your way through
Bald Head with
No Boundaries, either in
art or wild
personal life. You

kept it fun,
invited Dick to
retire in your
special village, put the
painting I got on every

catalogue cover
because you
knew how broken I was, and
observed the
tear widen at times.

Without friends
like you this light would
have faded by now,
maybe not extinguished, nor
distinguished, just turned off by

We blew the Sea Frolic down
the beach a
mile before it got
demolished so a

new owner
could build a mausoleum,
the kind you
live out life in. We
will never “retire.”


Luc, so Swiss in the
charming sense, obsessed
by orange
on blue and tangled

figures. Are
they dancing, mating,
running from
war, or an extension of
Matisse? You once sent your full

pile of art,
via catalogue,
so I could show your
stuff to the
curator of the

latest big
Biennale, but
Gwangju was
unable to grasp your smart
version of love as you’ve known

it. We try
and try to snaek a living
out of our
passion, but hearts get
broken in many

ways when laid
bare on the wall, exposed to
and nincompoops,, then
adored, brought to life.


Pamela started
it for all of us. If not
for you, where would we
be? What would we have

done with our art? How
much would we
have been able to
squeeze from brush
strokes, love hugs,

drab studio time
still wondering why?
But we didn’t have to dream
any more, the dream
had come true, the beach,

ever welcoming,
led offshore
to explore new lands,
by your friends

to partake
of their culture, influenced
in ways we
didn’t expect. Flow
now Pam, keep the dance

alive, be
proud to have given so much
to all us
souls tethered by art
to your better world.


Acquainted by
marriage, friends via
art, always on the
move, but at wildly
different levels.

Your theory works: only show
in world capitals,
only teach
at the top
schools, only draw or

paint what is
in your heart, only
live a pristine life,
even if, at age
eleven your job

is to crawl under cars to
check for bombs as the
son of an
Diplomat. I want

To find the
Pottery you made back in
Days, or talk to Glass
Again to gain a
New angle
On an admirable life.
install, web, draw, sculpt,
drift diary, drift.


You battled through the
self-made traps with panache. This
led to explorations in
color, form,
media and love.

Canandaigua plus
birthday match
keeps you on my brain,
always wondering
if sailboats

or kilns, parties or
nature walks carry you to
the next paradise, this one,
the latest,
the one that earns your

time, heart, devotion.
In case your
wondering why I
didn’t model for
you, so am

I, a decade past
the chance. Youth exudes as water,
dripping off
from within, as if
your entire body

offered fresh
nutrients of joy, happy
times, a dance
with no end. The best
unrequited ream.


Though your bass
could out-rebound you
in a pick-up game out back,
off one of those baskets seen
above grass

courts, with rusted hoop,
no net…but wait, this
is not the
dream you’ve lived. Hard work

at the state
aquarium that
allowed time to practice and
perfect abstractions, classic
rock, blues, and

love. Not an easy
path all the
time, but such a tight
bond. Tina, I pray

found things to
do by or in beloved
Ochrid: trout
Sizzling after long
Marinade, cuisine

An added
Art. We’re waiting for your next
Leap. Stay strong young friend,
And show us the way.


Now you’ve done it: put
your brain functions into you
official Curricula
Vitae. I hope this
works, because for me, the more

people know,
the more they back off.
It’s bullshit,
that people fear those

who, like us, have one
or more imperfections. Sure
it worked, post-facto, for Van
Gogh, but short-lived friends
were his sanctuary when

not writing
letters. Luckily
your happy
life has brought
such great art. Your large

fan base may
hide during economic
malaise, but
your music smarts, broad
conversations, draw

salons, too infrequent, but
assistance connects
far-flung lunatics.


from Argentina,
student of Filer,
former Doc,

a research doctor
who took to smeared abstraction
like a “wuck”
to daughter, or a
master artist-singer

able, as
a lawyer might, to
create illusions
of alternate space
away from

today’s troubles long
enough to trade wallpaper
for cold hard
cash, but void any
emotion that might scare them

away. First
comes business, then wine, food and
not stricken by pain
or affliction, but

rising to
meet slowing markets
with even
better work, a real
mastery of gold.


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.


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?


In the most
cravat he blows in
to his least
famous solo show

to date. Four super
paintings, sized
for major rooms in homes and
then an entire wall
not matching

tone, even
aesthetics pops my
eyes out as
it stunk out

loud. This self-made man
of the arts
has it going on in all
Atlanta-style scenes,
on his way

to New York
of L.A., but God please do
nor record
or document that
Carrboro wall in

Any way
dude. Maybe it was your way
to show off
the prowess of those
vertical gem works?


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.


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.


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.


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.


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 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.


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?


This man who
I met three times comes
back down from
Seoul in a timed way he
could not hide

by saying he comes
in spring to climb Meudungsan,
even though he is
He is a

and multi-lingual,
in four or five fields.

this visit is his
psychology degree as
everyone in town
now asks if
I am sad,

or feeling
OK, and one exposed that
she heard I
was not happy at
all, but how did they

know? Who called
him in? What will come of my
life this time,
now, good doctor, that
I succumbed for keeps?


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.


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.


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
a push out the door.


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
own hands. Luck eh? And down
to Rake’s to fill-up,
camp out on Squaw, the
small island in such
shallow green
in lake of deep blue.

Smoke stacks 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.

LI, M.D.

You punted me to
George, not so much due
to your retirement,
but out of sheer nods
and sleeping through an

incessant repetition
of incurable
bullshit. Still,
it was the upper
overdose, brought on by an

hysterical, yet
incorrect home nurse
that allowed a huge
relapse, plus complete
permanent loss of

friendship with my favorite
cousin, so get thee
to tennis
or some other pass
time surrounded by unsold

You are nice, full of good will,
work hard, and
never quit, none of
which proves your prowess

as healer.
How could you know that I had
resolved my
brother’s death many
years before he died?


You kept swimming, though
long since blind. You stunned memoir
writers with
your amazing tale:
you ran with brother, away

from Warsaw Ghetto.
Lost him and
every single aunt
sister, family but
survived, only to succumb

to the Russians, who
made you a soldier against
your own, then
survived the brutal
winters in a labor camp,

escaping on a
log that, though
frozen, floated far
enough to you
to Istanbul where you made

it over
to Eqgypt and fixed machines
for British
tank soldiers until
you made it to the

US troops
in Italy. Fought, repaired
with them all
the way, then married
a Dutch Catholic.


Park So Young
invited me to
that fateful
dinner at the fancy place
where the art

lady hung color
square stuff and
the food was almost as good
as the new faces, none more
alluring than yours.

We’ve stayed in
and out of touch, yet
rendez-vous, Kyoung Mi tagging
along, still

in quest of a mate,
but not you,
no, your face was not going
to be left alone. Age has
added luster, so

now you raise
your last child with a throng of
friends, mostly
women, as is the
norm. so the culture

here is in
good hands. Let’s travel far some
time, as this
is your goal and my
pleasure. Bon Apetite!


Nurse by trade, who could
forget that we were
roommates in two completely
different places,
one good for nothing,

the other
your home town. And you
hung in there with Mike,
saw Eddie get a

wake-up call, did all
the normal Gainesville
activities, and became
an important link
from hard past to an

easy time,
relaxed study, and
conversations that
ranged form big toes
to Tracy

Spiegel: the
hot new band to “new music,”
the death
of rock to how Gators
everywhere know the

score, meet at
CJs, at least in their minds,
while you, who
thrive, do so with large
home field advantage.


learned from Ruth, who from Margaret
learned from Boaz at
the birthplace

of the discipline:
in northern
Manhattan, Columbia.
consummate hostess
with giant spider: insect

pet that shocked guests as
they munched on colorful twang:
flowers we once thought
reserved for

bouquets. They tasted
and this meal introduced me
to Jennifer, who
I lost to Mike, then found, but

made my worst
lifetime error with. Extend
my sincere
apologies to
your good taste in this

matter, now
ten years too late. Your garden
in Irvine
still blooms, your sincere
love still felt by all.


You, so bright, so tight,
expected firm baked
poems, just
as The New Yorker
was printing.

You scored by twenty
nine, then had a great
job busting
the chops of
would-be poetry stars. So

I came back for more
after that little
degree from
Hollins. You were not
impressed, huddled

with Deborah, no
doubt around fabled
duck pond, the
scene of a
Robert Merrill visit. Aren’t

you glad I
suggested Donald Hall since
he became
poet laureate?
One day you will hold

this honor.
back then Eberhardt, Justice
Paddget and
Harry Crews roamed. How’s
it hangin’ William?


Chamber Pop,
the music genre
named by you to describe your
post-Costello taste,
has no been

ascribed to
many stars
who have achieved at
least national bar tour fame.
It’s beyond unfair, yet a

result in any
creative endeavor: luck plays
a role, and absurd

May the luck
prove out in
ol’ St. Louis, and,
with the support you’ve enjoyed
at home, the force is always

with you: rock
on. Sorry to have tried, but
failed to be
the type of bassist
you are, but not much

time wasted,
and the memories of such
songs ring in ears too
often polluted.


You also
played bass guitar, and
once shared a
Hondo right
on Ambassador. Not the

first house, the second
after Blair
had gone off, Liza
her way to solid

life, Harper
three the D.A. in
Greece, of course,
and you, whisked
to Barcelona just at

the right time. Where are
you, how are
you now, radical
friend? The news
we spread at Harley

was so true,
so much fun, I’ve been writing
journal and
newspaper, Blog and
poems ever since.

Jockey Club,
Ocean Reef, Pelican Bay:
have you trashed
putting greens or just
mellowed easily?


One day after a
loss to Seymour I failed to
return the plastic-piece chess
set to the lady
behind the library desk.

rarely if ever
sees a fist fight so you hit
and I bowed
and agreed, as you

had signed it out. Since
then I’m sure Cincinnati
has treated you well but I
always wonder what
your memories, so diverse,

are of the
spoiled fat guy who at
least tried to play ball.
What must it
have been like to be

the star at
such a foreign-local school?
probably felt a
lot more like home. The

to William, baritone plus
awe of your real take
on life flows on here.

Stop Driving Cars!

This planet is unequal and getting more so by the day.
Those at the top sucked up all the money and have now
secured all the resources. Globalization assures the value
of labor will continue to drop while Monsanto, dastardly
GMO mongers have already caused forty thousand Indian
farmers to commit suicide. Defining hard-labor poor there’s
no way they could afford to buy seeds every year, and no
way to reverse the damage done by the “sensamilla-ization”
of soy beans to rice to wheat to corn. Us grass-seed eaters
have ingested enough of their shit without knowing what
mutations may occur. One day we might have to buy sperm
and ova from those fucks! Maybe they’ll patent them too!
Patented food!? Do the exclusive rights to kill the world
this way run out in seven years like pharmaceuticals or light
bulbs; or is there already a self-written law passed by owned
stooges that extends food patents to forever? Warm-hearted
NGO workers, social workers, frazzled teachers and quiet
laborers, who don’t have the nerve to strike or scream as
their jobs could move from a buck an hour to a fifty cents an
hour locale any time are not enough to balance the obnoxious
investor class and their underlings in government. This too is
a globalized phenomenon, like square miles worth of plastic
islands killing sea mammals, ice melting to the effect of a sea-
cocktail, cooled so that smack dab in the middle of global
warming northern and southern sea cities are freezing their
asses in the winter while tectonic plates, like the extra water
above, move, making earthquakes, tsunamis, hurricanes and
tornadoes, typhoons, volcanoes, flooding and droughts regular.
Huddle close kids, this unstoppable tide could swell. Greed
towers over saving the planet. Got any ideas that will work?


Paisley flop
hat as urinal
put me in my place,
solidified my spot at
the bottom of the

social food
chain, though as a large
minnow. You helped me learn how
to fend for myself.
Later I

hoisted Kim
as an attempted to
gain further favor in the
hip crowd, but it came when you
and I parted schools.

gave a chance to be
tight, but Macy and the jock
Marblehead clique ruled
so we slunk

to far ends,
opposite sides, and made peace
via herbs
and log cabins, self
generated food,

existence, or continued
battles fought
on behalf of friends
and strangers in need

Roy Buchanan

First you invited us to
have a beer in your
van, then you
offered back stage fun
by the lake in Syracuse.

The DBs,
then you, Little Feat:
a legendary
show because it changed
my life. Oh, but I still cry

about yours. What the hell made
it impossible
for you to
resist whatever
recreational was in

front of you,
or bar fights? You home
town of Reston police
finally had enough, too
much, but how did this lead such

a gifted
guitarist to end it all?
Or did you
have it ended for
you? I switched the guilt

I felt to
a story in my favor.
I still pray
our short time as friends
was good for you too.


You dove in and swam
all the way to under the
raft under water. The same
raft that saw
water and adult

games. It had
a three-step ladder
to a platform you
jumped off, onto trampoline
then into cool clear

water back when out
beat in, before cell phones took
nature away from most kids.
You still go
camping, enjoy your

from over the hill.
On one night, with one
chance I decided not to
ask. Lucky for you,

Maybe not
for me. How could I resist
you? I knew
I’d never be the
mature one: not a church

goer. A
good match? Well I haven’t been
a good match
for anyone yet:
there’s your clue cute Pam.

R “H” R

You went with
Joy to the beat of
the Bedford/Lynchburg crowd and
asked if I had done
right by my

vote once. So close yet
so far. A one-hour
drive I made
one time before we
both knew philosophical

made socializing
too hard to try. I hope those
nuclear fuels
for U.S.

submarines kept
your family in
good stead at
church, well fed, happy
and adept at change because

change will come.
Church-sponsored war is bound to
end at some
point, but, as a friend
I pray this happens

long after
our working days are over.
If this finds
you, let’s reunite,
cook out, talk sports, love.

Reality Drill, Spring 2013

Taurus comes around again to remind us that the
bulldog or bull types may have a fun life, but cause
a lot of misery along the way. For men the only sign
more insanely aggressive is the tricky, often purely
manipulative Scorpio group. They rise to the top as
Machiavelli prescribes, then take credit for other
people’s work, while always recruiting an expanding
power base. A capitalist’s dream birth month for
her number one son thus being November. So how
to infuse creative verve associated with Gemini?
Elementary school sirens blare a practice drill here
at the tip of the world war spear, so it all may be a
moot point if ever these drills are attached to real
bombs. Dust flies as children line up or run home
before being accounted for. Accounted for, ha!
None of the creeps above is accountable for anything
other than profit. Even if their own cloistered New
England boarding school brats seem safe, maybe the
Next school slaying will be revolutionary, in which a
Fed up impoverished man goes nuts all over rich kids.

4 November 2011, 7 May 2013

The most orange sun
ever sinks
under old stretched wire,
lower half fades out.
Dusty sunset in

autumn haze
defines harvest as
rice fields burn, sun eclipsed,
then gone as
brisk air aids breathing,

but spring style dust then
heat blares. So
single diners are
turned away for fear
they’d embarrass the

others, or
themselves: blossoms range
from muted cherry to the
absurd red-
pink azalea bush

smashes, a
juxtaposition more op-
art than those
thin-lined paintings by
Anuskiewicz. March

brought one more
round of U.S. war games, which
caused Kim Jung
Eun to launch missiles.
When will it end? How?

Activating Young Haves

Isn’t it the bomb when one of three decent food
joints opens a second helping right down the street?
Meeting get more accomplished when the food’s good. Up
here the music and atmosphere beat surrounding competitors,
so escaping the grind is possible as well. Lemon Table, a real
Gwangju original, has given in to witness a lot of love
bloom, even more friends laugh. This time Kang Dan Bi
and Ju Hee, next time Little Bear suggests his burger
heaven, and Big Bear easily agrees. We, the lucky ones,
earn enough to eat out, relax, not worry where our
next meal is going to come from. We salute those
who teach how to create local economies that provide
meager livings form micro-loans, like Peace Boat, or
the group that hands out livestock, mostly chickens and
goats. Isn’t it amazing the changes that occur for so little
for so many with so few coordinating the whole shebang?
It’s a drop in the globalized, for-profit, cheap labor bucket,
but how did we all give up natural instincts in favor of suburbia,
or urban wealth? City dwellers have outnumbered the
countryside humans since nineteen ninety four. Too bad.

Seoul, Oh; So Low; Solo

Drenched girls scope
Uchiro, a road
that defines
Chonnam from Humun,
scholars from hunters.

Style points must
be made at all times:
now Burberry umbrellas,
to save hair,
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? Go fourth in
peace without me now.

The Dating Game

Here in the land of lips, where hand-crafted faces
usually smile, and fashion, instilled by pop icons
creates consumer-crazy eye-candy at a seventy percent
clip: where even the boys don pork-pie hats and Buddy
Holly thick frames, or silver shiny suits to match chrome
speckled cars, the young have quantum leaped generation
gaps, creating sea, nay ocean between stunned Confucian
parents, who can’t bear to have the fun their children
are. Pairs, conceived by beauty likeness or wallet fatness
still give in to parental norms by playing hard to get, until
soju, the cheapest drunk-per-dollar available on planet
Earth, kicks in to free both body and mind. Ancient ties
still bind until marriage, but three levels of dating occur
on the peninsula: one-night romance, either with or without
wooing period, long-standing, in which some or all friends
know about it, or the guy who is invited to her house for
Thanksgiving dinner. Openly confident women wonder
when men will grow the nerve to come right out and ask,
so the classic “set-up” date where her best friend picks a boy,
or his best friend picks any girl adds quick sex to the mix.


Albatross hangs on
another’s neck, the
smallest significant font,
magic poetry

has going for it.
Brilliant oft’ elusive scribe,
your mix of father
and full time

librarian has
brought great books and strong
poems to our attention.
Your sons made
a movie that grows,

migrates to
one festival then
another. Your TV is
boxed up, allowed small
time, thus you

saved brains for
creative work that exposed
the huge gap
between rich and poor:

divide aired
from labor’s point of view. Your
own poems
are worthy of the
postage, let them fly.


Style, humor,
unexpected twists,
your type of poetic verve
is understated
yet lasts in

brains you haven’t yet
met. When the girl in pink socks,
platform shoes and done
face glances three times, to you
it is a story, to us

not noticed.
You’ve kept the Friday
Noon poets going and the
service this provides
to aging

radicals and blessed
thinkers, those who listen and
those who write, makes our
town a better place. What of
cats, outer Cary, romance

of the kind
only California could
bring? Infused
nature sparks lines, but
your optimism

is what keeps
books sales as high as two or
three hundred:
the type of numbers
laureates deserve?

The Dream

I jumped in the car
with Leo, or was
it Bradley?
we motored I-Eighty One to
way west of Scranton to a

red fieldstone with
fancy peaked
entryway with arch,
keystone and
contrasting yellow

rocks scattered in. To
my surprise, we were
there to meet
Bob Dylan, played very well
by Dustin Hoffman. He was

put off by strangers,
well by doting
younger blonde,
yet followed us to

jam with friends,
show us the surrounding hills
and mountains,
skip stones in flowing
Susquehanna, laugh

at our youths
and finally thank us for
stopping by
to spend time, eat, drink,
relive merry days.


Maybe my case helped
push you into shrink-hood in
Burlington, land of
Strung-out hippies, permanent
New Yorkers who need

advice like
cows need grass, Ben
needs Jerry. You listened well
when I needed you.
You made me

want to keep writing,
to teach, to snuggle up to
women I could have,
not just dreams. You hired Brian
to babysit; this

left me to
fantasize about
Stroud’s wife, and forever seek
redheads. Your knowledge
of hockey

was less than
mine, but you coached it out of
duty. It’s
been thirty seven
years: are you alive

old man? To
me you will always be, so
it matters
not. Our friendship kept
me alive. Thank you.


Your pen, so
lively, your class notes
on Faulkner, Steinbeck
impeccable, your legend
among close

romantic circles
could last forever.
Mostly, devices like the
hit-or-miss hammer
and gong-o-meter

for would-be
poets, and the brains
to guide quietly.
No place has ever been thus
defined by a

single intellect.
Still, how can I skip
the time you got booted out
of the women’s dorm
(there are no men’s dorms

at Hollins)
after hours, asleep on
the couch, not
even in her arms,
thank God! The saving

grace being
you married this one, the one
who writes from
her heart: pure, feeling
original. Cheers!


Your id, untainted
by such normal and
chemical boundaries
as ego
or superego
flies around
asking all passing
females for a date, even
though you have a gal

just over half your
age waiting for you,
which is why
you want to hang out
somewhere else.

Even if it’s two
blocks away
in a very small
town, you’re willing to make a
“new friend” every hour.

You, sir, are
the walking definition
of a cad,
taking manhood to
a new low. You asked

if you could
sit in my class. Oh for God’s
sake you take
me for a fool or
are completely lost.

Blossom Picking

Spring means beauty, open and hidden rushes in and out.
Black top, fuchsia mini, stiletto heals, whining about dining
at a better spot, so she yanks her boy southward exposing
thigh tattoo, she’s the open type. Gray sweats, gray hat, pulled
low due to plastic surgery is even more alluring, but she doesn’t
even want friends to figure out who she is with until those
eyelids flatten out. They try so hard here because beauty is the
only sure-fire way to “marry up,” just like anywhere else.
Now even more spoiled than their American contemporaries
these Seoul university tarts, dressed Gangnam style, forty kilos
soaking wet, unable to complete even simple chores
their grandmothers still do with ease, they float from
one-nighters to two month attachments until finally
assured their men can keep them better off than Daddy
down in Gwangju did. Of course he’s in debt due
to all the private academies, plus Seoul tuition, so his
little girl better score the right man, or what was all
the investment good for? Love as a commodity is nothing
new, it’s damn near universal that people want to add
moving up economically to the list of what makes a good mate.

Onward Native Sons!

Life mimics sci-fi
doomsday flicks
as brain tumors grow
from our phones, leaders
plan attacks

with drones leading on
collateral damage charts
while eight types of drugs
mix with sports, sex and
talk to smooth war’s transgressions.

You hunker down, plant
protein trees,
pecans, persimmons,
peaches, figs knowing
what you teach

now could save him when
prices soar, bullets fly, jets
break silence, sonic
booms forever shake
neighbor’s cattle, rattle dogs,

deer, rabbits,
but these details never
amount to
peace movement, or was
our occupation

a passing
fad, easily dismissed and
futile? Stand rebels,
go forth until death!

L aka BH

What must it
have been like to be
led around Hamburg, in full
by Wiebke, as it

were, “introduced” to
the fair city’s most
and least notorious? But
it was that first show,

mud flowing
aside that blew our
minds. Had I been a
prophet I’d
have had them all, but,

alas, stuck in poor
yet humorous trades,
I still feel happy to know
the grown up artist,
as our loose

via ADTEC: your father,
my second
cousin, never would
have kept us in touch.

To art then,
not for art’s sake but for the
binds it ties.
be more productive
my friend: exhibit.


Our June day
so similar, and
perverse (?) desire to
mate with new
friends, granted, from different

points of view, angles
if you will.
How magic for you
to offer so much
to those trapped

or propelled
by art, those whose true
talent doubles as
refuge in
a world long lost to profit

and war. Isn’t it
that more would flow to
break into a world
that doesn’t

reality in any
way? But you
could color your dreams
like few ever, thus

making a
formidable mentor, so
rare among
the “truly gifted
artist” group. Good job!


Piano brings in
the Do-Re-Mi here
where it is
of concern, but I like your
art the most. Not too

many can
be as supportive,
stir such a lemon
ice cream, smile, laugh learn
while teaching humanity

as if a course was
needed, but in this
age it sure
is. You help make foundations
for those to follow

their dreams in,
go further with their
art than they ever
thought, like France, Raleigh,
Macedonia. Simple

rarely turn commonplace or last
on a face
to face basis no
less artistic

level love.
Your shine spreads in ways we all
a shine that makes our
quick lives more joyous.


How did we
lose touch? What are you
doing? When is your next show
in Cologne?
Is Frida still in

your house, or has she,
like most loves
or people, moved on?
No one ever spent
so much time with her art, or

deserved a
major break the way
you do. Investigating
color smash
combinations, the

way you pile it up
until the
surface is imbued,
multiple subjects
come and go, but obvious

lens effect
games are not your style. Express
those rough
lines my friend, German-
style while pushing art

your way, as
your heart alone is the one
that beats new
meaning out of an
old form, unique star.


She runs through
the minds of every
boy or man who ever knew
her in the
eighties. Palm Harbor’s

finest: blonde red hair,
freckles, a
touch darker than forever
tan, sported
for all to admire,

dream about,
sprout about, and one
of my friends got to date you
for a while.
Us men don’t forget

the names or face of
a beauty
like you. It must be a big
burden to
have to dust off so

many men
all the time. So what did you
do with your
choice? Maybe you are
still single, that would

be a hoot.
My last viewing was as you
walked in from
your car. We trailed you
but got no invite.


You asked me to lunch
then went straight to the
shower. I took that
hint, and we
stayed friends, then loose friends until

finally I missed Panthers
hockey, and, though just
one beach up
we lost what
may have been our last

chance to meet face-to-
face. Here May’s wind moves
Buddha’s birthday signs,
Doctor Seuss
looking furry needled pine,

or conifer of some type.
I brought my son to
the border
of insane
in South Korea.

I hope you
read that this life finally
settled down
to domestic bliss.
Raising one son has

given me
something more than watching you
play tennis
or eating tuna
together: new life.


You drew those
incredible fun
characters, adding
life to regular
poems in the Obelisk.

Your Italian style
tennis was nearly
flawless. Your
face, physique, almost

So I got you to
join me off the court
in as many ways
as I could devise without

scaring you away.
Just to be with you,
laugh, gave such
pleasure at a time
when motoring to

school on a
moped was embarrassing.
Your prompt pushed
me to four visits,
mostly Tuscany,

and my own
art, perhaps improved, goes on
all over,
like Bulgaria,
Korea, your heart.


You heard bass
guitar coming out
of stereo rig
in Brandywine. Being a
player we made Lewis and

Clark, went to
Seattle, tried to
record, stayed with Bill,
Charlie. David was

just born, life
was merry, but we
could not sing, lobster
dinners were the best part. You
allowed my friend to park her

van many
years later. After
Amy Grant, country
tour, practice
with budding bud, some

kid whose Dad
paid you to practice. That’s how
good you are,
and your wife, children
band mates all prosper

due to your
positive vibe. Brazil is
in your blood,
magic guitar, you
kept me playing hard.


are you still selling
cars? Is your strong will
still alive?

goes a long way when
the family name does not
apply due
to being so far
from Manila, yet your friend

count was so
high back when we roamed
for used cars, and I
settled for
a seventy three

Volvo one sixty
four. You advised for either
a better
car, or a lower
price, but “the Boss” went on and

on, maybe
still floating around Gainesville,
who knows. Did
you ever pick just
one woman, or has

your career
bachelor status remained
past middle
age? Memories crank
back. Pinay rule here.


The loop box,
a rewinding and
playback effects was
but it was the jams

at the power lines
illegally that drew big
crowds: second

round of youth
hippies started soon
in Florida where
babies came
naturally in

teen years. So nineteen
eight was the age when
everyone’s parents were hip,
large doses

of fun were
not scolded bur applauded.
Before you
my days had been trapped

inside walls,
plexiglass, miasma of
my making.
Music, salvation
in four strings, strong beats.


You cared for me and
know escape would be
hard because my family
could keep me
in forever. We

hugged, an allowed contact on
the patio, the
scene of past
writing, none better
than when you were on my mind.

Your tongue protrudes in
a small square photo
tucked away in the second
drawer of
my sister’s old set

in a storage room rarely
visited, except
to see old
pictures. Most are hung,
but I slide the drawer to see

you more than
you’d expect. That was back when
love was love,
money came easy,
sun baked us to tan

not red. I
bet your life, due to looks
and youthful
must be great by now.


Your genuine smile,
hidden Ingrid Bergman style,
with scarf, dark
sun glasses
shows the depth of emotion

to be natural,
nor method,
on stage, in life; yet
some are allowed
to interrupt your

life’s pursuits. Some, like
me, are children, sincere and
seeking hard
answers to
seemingly easy questions.

You act, but it is
Not acting.
Every, any part
Becomes you. You are
Every part. Not a

tear nor drop
of sweat out of place, as if
you and the
playwright conceived not
just this drama but

your entire
lives together somehow. You
walk on the
way others refresh
their lives, friend to all.


Rouge cheeks and
Bright eyes over the
Same loose-fitting hippy dress
And gray T-shirt.
I wonder

how precious time is spent when
not reading, and guess
she works and plays and 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 class long
enough to

know it was too hard. She said
she would be back, so
here she is, shining 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 come
the fresh real learners.


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 Jung Eun
is not “Kid”-ing, 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 and evermore battle
for oil and
resources that can
make the rich richer.

Merritt A. Cleveland
Tennis may
have been the first glance
grabber, but your squash,
hunting, fishing just as
strong. Rumor has it you let
loose those last three weeks,
thus pushing
for some type of tie
when we all
knew none was ever
Why it took until
the final hour is
explainable by the way
you measured each shot down to
dram level so as
to keep the
bar bountiful, and
not incur
what must have been a
major load
of wrath if over serving
and friends. You were
the sunny side of
Whitney Lane,
never saw you mad. Each
putt you left
short meant one whisky
poured straight from the bag.

Saint Pete Jay Cee had
a few lunatics. Some were
certified, out on
good behavior, others dropped
not far from their fathers, and
made perfect
roommates for, among
other things, Gator
bikini girl shoots,
and we watched the changing room
openly, or three-
times-the-speed-limit races
home from the parking
lot. Tops was “Recovery
Eighty Five,” in which huge jugs,
of fifteen hundred
per nostrum were spent
on bending nights in
places like Cedar Key, with
Amy, or
whoever, ruined for five
days or so.
And we drove back! What
Of Guppie or Miss
Bonfield, known
as Bon-Bon? Media Blast
was all ours:
the best J-School drunk:
over three hundred!

When dungeons
re-emerge, not in
Guantanamo, but
F.E.M.A camps, will some players
be able
to conquer the beasts
save crying
princess, beat
concrete gas lines and
train “depots” that lead straight to
hell, not for
passengers, but for
all humanity?
you sir, have the power to
change lives, live
large, due to lucky
combo of
brains, nerve and
What will it be, strawberry-
blonde lover,
or public crusader, beach
lounge, or at
every meeting, all
marches, screaming for
love, kindness,
mercy in the face of such
evil as
no comic has yet
devised. Come join man.

You were the first real one, and
I went off to caddy like
a dumb ass.
Your smarts for
psychology is only
surpassed by the care
you give to
diverse and
crazy patients. Six
years after you snuck through
the window at Brandywine
I dropped back down for a year
and called, but
your full life
had no time for the past. I
never would have known
my own good
side if not
for you. Every car
seat conversation is clear,
and the month
you let me crash, pushing back on
my attempts
to re-ignite taught
me how to let go
without blues
dominating in a way
that preserves
precious memories.
Your charm caused real growth.

You were three
years or so younger in the
French class we sat in.
both bored but you more
so because
at least I
had you to look at.
had the plaid
blue, yellow, white skirts,
so the big
challenge was the color of
panties. Male lunch talk
had to include a
report of
who was in
which color, otherwise
you could get
But I want you to
know I took
all the ribbings failure can
offer, and
never once gave up
your secret, though I
always knew.
I held out, hoping that to
do so would
not, we never talked.

Did you love or hate
the black Ford
Fairlane, circa nineteen and
sixty five?
My tolerance was
matched by your
need for fun
and mischief. As a
roommate you’d
rank a fun one. So what if
it took a while to
iron it
all out? You hung tough then got
hit with the
worst possible scene.
A few times
I tried to
crack into your heart
just after,
then realized it was not
wise, backed off
until you recovered. Now
then Nancy,
how is “positive
life”: these days? You made
it, cleared all
tests. Here’s to smooth sailing and
real love, to
genuine friends, peace,
real autonomy.

Swiss beauty, if it
flows through New
Jersey, spreads legs, accepts one
or two who
do not last, just for
the fun of
it. How you
ended up a strong District
Attorney I will
never know.
Yet, I doubt you’ve found
a way to
forget the wild romps, escape
from frozen
rules, or bullshit that
flew. Maybe
it was your
inadvertent exposure
to conniving lies
that helped you
beat both those
arrested and their slimy
lawyers. Come,
hold my hand again
in the dark,, attack
the way you
used to. Memories smash in
to dreams; are
you still in Tampa?
Who got you for good?


Your beauty comes from
giving so
much back to the earth, to those
who labor so hard
for such a

meager wage.
Don’t get me wrong, you
Also got you Mom’s
natural beauty
with body to spare.

So fix your brain by
“Will” power.
You’ve done so much not to hang out
and do more. Beat
brain cancer,

rejoin the
love of life you have.
You photos on face
book alone speak of
your magic, pure life.

So when this
phase passes I can’t believe
how you will
produce…talking each
day to make a life

focused on
benefitting everyone
around you
Shine on, come out and
Laugh with us again.


It started
at the Beach Club, white
sand dusted
the board. Cube
mystery solved late:

double sixes cleared your home,
I smiled at the blue-
eyed twinkle
over swimmer’s breasts,
firm, even for eighteen: your

Montclair roots
augmented by strict
surpassed by passion.

Watkins conceded romance.
We never got caught,
wide open to the
night, three beach loungers placed to

shield young love.
Learning the lexicon of
your long legs,
tongue patrol over
muscle terrain, two

weeks of lust,
a few months of letters, then
the fade back
to lives unshared yet
forever enriched.

Margot Cleveland

Forty seven days
after your twenty
second birthday a rare, mad
human tragedy
struck, and took with it

an artists,
near-pro golfer, wild
lover. We
lost a close friend who
wasn’t shy.

Called us out on our
bullshit, laughed in the
afternoon sun, but couldn’t
always get past the
immediate shifts,

blasts, head games, guilt trips,
Mom, consoling Dad
that must have

made each day
unpredictable, each night
a search for
independence no
matter the risks. You

feigned interest
in younger kin, remained a
then tragic lesson.
I feared for my life.

Charles Stuber

Wide-eyed player, your
parents soft joy; raised watching
your father
build two houses on
Taylor Cut-off Road after

A start in town surrounded by
Korean porch kites,
four-way cars
with no stop signs, Seattle
before the clog of

California came
to convert beauty into
suburbs. Your
spirit directs great
action to this day. Though none

fully recovered, new ties
added smiles, your
mother made
it through,
continues to be
both worried about

the future
and working hard in the now;
the gift you
gave was simple: “do
not live in the past.”

We all still
pray and wonder what you would
have given
to humanity;
something large for sure.


You kept asking “where’s
Charlie?” It
still causes throat swell, tear drop
but at the same time

a new edict to live by
between seize the day
and be productive. You beat
every one
of life’s challenges

with aplomb, ended
up as good
a parent as any this
family has seen,
scored major

work assignments and reveled
in your children as
you did your brother. Living
proof that hard
work yields a good life,

you are a
prime example for the young
ladies to learn
from. Your glow exudes,
spreads happiness earned

not given.
If they would admit it, your
elders would
announce how much they’ve
Learned from your success.


No camper
ever came to play,
paddle, hike
at Reiner’s
Adirondack Swim and Trip

Camp with the vigor
you threw at
us. Armed with one hundred points
you always
made it past the guards,

your team won
by using your for
defense then
scoring the
century at the end. Your

Dad is a “good stick”
but rock and
roll, then movie keyboards made
you mister
Hollywood. Not all

that roamed the Barnard Tract hit
their stride, or
even survived teen
car accidents. The

aptly named
planetarium lasers
tie-dyed Park
Avenue heads, smell
the magic, rock on!

Marjorie S. Cleveland

When the time came “God
Bless America” played an
hour after
the planes hit
on nine eleven

two thousand
one. Your example
gave Margot a head start on
the links, but sadness
ensued, so

we never saw your
youth reappear except on
warm summer
or close days,
family only.

What had we
missed, I will never
know. You gave all of us a
lot of class, which we
should have known

from birth, but
from birth the party was on.
So what? You
have to live while you
are alive. The long

walks, soul-filled
searches, avec Lara, or
you went on without
flinching: real life lived.


Your parents had seats
I could find
with ease on
the fifty yard line of the
blue side of orange

and blue. The last time
we met, you
said I had
not changed, and I said
“well was I

supposed to?” You shrugged,
informed me
you had been
running a tanning booth in
Gainesville for years. There

Was the time we hung out:
at Thyrza’s, your soft eyes,
thin body

beckoning the select few,
than two-a-month in
order to give each

his chance to
qualify for inclusion
on your list
of potential life
mates. Still bachelorette?


Your strong blue top, magic eyes
interest in the
stories that
made up our lives kept
us close long after the

blast parties. The Saint
Petersburg Times is
now the last
major left daily

and whether Gallagher’s great
vanishing nature
pieces or
world-class scrutiny
of the power elite, your

heritage, may, if
ever moved to the
column, mean the death

not just of
real news, but American
My Columbia
deposit may not

have achieved
its original purpose
but you will
never fade, blonde hair
above joyous smile.

Paul Heiner

First I took all Dad’s
shirt cardboards that came every
week from the dry cleaners, then
painted them
and proposed and art

booth to be parked in
front of our
garden-club level
neighborhood house. Mom,
irate, said “no” so I stormed

up brought them down and
tore them up hysterically.
Next thing I knew I’m enrolled
in art class
at Memorial

Art Gallery with
the immense
German master who
spent every class mad
at me, saying I stunk. He’d

set up still
lifes, I painted abstractions.
Only me.
Years later Dad took me to
see one of your shows.

Your large abstract
bombs exploding in contrast
from above
lured me into art,
where I have stayed since.

Leo Garel

You came to the Lavender
Door on Tuesdays, the
same day as my sessions, so
I skipped one form, pushed beyond
what Heiner taught me

ten years earlier.
It was your turn to
inadvertently save my
life. Nothing
anyone else gave

or took matched the peace acquired
splashing colors on
wood, canvas. You presented
slide shows, taught us when our work
was done, kept the mean

ogres and
real demons at bay
productively, what the pros
called late-bloom
sublimation. But

there were no
labels at the studio
other than
next to exhibit
paintings. Our art was

cutting edge,
pure, pushy, fun, a release,
and even
accepted during
our lifetimes. Tears now.


Your Grandad
hit “worm burners” as
far as any amateur
ever has, managed
to card low

scores via
short game, the best way.
After years seeing
photos come and go
you switched to

camper. It’s
a rare and idea;
job: how has nature given
you what curating
could not? What

if you are
among the handful
to still boondoggle,
portage lakes and ponds,
teach sailing,

swimming and
mountain climbing? The fine art:
living, is so far
out, abstract by now.

All we can
do is pray our children’s lives
will be half
what ours have been.
What of grandchildren?


You loved me with
talk of diaphragms, stories
so good for
The Yellow Springs News, back when
everyone knew each

other, and the strict Quaker
laughed with the polar Christian
Baptists down
at the ladies’ school.
I was not scared, took what was

offered, thought back to
Lexi before I had left
for boarding
school. You tripled my female
knowledge base in less

than five visits. Mentor
of the intimate realm, we
faded to
other places then
reconnoitered over wine.

Beach, where your son asked the next
morning if
we had slept in the
same bed. Wise for eight,

but a truth
seeker should be wise. Your days,
recruiter, lover,
easier than mine.

Bud Shaw

You came back to Rochester
to die. Many of
us were gone.
Some, like me, had no

how precious
short, yet fulfilled life
could be, then
we heard the
how and when of yours

and cried. We cried when Trudy
told it four months past
due. Life was
complicated by

yet some learned
enough, grabbed and ran,
compared and
drew a sigh
We seize all with zest,

in our quest for just a touch
of someone’s
memory twenty
two years down the road.

applies to sports and music
stars, not true
friends; except special
ones we hardly knew.

EC “S” C

It started
when you approached me
on behalf, I found out soon,
my bosses domestic and

But what must be the
reason you disappeared goes
beyond your knowledge
base, and cultural norms, as
you get me to put

out there the
exact stuff they thought
impossible yet had big
suspicions about. There I
was feeding to

you until even
your role as spy was too much
to fulfill. Hence I
wonder, to this day, whether
to remember you

as foe, faux,
confidant, advisor, ping
pong mentor,
beggar, artist, self-
absorbed beauty queen,

forever, sufferer of
Han, absent
daughter, loving Mom
or my best friend.


Torn between tying
in to the system or to
make a life
of your own in some
far off land, you even have

what it takes
to lead a charge for
the workers, or to
save planet
earth, or to make a

farm and save friends when
the money system collapse
occurs. What
will it be then? The
“safety” of party cocoon

in China,
seeking know-how and
romance abroad, or
working to
save what is left of

land for s GMO-free
grocery chain,
new generation
of healthy babies

rather than
sterilized men, Viagra
needed at
age twenty? Make a
full play. Accomplish.


We sat down
for dinner, and it
had been ages. You moved to
Mokpo and
came up on weekends

but this time in a
new circle. Our friend
dropped by twice since last
we met. Your resolve

to persist,
impeccable taste
and zest for life bless tables
and dance floors.
What pleasure to see

you back in the swing.
You genuinely
took to the
abstract art I fling,
are a great friend though

I once wronged
you. Let summer bring romance,
and an even more
positive charge. When

will you write
the book you have inside you?
We need to
know navigation
secrets. Write girl, write.


Music man
and Xerox
bean counter, chief add
and subtract man:
songs like Pink Floyd meets Tom Waits

for a night of beer and hot
tubs in L.A. with
the finest
women, the
hottest hotties a

man could find,
but you had
them, not in dreams, but
in rebuilt attic
with mini-bar, toaster, coffee

maker. So, as night drifted
into Sunday you
were ready
to recharge
and keep going. Oh

she must have
loved your zest. Continual
prodding for
more. How’s your knee
holding up? Still on

Those glory days when
Tad was still
strong enough to drum.
You still playing out?


in the footsteps of
Canandaigua stars who stayed
a single
summer, like Clapton

is McCartney who
hid on a
Cheshire farm
in summer, nineteen
seventy one; hydroplane

star Campbell
or Todd Brewer the
lake’s least fortunate devil
who dared to
climb sixty-foot trees

as a kid, then kept
pushing bikes,
boats and life until
struck by lightning. You, on the

other hand,
played hard, but then, convinced
we were past
our era, too old
to catch on. You must

still record
in your room. I miss the chance
we had, just
as I have other bands.
Don’t quit you butthead.

At first you
were shocked at how white
and uneducated Sequim
was. Then you took a rest, came
back, produced
Mic and saved his life.
God bless that
work… so hard,
draining, then came
Garold, Ohio and I
pray relaxed
motherhood, as much
as is allowed with two boys. You
brought joy and energy, saw
first-hand the
way entire cultures
can be warped:
control – remote and
cellular, games
and building through
self-aggrandizement on face
book, oh where
is the humanity,
you must have thought. Here
we are, still
struggling to convince neighbors
friends, comrades
communities trump
federal power.

Your pursuit of the
perfect woman has left you
without a lady friend for
years now. You mock three
who settle
for less than
you would, but how is
alone these
days? Treating you well?
Step up and
permatize one of
these this summer so you will
stick around. Who else to bust
comp0letely on the
local scene
with, and laugh?
You got me torrents,
explained why
computer games are
the best deal
in terms of
entertainment per dollar
spent, but I
still think they just add
to the misery
of those who,
already miserable,
find one more
way to hide from life.
Remain yourself friend.

She strides through
campus these days with
confidence, heading toward cold
but inviting labs
in Boulder.
Those years of softball
soccer, studying
in difficult surroundings
paid off, and college
put a full
bloom on an
already great life.
Your leadership kept younger
sisters working hard
even though
they had higher hills
to climb, you never
lorded over, but simply
carried on, a prime
example to
follow or
react to. They say patterns
last a long
ten generations
in families. But
you will stop
the argument, as I have
tried to do.
It mean James, you and
your sisters start new.

You, like your
Dad, claim the middle
spot among three like-gendered
siblings. This is the fighters
strong about needs and
who comes first,
grappling for attention once
the third one
arrives, and stubborn.
But these traits
have served you well as
adulthood brings a better
understanding of your friends
and their needs.
Like me you also
had the fate
of an attractive sibling
who got more
love… at first, but if
I am right,
your romance has been even
deeper, full
of intrigue, long talks,
philosophy, truth.
You won the
battles: ears, school, friends meaning
blue skies and
smooth sailing are yours
for the taking. Go!

As a child you heard
“care bear” a lot, as
James has been
Little Bear to my
Big Bear. What magic
have you learned to be
able to
perpetuate, for one more
generation, the
ways handed down since
walked the hills
of Canandaigua?
Above all, pass this
ability to
grow what you
need to your children. I guess
there will be
a house full,
but if not
pass this lifestyle to many
friends, if they
will take it. Only
indigenous tribes
and those who
know their ways can save this place
for human
beings now. Work hard,
earn your good dream life.

Invitation to Live
Rain-soaked picnic seems foolish to all who see
us eating wet bread, dunked potato salad, and
drinking diluted wine. But this is our life not
theirs, so it must be written before we notice
that someone else laughs at our delight. Spreading
merriment is a serious hobby for those still among
the shrinking set of life-lovers, optimists, those who
seize the day rather than their cell phones. The
evil bosses who devised electronic distractions: radio,
stereo, TV, cell phones, Apples, PCs all but squelched
human passion, while supplying devices to deceive
and implant “friends” who take time away from
potential meetings that might save the planet,
overthrow fascists, revert to simple lives. The
data overflow compromises inventive time down to
research and re-writes of the already-known. Five
thousand researchers at Samsung may never equal
one Steve Jobs. But equally vital is the type of play
that will re-unite us with nature while nature still stands.
Care for a full-fledged romantic romp au naturale?


“I’m trouble” you say
in case I,
who have known you five years did
not know by now that
you, the one

who went from public
to private after
died, then came
back with a flourish of such

perfect motion it
stunned me to
just watch; who dyed hair, became
closer to Mom, while

inspecting, knowing
many hearts, found one
had stopped, cried
again in
a town that remains tearless

except for
apocalyptic events:
was trouble?
You love only one,
so those who love you

had better
not cross you in the process.
Love yourself
first:. the rest of love
is easy Mila.


One more traumatic
winter survived. You
want “Novo” land of retired
and the Black Sea I

already love, in
person and dancing with my
former student Kaminsky:
Varna, now Novo?

You will make me a
star, you will be a
pure angel if this works, so
it is time
to shine. I’m not sure

what I can do to
respond to such support, but
to be a good boy, meet James’
needs, look for
that beating heart and

bravely reach
to get it. Just when we were
both beyond
our last fling at love
here you came, here I

was, there you
go, and what next? You aim
for and get
immediate blast
from what you love….of?


No matter how close
I ever got, there was
always room for more time
in the halo of
baked goods, old

style thinking
with a large
twist none could ever
guess. Hills, valleys, rivers come
into, go out of

view, but it’s been so
long since I knew a
couple who both came form good
upbringings. Your

can rely
on solid
consistency, thus
I envy Jeff, who wouldn’t?
Your life has touched so

many through
music, so I wonder, what
will you stride
into to fulfill
your creative side

once time is
on your side? Maybe throwing
pots, writing
arrangements, breaking
ninety, new love style?

J “L” V

You joined on
hand drum right
away at Green Fest, stayed in
our circle
when it was not so

easy to do. You think
of so many ways
to save us,
but you should join with
a lady and smile

first, save us
later. I don’t
know anyone as blocked by
own false
image of themselves.

You run the valleys
up and down fifteen
and eighty
one… you invent with
precise results, yet

don’t measure
your needs or factor in the
of love. Oh it weighs
on you for sure. Yet

hasn’t stopped
your penchant for recording,
hauling full
sets hundreds of miles
for a jam session.


Black, Museum
School in black.
Your lines, both mystical and
fought for resound to

ports, while your
friends often wonder
where the hell you are.
You rank in
the top three ever

known in the
“Suffered most for their art.” If
I had stayed you’d be
cranking more

stretch jobs while
cursing how lucky
I was to have one
of your huge
talent reduced to

making my
day easier than it is
I’m sitting across
From one pretty face,

But days in
Pittsboro were productive.
Come out and
play again, let those
art works shine somewhere.


You beat the rap the
hard way, had a good
serve, were hard to beat
when on. What now my
friend who was friend to

Clapton, The
Who, and God knows who
else? Your legend is thus: you
were able
to prove complete love

act with a woman,
when dared, who was with
her parents shopping,
by producing her
panties, collecting

fifty each
from four of us. You
explained that you went right
to her as
if you had known her,

though older,
and asked how she had been, and
inched her out
to the hall where you
seduced her to the

point that you
met later the same evening
for romping,
Florida style on
a deserted beach.


horny, alone and
mine just one
time, behind the courts,
on a grounds pass allowed to

only those
who worked years to walk
around alone. You signed out
a half hour before me. I
had not thought

you were out
lying in wait for
the likes of
me, but on that day
you beckoned, pounced, found response

as I too
was cross-eyed: massive
sperm build-up had caused my back
to go out, so I was just

in that way,
but learned more than Cricket could
teach about
the importance of
the strongest human

muscle: tongue.
This has served me well, so thank
you my small
frisky friend. I know
I was good that day.


You said something, plus
the timing made it
more plausible that our was
a set up. “What, this is
more than one night?” you

said, and of
course it was.
You spoke of special
basketball squeezing
exercises, your father

invited me to
join the local lodge,
you’d had an eastern star look
back at you, yet I
declined, we drifted

then a car
drove off at
Christmas and that was
that. You found your love
in men who needed you, and

you made each one,
if there ever was more
than one, a
star in your eyes, thus
assuring a good

life for you, your son,
and a bewildered look on
the face of
Bill, who got foot played
at dinner one night.


You started
work at fourteen and
knew the way
to charm romance, but
this runs in your family,

and being
youngest, normal rates
of absorption plus
very strong genetic lines
for handsome

made you both
the wild child and the
one with a
true responsible
streak that delivered a great

life once the
typical Naples
teen years had been leapt
over. Too many events
kept pulling

you back down
to earth, but here you are, a
man able
to stand on his own,
even if fighting

to surmount
mountains never seen at beach
parks, filling
stations, embraced
with love that comforts.


Dude, it’s my job to
be able to pluck the hard
moments, explain, extend some
relief, be
a best uncle. It

took this long
to face it, so how
dare I imagine how you
got through it? Onward
bench-press star,

to the loved-ones arms who must
be strong, who must be happy
to pull you
back, who, by now, no

matter her
name, is heroic.
Losing Tad was tough, but we
had years to practice
getting it

right. Your hard
time may be over, but in
those moments
when it flashes back,
that’s exactly when

leading your
strong life pays homage to those
who raised you.
Communicate, be
my friend again – Doug.


Do you now
what penultimate
means when a
project is seven
months long? In

this case, my pretty
friend, it means,
as I was telling Kurt, that
it took me
this long, (way over)

a year to
bravely step your way.
One heck of
A life we lead, and
One great job

You’ve done: sacrifice
Is the word
Smart people use to define
“mother” but
you got hit hard “post

facto,” thus
a one-two-three round punch-out
occurred. How
you survived this is less
important than what’s

new now. What’s
new now? Has all this loosened
once firm ties,
or encouraged more
love, stress-free bonding?


We met at sugar
Saudi owned (via Carlyle
Group) Dunkin
Donuts. You, a young

Gwangju Daehakyo
student, playing with
friends, me on
the last plot: a map
of the end of a

book. You’re it, Yu, Lim
Jeong, so here
is the short story I make
for you: in
high school, popular,

friendly, surrounded,
you majored (many
do) in love.
Being raised well, your
mother expected

great grades and
test scores to match excellent
and emotional
attributes. You failed,

but only
in that one way. Your “people
skills” will, and
have carried you. Light
the way for your friends.



Top Secrets

Play II, Thirty Five Years Later

There’s this shadow made by Korean Pines that hits
the white wall of building two at one every day.
If you’re sitting upstairs at An Die Musik, lazily
waiting for your favorite lunch-mate, this shadow can
appear to be the cliff seen in ancient watercolors. A
dark cliff and foggy white air in a far-distant place.
Foreground cloud-clipped conifers add a touch of reality,
nudging you back to lunch, which arrives, unlike your partner.
Today it’s the newfound cliff, visible only from three
southeast-facing seats. Students move, shoes push grains
into jagged cracks, yellow buds enlarge, the sun warms
frosted souls, but it’s the shadow cliff that matters. Now
you have a new friend, silent but hopeful, strong yet fake,
everlasting but ever-changing, finally receding with the sun
to a place no one knows. A morose quartet, early romantic,
pops at least one bright piano note, while cello, violin, viola
continue their lament. A new banner is stretched between
trees. The perpetrators are efficient and mingle into passersby
in less than thirty seconds. Now the cliff cascades, trios walk
and talk, you dream of love alone, confident it will return.


Brandy barks at swooping swallows,
Life, lowered to one foot or so
In summer time is simple,
As the lure of tired dogs and clover
Greets only those who need to play.

Scampering down outside stairs
Past the skidding bicycle marks
To a tumbling fit of joy
Goes the only daily memory
Of a happiness once known.

Landing in a pile of limbs,
Which includes the golden hair
That shines of wetness on the
Back of Brandy, the player
Laughs at the summer sun.

How long will it be
Before the play begins again,
Before the youthful joy
Once known appears, before
The love, if ever, returns?


Chilly Day

Here you are, and here they are: in camouflage on a weekend
furlough, scoping out the wide variety of female talent. From
rank amateur to well-played skeptic, the ladies walk by until the
rest of the local unit falls in to form a posse of seven. Is it a
typical Sinae*-day? No. The coffee/pastry shop, usually packed
on Saturday is down to two of us. No one, I mean none of the shop
walkers buys anything. Today’s parade is bagless, an early sign,
like snow-poking crocus, of a springtime of heartbreak. Human
desire keeps us on the same course, even if stripped of buying.
We want to mingle, so here come the expats, some lonely, others
paired up. Another sleepless year is a sure bet. Productivity only
matters if you are producing food. Bunned hair atop mega-hottie
stands, pink rose in hand, waiting a while then moving west,
searching for the idiot who caused her boredom. The brown dog
held by the crazy man, gets away, pees on the astro-turf carpet,
enrages the shop manager, is swept up and flees with its homeless
master. Twitching, greasy-haired, dark-skinned landmark is on the
run again. Maybe he finds a warm place to sleep. Someone did up
his hair in corn rows so it doesn’t get straggly. Walkers veer away,
he’s seen it for years. They could learn survival from him, but don’t.

*Sinae- Korean for downtown

Yonge Street Strut

Your patterns
change as windy March
jumps into falling blossoms.
That black boa top
screams “love me.”

Your escape
provokes envy, smiles
happiness, sorrow, lonely
lunches, knowing your
life awaits.

Siren muse,
this fashion-plate girl,
who secretly loves all types,
aims to be “selfless

You won’t reach
all your magic dreams,
but in this long year you saved
one soul, one large friend.
Goodbye you.

transformation: butterfly
culture to
dog eat dog battles
no one wins.

Six minutes
per week to relax, too stressed
to love, or
play or laugh. Too dry:
sexless life.

Tiger girl
still has passion for Hyuntay,
but Dad is
never home, fully

Here we are
together to sleep, maybe
one meal or
spring stroll: twenty step
Anchored in
oblivion, attached to
lost friends, so
gone they have no fond

You do though…
the flowers picked, presented
to warm eyes,
neighborhood news man

Chestnut wars
fifty paces from “blue lake.”
She jumps in,
swims under water,
pulls shorts down.

pile, conspire, socialize, while
baked clams soak.
You walk into gray.
Where’s Hyuntay?

Sapphire Valley

blue in empty rock
field catches soaring hawk’s eye.
Sapphire’s cones
protrude in spring air.

peddler flows with wing’s
shadow, misses this jewel,
eyes fixed on
nature’s majesty.

Gem springs to
life, a beautiful
woman made by over-gods
who want her
to go out and love.

sadness remains trapped
in blue light. Alive and free
she exudes
universal joy.

For Smiley

Deep yellow
penetrates wet green,
memory of Roanoke:

Pen taps hit
eardrums, force you back
to Gwangju:
smiling ladies grind vocab.

Noh J. W.,
known as smiley, rocks
to the beat
of Jimmy Eat World. Jisan

All down time
vanishes in class.
Can I stay
forever please, thus curing

Anchored in
oblivion, attached to
lost friends, so
gone they have no fond

You do though…
the flowers picked, presented
to warm eyes,
neighborhood news man

Chestnut wars
fifty paces from “blue lake.”
She jumps in,
swims under water,
pulls hair down.

pile, conspire, socialize, while
baked clams soak.
You walk into gray.
Where’s Hyuntay?

Welcome Back

You offered the moon and I snapped it up, one hooked
whale, not able to assess repercussions. I offer it back.
It’s seven years after the fact, but so many yesterdays
don’t come close to the prospect tomorrow will bring.
This yummy fake blueberry cheesecake covers the
lucky sequence that led to this moment: a flowerbox
café across from the dig that will become a cultural
magnet if the funding holds up from Seoul to finally
finish the thing! Obscure, yet often poignant American
jazz floats over a wide-slatted wood floor. “Do not laugh
if I love you, love lasts a long time…I’ve found a good
laugh leads the blues away.” There was no way to skate
around the drama back then, but this simple piano riff
and the knowledge that what was once a dream became
this complex, amazing secret, then public coupling, in
full regalia, full of turmoil at the start, then art, travel,
art, teaching, journalism, and oh boy, Hyuntay, our wild
child with one thousand questions, answering his own
queries with art, dances and his sneaky smile. It’s time
to pull close, enjoy the feel, make the stress disappear.

121 Curves to Happiness*

Dad’s open-air, safety strapless fire engine
hauls seven kids, two adults to Roseland on a
mid-June circa sixty eight birthday afternoon.
Skee-ball champ trades high-score stubs
for a ticket to the moon.

Sunfish sailors return refreshed after a tacky
morning. Lisa and Gigi got what they wanted
in a boat gliding through lily pads.
Here* our bond grows playing monopoly:
two Moms, one Son and two Dads.

Dry your tears, rejoin friends, value time,
honor your blessings, follow your dreams.
Young spirit meets old, walls tumble, no
man can distinguish celestial streams
in time to reverse economic collapse.

James lights up the room laughing,
deep in schadenfreud, joined by Dad
and Mom in bankruptcy court, destroyed
by money-bags, the infamous
railroad tycoon, locomotives deployed.

*There are 121 curves on Route 64 from Brevard to Back
Nine Lane near Cashiers. The Christmas monopoly game
(2010) is held at 345 Back Nine Lane causing memories of
Canandaigua, fire engines and old friends.

After a two month
respite our hero
returns to
paint again atop
cement dealers dust.

They welcome
him back with smile and
nod as cool weather
lures him from
office to art studio.

Mudeung’s glory, still
green, is the base that
inspires, him
to philosophize
rather than just teach.

air returns, Gwangju
gathers, parties, drinks
for long insipid winter.

influences sneak in to
disrupt once
sacred Thanksgiving,
culture changes too fast.

Free teens find
immediate elation,
the only dream, goal.

Paradise Lost

Four sea lions scream on top of a
spire rock jutting off La Jolla Beach.
Square footage on top is less than that
of the yelpers, but physics gets weirder
as you realize that the rock is over twenty
feet above sea level. Even if this is a
record low, high tide would leave a solid
fifteen feet to ascend. So humans gather
and marvel, seaweed swaying, as breakers push.
Surfers ride four footers left or right. Hang
gliders, golfers and Eucalyptus mingle in
weather so perfect, even in winter, the only
hard question is “shorts or no shorts?” Compare
to Haiti, or Africa, or Nicaragua. As we lurch
toward uninhabitability should we pray or play?
If banning red meat, automobiles and coal means
saving life on earth, what are we waiting for?
These solutions are easier to determine than
how the Sea Lions learned rock climbing, yet,
since money rules, none will be forthcoming.

Hyoung Jung walks
in very mini
skirt, making many wonder
where she shops
and who she married.

She finds a
friend who wants to talk English:
new alliance, lunch
has to move away from eyes,
too much fun.

Now thick three
go to a distant
neighborhood, though no sordid
plans arise,
impression pervades

this lunch should be with only
department men to
remain beyond reproach, so
we sneak food.

She humors
everyone around with full
of Milan-Paris
New York fashion sense.

We decide
to meet with my family
to avoid
all lip-sinkings: those
local gossip blasts.

Mudslide Slim

A smooth but jutting rock causes
continual gushering spray atop Yosemite
Falls. Ubiquitous granite, a conduit of echo
calls both natural and man-made, towers,
shelters, reminds me of the Hudson School
of artists: giant nature, man in miniature.
There was Muir, climbing the Sequoia canopy
in electric storms to better commune. Here
we are, unable to even notice nature, commuting
through brown air, staring at screens, being
sent tasks from bosses we’ve never met.
Photographs from far-off Haiti, where
subterranean shelves collide and thousands perish
in, as always, a place already impoverished.
Ride Balboa’s Ferris wheel: soaked sand tickles
your feet, Steinbeck’s row is not sardine
canners but tourist trap turned vacant as
more line up for help in morose Monterey.
Mudslides monsoon mansion-dwellers.
The final measure is nature not nurture.

We’ve woven a web, you and I,
attached to the world, for no matter
how long, inscribed, though poorly, for
scant eyes, still, as bright a love aura as
has ever glowed, tightly wound around
our hearts, yet soaring miles above
Meudung’s fog to warm cold February.
Sparks fly off a round-rock fire rarely seen
in these parts. We laugh, it feels like we
shouldn’t be here on a cold winter night,
just a few meters from trails so packed
during the day. This charge will never
leave. We’ve marked this space but must
go to where the stars shine, deer run, art springs.
Keep my heart in your brain, words in your hair.
Matched lifelong yearning bursts in my hand,
fluorescent. Quick, pack what you need, let’s
flee! live life in the positive zone, expand
what we enjoy together, bound by the luck
that brought us this far. Where to next?

We Don’t

sit in a parlor, harmonizing, conducted
in on cue to solo over the top,
nor bump the snow off dark branches
only to ruin the soft-edged contrast.
We don’t know anything of traipsing the
woods for love, skiing three miles
cross-country to peek at the town beauty
working out, unaware, glistening, another
Cynthia Brewster; or flower-sniff come
spring among thick rushes, floating above a
rocky bottom pond, water so clear you drink
as you swim, laughing, naked, holding back
nothing; calm, sitting one branch up the
plum tree, white-blossomed. Careful now, do
not adore her too quickly or she’ll think you are
weak. We don’t know naturally how diverse
life interacts, lavender and finch, smiling
girl and chrysalis, no, we’ve allowed ourselves
to be penned in, self-domesticated via
electricity and cars. Come love, let’s walk.

Ode to Kwang Sook Park

The dust that covers Gwangju’s moon
chokes the kids to death.
We see the buds, they shoot too soon,
Korean Spring’s a mess.

This would surely not be so
if my heart was pure.
No matter who would come or snow
the mountains would still lure

us up to breath the fresher air
where brooks still freely run,
where couples openly declare
their bodies are meant for fun.

Twenty bridges cross the dribble
that flows enough for cranes
to dip in beaks and get a nibble,
as old men play “Go” again.

Beautiful smile reminds me
that you twice saved my life.
No better friend has a man seen,
be they lover, sister, wife.

Carpe Nostrum (Seize the Night)

The stain of nitrous on the streets
Is matched by the stench of coal.
Entertainment between the sheets
Flew on the wind (it shows).

Young hotties with their strollered kids
Shuffle form store to store.
Be happy for all the fun you did
So much you wound up sore.

Because as wrinkles turn to gray
And memories surpass the present
The fun you have tonight, today
Will make arthritis pleasant.

And wash away your lack of cash
And brighten ancient clothes,
And make you laugh out loud at last
When tubes run out your nose.

So if you’re past the middle-point
Prematurely retired,
Do not give up your haunted joints
Get out, re-light the fire!

Ruth walks in
with universal ebb flow
but not herself, a
self-made trick.

Self-inflicted, but
not of her
doing, not embraced,
fought against, dealt with, screamed at,

Still, she sings,
this is the one sure
peace time, when all is right, when
everything works as
one, as Ruth.

Child-rearing is its
own reward,
but everything else
too, so, as soon as she could,
Ruth blossomed.

This box brought
us back together, for what?
recognition, or
a draw to move on?

In life you
do or don’t follow your heart.
Is once-a-
month coffee enough?
Yes it is, you fool.

Heat vents twirl
under threatening
sky, as hopes rise, hormones surge
one man suffers through
fifth dry year.

Why? Because mixed blood
ruins the
pureness of a place
historically overrun
many times.

Go figure,
but persistence makes
this lonely man a good friend,
still smiling though still
not at home.

Sweat overruns eyes,
moistens shirts,
hits all foreigners,
causing bus horrors, a chance
for more hate.

add bounce in gym windows, as
fitness dance
provides openings
for local romance.

need not apply for fun time,
casual or serious,
so Bangladeshi
genius sweats alone.

Truffaut here
means movies, booze, a
quiet respite, candlelight
and real jazz though not
a “jazz” bar.

Here, a “jazz bar” is
one tender
per male patron; they
offer mostly talk and peanuts,
no music.

Thunder skies
wake adults: children
do not hear, nor frequent bars
this side of downtown.
Truffaut rules.

Musicians start or
end nights here,
the truly hip find
nooks to plan clandestine trysts,
or gossip.

Time dissolves
under piano riffs,
sax wailing,
conducive to heart
calls, so couples come.

A sip of
Baileys on the rocks, better
here: life fades,
deep meditation
for us lost drunk souls.

Female crane lands on
eighty six
lotus pads. She’s not
done yet, but effortless love
is long gone.

I just want
to keep this alive,
adolescent, pure
without overhang.

White and gold fade off
this locked door,
the one that leads back
to your heart. I am left to
cry alone.

Grow wings now.
Re-learn how to fly.
Celebrate what you
love about
me while you still can.

Here’s what I
love about you: your art, food
laugh, bright eyes,
dedication to
a simple, kind life.

Your country
roots appeal to so many
in this raw
cold world. Let me warm
you again, again.

Zen Dye, Sendai, Send Die

Throat swells, gums bleed, lymphs bulge on and off in this
post-nuclear tsunami Asian spring with its radio-rain and
sadness because years of stress already determined most people’s
cause of death, but now it’s a relative surety that cancer rates
will fly five years hence. Sixteen students sweat a mid-term,
young enough to never have imagined life-shortening storm,
still sure the orgasmic joy of youth will last forever, or at least
looking forward to blissful mating, large alcohol, unflinching
prosperity and a good job awaiting stellar grade point average
in a system where a B+ is a slap in the face. Stress exudes
and clogs up the aisles with a goo so sticky it’s hard to collect
the exams. So Bright smiles, scores well, heads to a mid-term
a scant 10-minutes removed but ever so cheerful, even if she
is truly so embarrassed about leaving her pencil case behind.
Living proof that life goes merrily along amid the worst type
of disasters: corporate (Tepco shouldn’t have allowed tons
of radioactivity to spread into the Pacific), financial (banks
got trillions, sold homes at 70% off, foreclosed 9000 per day,
then asked for more bailouts), governmental (fascism at every
turn), environmental (look at it all, and still we drive our cars).

19 April 2011

First Grub, Then Play

Gather, flee
your box, demand an
equal share, decide how to
work to make local
dreams survive.

Convert to
solar, electro-magnetic
energy, skip both
utility bills
and taxes until war ends.

Tsunami, Earthquakes,
Melting Ice, Foul Air, Monster
Hurricanes: need more?
Stop driving.

cars are fast enough when you
plug them in to self-
generating power thanks to
Bodini via Tesla.

stress immediately quelled
with more time
to play with children,
talk with old/new friends.

Dropping ties
to globalized slavery
means doing
the work together,
for security.

Bertold Brecht said, “First grub, then ethics”
which is a touch too Machiavellian for my blood.

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.

Better off Red?

Getting caught with your pants down in some neighbor’s bed
is better than when the papers accuse you of being red.
Capitalists cast a spell, and communism was dead,
the world’s factory workers are now so ill-fed
that the twelve rich guys left have got a big head.
No need to protest, watch TV instead,
or play the last version of Tennessee Jed
while dancing, or tripping, in your brand new Keds.
See how easily credit card consumers are led?
But no money left to bury Uncle Ned!
Best burn the pictures you took of young girls, you “ped.”
It’s still the good life compared to being “red.”
Better not listen to what I just said
or anything broadcast by the thinkers at
So divorce your thinking before you get wed
to the notion that the world would be better of red.

Spring 2011 Gwangju, South Korea

Splotchy white-barked Sycamore pushes to surpass pines,
atop Chosun University Mountain. To reach this bench
three hundred ninety seven staircase steps and fifty drops
of sweat are spent. Pretty rich girls stroll on Saturday, but
this empty campus lets spring roll on unadmired by soccer
kickers and potential mates. Chirping birds are more likely
to feel naturally sated after planting egg fertilization, eating
grass seed, flying in the Gobi’s yellow dust. Invasion comes
to mountain peninsula not just from the west, but this spring
from post-tsunami Sendai and its blowing-up nuclear reactors.
Cancer only slows the drums that demand we build illogical
radioactive electricity. Post-modern deconstruction should
be applied to decommission these ogres rather than ascribe
meaning to writing based on assumed idiosyncrasies acquired
during the author’s adolescence. Human activity has brought
us both to productive heights and this wide-mouthed abyss
between rich and poor: it will slow to urgent needs and war
now that demand outstrips supply universally. The young will
have, and the old will keep trying to have sex in order to keep
economic realities at bay, but the very richest will not fashion
legislation to help the poor this time, thus assuring mega-disaster.

Eunheungsa Two: 8 November 2011

This ancient
temple village gives
refuge to
city dwellers as
two monks do fall chores.

Five buildings
are reconstructed
already, but this place once
had thirty. Armies
stayed and burned.

Fifteen years
of dedication
yields modern
comforts, new paint, an
enlarged plan to show.

She sweeps leaves
with a branch found near
riverbed, clearing a way
through yellow to fruit
so healthy.

chicken clucks echo off walls
as the day’s
mating dance starts on
the yard. Two roosters

thrust necks at
each other, then chase five hens.
A chopper
disrupts natural
flow, soon disappears.

She steps off the bus, my heart aflutter, I crash two
bags into her in an awkward hug. Mother, the role she
favors most screams back when her son, then five, squeaks
from behind a wide pole. Bonded to the exclusion of all
life’s worries, these two are a unit, and, though it appears
no conspiracy prevails, clandestine two-pack leaves others
way, way back on the priority list. But, look over here,
there’s Dad, new soccer ball, lacrosse sticks in hand,
able to lure his son away from books with Gator sports
and card games, chess and long walking talks. So
what a family it is, one happy with the other, the other
happy with the one, a .670 batting average that is only
tainted by occasional errors: in judgment, decisions, long-
winded arguments about things that don’t matter. For this
I am sorry, so sorry, so sad, so alone, so heartbroken.
How hard I’ve worked to correct my evil ways, only to lay
waste weeks of goodness with a single morning question.
One utterance, one error, one life on the line, as the now
five-year-old has to hear one more disagreement, his cries
for us to stop, his perplexed look. Stop this crime. Stop talking.

Foul smelling fish juice
puddles in
the elevator we ride from
eight to one.
Three minute walk to

school allows
our souls to breathe, ask
questions that cause Dad to sweat,
son to smile.

Then past the same church
lady each day,
we used to
bow and even utter words.
Multiple contact led to fear.

Still, in her
predictable garb
you can feel her need
to expand life, even if
in small ways.

New glasses,
new love, a new haircut, some
beyond the daily
grind. None will happen.

In the last
segment…subtle walking
race occurs.
Youth view switches your
focus, walk hard man.

Scattered fan-shaped leaves
make natural art
from Ginko
that is three hundred
twelve this year.

This birthday
is celebrated
with seven hundred pounds of
healthy, hand-stinging berries,
nutty tea.

A magnolia,
no more than a bush
at age five
springs next to temple
steps, wet leaves.

Crane wing roof
bedecked with slate tiles
shades exactly half the three
doors that open to ancient
rock Buddha.

Hen submits.
In this yard two roosters tend
five hens, more
to come. Conversely,
five women, two men

repeat a
three-dunk cabbage cleaning that
yields “salad”
known as kimchi, so
spicy throats are singed.

Grievances outweigh
all nightsticks combined.
Wall Street laughs:
in private donates
millions to police

Leaves scatter, people
get rousted,
causing more to appear, all
betrayed by
Obama’s lies.

“Hokey Pokey” shakes
create consensus
while the list
swells past Luther’s;
what next, worldwide strikes?

Hot dog’s waxed paper
floats above
sewer steam, refuses to
land: the crowd
is too big.

and pro videographers
to record it all.
Will anything change?

of showerless days and hot
coffees meet.
Unemployed now have
work: revolution.

angel flight to
reach and cry,
communicate love
again while still in ear shot.

Scream in the
night, one more lover
torn by deceit spits,
begs the stars for love
but finds none.

Coffee does
not cure deep blues in
cold weather.
Her son is dead and
her man slept around again.

It’s four a.
m. and even eight
floors up, the piercing
wail wakes everyone.
She’s insane.

In twenty
eleven, what can you do?
Offer hugs?
Learn her language in
a snap, then cure her?

Still, you feel,
and can even see her pain
floating up
to spite her mate, touch
her son one more time.

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.

Pittsford, N.Y. Meets Gwangju, R.O.K.

It’s amazing how hard bakers work, the way trumpets still
blow jazz, the interplay between street peddlers and birds, the
look on the face of the young couples strolling the day after
their first night together, the hundreds of tornadoes that
visit the U.S. in this, the time of global disaster on a
multiply-local scale, the softness of a plaid velour shirt over
terrycloth sweats and flip flops on a comfortable woman
who can move slow in a world so fast palm sized computers
can’t keep up. Even one square meter of shade is sought
on a 20-minute walk in this heat. The shady side of the street
defies Johnny Mercer era, attracting everyone once summer
hits. Sincerity, so hard to find in the info-overloaded now, is
natural in Gwangju, Korea, the city that suffered for the cause
of democracy, only to see its fate pushed down repeatedly by
elected officials who ignore the fact that their seats in power
were enabled by the very place they withdraw funding from.
It’s why laughs and friendship last forever here, why it
reminds you of your grandmother’s four-mile walk to teach
in a one-room schoolhouse, or Uncle Ken’s Pharmacy/Mayor
combo back when he knew everyone’s prescription and name.

Live Strong

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.


This so-called life, this enigma wrapped in pain,
surrounded by a sea of nuclear waste, this end-game
controlled by those who can profit the most by the end
of, what? The end of humanity? Oil? Seas? Biosphere?
Planet? “We the People” only included white landowners,
while three thousand cultures got cleaned off the map.
Masonic fascism has only worsened, now infecting the
Christian church to the extent that abject poverty spreads,
a wildfire, as stock prices rise, products move, after raw
material shipped thrice to discover the cheapest possible
labor. This shit is not poetic, but you have to scream,
so how to scream on stage, on TV, at the movies in any
way that will register with the already-brainwashed
populace? Millions more will end up criminals, jailed
on this side of the pond, the “already dead” plus refugees
climb toward five million “over there.” As long as about
half as many as needed have jobs, and foreclosures hover
lower than ten thousand per day, we’ll be alright, right?
It’s just too bad, and if you can’t fight to survive and be
in a lucky location, bomb-free, death will trump poverty.

Blaring heat
returns late, provides
relief to
muscles, brains, love-starved
newly-matched mates, here

in the land
of the morning calm.
Green Gingko leaves, soon
bright yellow
flutter unpredictably

due to fan
shaped leaf outweighing
stems by so
much. Our mates walk in
and out of shade

forty times
on the sunny side
of the street. Gingkoes
taste too strong
but medicinal value

is high, so
locals eat them boiled soft or
in soup or
tea. Their shade is a
bonus, fruit is sought

after by
amateurs and pros so the
city grows
them down streets in
communal Gwangju.

New Navy Base Horrors

Historic flutter
returns as memorial
five eighteen
turns into KPOP,
miniskirt dance festival.

May eighteenth being
the day Chun went nuts
on Gwangju:
democracy not
squelched but assured by

U.S.-backed para-
troopers executing dire
inspiring rich
kid pamphlet-drop suicides

at Seoul National,
until, on the most
peninsula, they
yielded power to

the masses.
A scant thirty years later
toward those ugly times,

edicts, a
supposed presidential
concrete rivers, eight
beef protestors dead.

Witness: monk
aflame, broken bones
mutilated girl,
troops sent in
over and over.

This behavior
is emulated in the
new dash for
resources. Modified crops

allow huge
population while
stripping collection
of next year’s
seeds. World disasters

assured via food
wars, global warming, auto
mobiles, self-
righteous billionaires.
When we lost touch with nature

all else crashed:
humanity traded for
big money.
Is there resurgent
loving hippiedom

more than fad,
or are we destined to fight
on behalf
of the same rich men
who enslave labor?

April 7th Poem, 2012

Our “one-world-government” activist from the 50s has lived to see
the economic equivalent arise from the World Trade Organization,
IMF, GATT I and GATT II treaties, in which trade considerations
outweigh sovereignty. This ideal moment for the profit centers of
the world has, unfortunately, been soured from within, leaving him
to wonder about the fate of the next 20 years, but he still reads hard,
is sharp about human relations, forgiving to absent-minded children,
interested in his grandchildren, wrapping experienced arms around
James three, the one who has international eyes, the ability to walk
into any classroom and excel, who takes the Asian rock game “Go”
or “Padook” as seriously as any chess match or soccer practice. This
and so much more make up the experiences he has to thrive on when
the present slows down. This man, advocate for the freedoms won in
many battles, example to us all about how to squeeze everything out
of each day, threw fundraisers one season, lake frolics the next, and
is thought of each day by more people than he can remember, has not
lost touch with those who matter, and finds those good stories to keep
his brain brilliant, to extend new meaning into each day, to live more
than one life, the way he always did, say 40 years ago. You inspire us
from afar; we’ll be alright thanks to your allowing us to be who we are.

Blibity Blah, Blibity Blee

Long old perm
adds to the tired look
on her face as she adjusts
bra strap, eye-judges,
walks past, then

doubles back to the
most expensive salon in
town: Lee Chul:
Tokyo, Beijing,
and Gwangju? A whopper error

unless Lee’s
mother lives here. It
is parents day, so rich Moms
hoist money at kids
so they can

buy cheesy flower
baskets best suited for a
county fair
in the deep north of
New York State: Easter tacky.

No one is above
suspicious conversation
so ladies
pair off above the
fray to gossip non-

stop, full-tilt,
smiling, laughing, knowing their
rivals are
across town saying
the same about them.

It’s Your Duty

The ten days
of spring, over now,
bring dust-rain volley, bow-tie
dances under sad
streets. This slow

city offers chance
encounters. Relationships
in tearless land mean
getting used
to work-hard love,

the kind that
pays off in respect.
Still, countless occupations
Influence beating
Hearts so shut,

into lead boxes
that us spoiled visitors can’t
find what we know to
be human.
some make the leap, some

force love on
historical foundations,
meaning they
must connect with those
who know the entire

reasons why
“hard work, no play love” adds up
to good life.
Vanquish excitement,
find love in floor scrub.

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…”

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 started her own sexual adventures
she was 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.

Gwangju, Korea

Hands reach for warmth, life, in these
last hours that he has. No matter that
birds flew, flowers grew, barns collapsed, deer
ran, hopped, fought, lost to lead delivered
so easily. This man, so sad, still reaches to find
any comfort he can find. On the periphery
of his own life, sequestered in a place his own
family doesn’t even know. :How, no why Dad, did
you run so far away from what once mattered?
But here, on the other side of the planet,
long removed from the love that sustained us, so
long that brutal cold sweeps through, loud coughs
pollute bus rides, and my loved one plays back
in my town while I work in hers. Worry not
young man, Dad will always be here for you even
if we’re abandoned in this cultural wasteland,
so adherent to the old ways, but you know me, I
have to, simply have to point out the problems of this
flawed species, my favorite? This forsaken peninsula:
always overtaken, owned, enslaved, occupied.

Mayan Angelou Prophetic Calendar of Events

Enough concentration camps to hold two million at a time.
Enough new gas lines installed at these converted, deserted
former factories to assure that more than some millions will pass
through, away. Is FEMA worried about an outside attack or
domestic arrests that follow economic collapse? Why waste this
kind of money just to scare us? No, these are for real, with train
boarding platforms, one-way turnstiles, and mass graves and
plastic coffins already in place. Youtube profits beg us to get
out now, while we can. They say the bible will take care of us,
“so just go, don’t worry about money or food.” No matter how
loony they seem, unless you are firmly into the top one percent,
and philosophize to that effect, you may well be on the “list”
to join summer camp, or winter camp: concentration is required
to survive such joints, but history suggests most won’t. Instead
of enacting change after Reagan and Bush I, Clinton just made
matters worse, ditto Obama after Bush II. This is not poetic shit,
but it doesn’t make headlines either. If Jews knew what was coming
don’t you think they’d have left before the SS and Gestapo moved
in? The CIA, FBI and Secret Service have lists. If you KNEW you
were on all three, would you, in 2012, be hanging around the US?

My love she lives so close to me,
Only a universe away.
We both live lives we love yet hate
But don’t have the nerve to say
Goodbye to the past, hello to the now
No way to shed the tears.
So much to live for, think of the kids
Who get over larger fears.
Why can’t we admit we’ve lost,
Then start life anew?
Why is the chance so hard to take,
Why can’t I marry you?
Because we’ve grown accustomed
To the routine of rotten ways:
Each of them so different,
Trapped now so many days.
So many nights “together”
While really so alone.
All who know detest this
It chills them to the bone.
I ask, I beg, I plea now
Take this gentle hand,
Remind me what it feels like
To be an honest man,
To quit living lies as if noble
To finally take a stand.

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 Sinae, 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. Russia picked the day due 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.

News Poem #246

BC, my old pepper-sauce loving friend suggests
I buy a boat in case this here peninsula blows.
No it won’t, but that’s not the news. The news is
“Extended Detention” for protestors, and “I’m going to
focus on Asia,” which is awesome when one considers
the potential havoc coming in Iran. Here, plum blossoms
do the talking above fake windmills, Koi ponds and
German-style stucco/dark-wood Dutch colonial restaurants,
sunny days, half weddings, half funerals. Personal set
of three appears ready to drop, but must be stopped. You
know the routine: lose love, job and house all at once:
some by pink slip (job moved) or foreclosure (homeless
via fine print) or love torn, leaving children confused and
bitter, “exes” smoldering and emotions displayed for
boss to see. Because of the young children you work
four jobs, both parents unable to parent, then, just as
the tulips rise, new hope with them, some major event
steps in to render efforts futile, tear asunder, return
existence to animal instincts. Few find this thrilling but
2012 lowers the common denominator three more pegs.

Now the blossoms fill the space
otherwise concrete gray.
Students scribble guesses
about why she went away.
Poets lounge on benches
even as it rains.
Frigid March springs nothing,
the wall are water stained.

But these are John Pike masters
naturally branching out.
Couples walk, umbrellas pop
few know what life’s about.
But this is not the place
nor inside classroom doors,
to introduce the counterpunch
to flowers: fascist horrors.

Instead we “Jack and Jill
these kids, children at age twenty.
We dare not make them think or
work, their banks will give them plenty.
Heels and skirts, tweed suits, bow ties,
it’s a campus fashion show.
Some afford this easily,
or snort on credit card blow.

Redbuds bloom
some bulbs shoot up in
time to usher in Yobo’s
Korean birthday.

and family play
replace the love
of husband and child as she has
Gui Soon now

to make her
house alive, and so
she can paint in Bulgaria.
Her only
reminder of age

is one poor
poem, as her life
is near-perfect with
more time for creative bursts,
less homework.

Can she make
room for all that mess again?
Does she know
how emotional
her son has become?

Will open
arms and open hearts announce
chance? We pray for her,
she waits to join us.

Soul Rumble

This lover, these words
spread onto thin tissue
which passes for a bar napkin
here where jazz flows
only on Friday, unpredictable,
it’s a trip away from pain
inept life, life, so joyous
with family, friends, rockin’
school job, yet unable to

dance with my wife, fill
cavernous soul, having dropped
too many sustaining creative
outlets, but then: music
old friend, joined by three
others soothes enough of the
ache to render energy too:
dance again, punch ol’
Hemingway in the balls.

Stuber Haiku* Labeled “Dad”

Simple meals
with scrumptious drinks made
up his restaurant
fare. “Pocahontas” was cheese
and bacon

on a split
hotdog, washed down
with root beer.
Vegetables were fries
or fresh onion rings, causing

many smiles,
future diet plans.
Today’s smile, decades
later, is at reunions
short but sweet.

Much water
over many dams
means we pray
daily, move to strong
tomorrows, spurred by writing,

reading; large
ideas continue to
refine thoughts
so you or we might
say the exact right

phrase, sentence,
paragraph that will stick in
brains so full,
hearts so swelled, lives with
little room for more.

*The “Stuber Haiku” has an A,B,A,B, C,C stanza pattern in which the syllables
per line are variable in stanzas A and B (but obviously the same in A and B) and
the C stanzas are always 3, 7, 3, 5, 5 in syllables-per-line. “A” here is 3,5,5,7,3
and “B” is 3,5,3,5,7. Many of these have been written in the past. The choice of
odd numbered syllables is a nod to Japanese Haiku, best written in Japanese,
consisting of only three lines in a 5, 7, 5 pattern. Haikus almost always mention
nature AND the seasons or a season, or the change of seasons in some way. Some
linguists say 7 syllables of Japanese = roughly 12 in English.

Buddha’s No Rae Bang
cranks up one
more time in late May
to celebrate his
true birthday.

Lumbini swells as
Koreans t\rock out on a
stage high above the
Najuho Valley. One cute

Park Jin Hye
steals the show with a
song and dance routine
to die for.

Then, in a shocker,
esteemed visitors and the
seunim join
in minstrel making
merriment. Wouldn’t it be

nice if we
could see the creator smile,
but here on
a hot-dry Monday
we laugh together

each one of
us a god, able to solve
all earth’s
problems with what we
have. Peace now Peace now.

Kiri pays
on the sly with her
usual smile, on
the way out
of Yeosu. Christian

opts for an early
leave, as expo exhaustion
sets in. We drank his
wine, and Heineken

until four,
woke up at six to
shower with Rebe
first to leave,
presentations at

Yonsei beckoning.
Minor food discrepancy
clears up when Kwang Mi
cooks ribs at
midnight, adding to

long night of
merriment. Red wines form France,
Chile, Spain
and California
assure quick thinking

to catch the
nuances, as thrice-flashed breasts
fill drunk dreams
and hot summer air
streams in to wake us.

Decade dream remains
unfulfilled, but she
can still talk about
it. Lunch and
coffee reawaken it.

Then she disappears
this time for
good, scaring the life out of
you . If you
never see her, what

will it mean? Dead dream,
dead woman, dead heart?
Sleep deprivation
reaches the
three-week point but semester’s

end approaches and
all you can
think about is how she’s
thrown away
potential just to

abide Dad’s
demands, Mom’s urgent requests
stuck in a
study room trying
to pass one more time.

Oh quit girl!
Chime in, tell him you’re alright;
force out to
the light that awaits
right in front of you.

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.

Yang Overload

Bamboo surrounds the
hill Jin Hee
studies on. Inside
two abstracts
find a home, the Yin

Yang one for her, dominant
Yang rooster
for Tae Kyung, the fake
red haired soft-face from Seoul.
They plan to

conquer the world by
that can win
in the male money club

world; the corporate, legal
bank account
world that assures their
children will attend foreign
rich high schools.

What about
love? The artist asks, but she
is shy to
admit his softness
won’t penetrate her

dreams. She fears
accepting his kindness will
throw off her
hard fight to be Seoul’s
top dragon lady.

Tae Kyung appears to
be ready
for the rooster now
headed her way. You can feel
the yearning

steaming up from her
loins as you sit with
Jin Hee, now
A mutual friend.
There’s just as good a

chance Tae Kyung will stay
in touch, as
she is less driven,
more conventional, already
settled in.

She’s much harder to
read though, so you’d be
wise to book
a few more meetings
to catch up to her

dreams as well
because there’s this one life, and
it’s half done,
but she’s just begun
to realize the

universe will
take care of her no matter
what she does.
To assist or take
advantage of it?


Your play time
will be limited
only by life’s plan
so grab a hold and begin
again under lips.

Your hands guide
great deeds. We learn so
much from each
other, yet very
far apart.

The islands
of youth now replaced
by love yearning to
be whole. So we work hard to
make it so. It’s all

just plans now.
neither work nor play
can attain
true love, it comes from
heart magic.

Small waves curl
onto multiple shores at
the same time:
Black Sea, Pacific,
Canandaigua Lake.

One dreamer
imagines these perfect hearts
working on projects
made simple by love.

Loose fitting
summer garb, pink and
white, supported by
cane, walks down
familiar lane to

the center
of Jeesil, the town
between Hwasun and
Damyang, on the far side of

Poems float
above gazebos,
sounding the yearnings
tells us once mattered.

by watermelons,
stone bridge, mysteries
of the past, scattered painters
cluster here,

drink soju,
toast hard working wives who stand
tall when art
fails to pay all bills.
Seven come to fill

scored by Do Gi who has a
son to raise.
Baby and grandma
smile at each other.

Scraggly crag,
a rock that landed
sideways when
tossed by an angry
god towers over farmers.

Except for crooked
pines, post-war
square architecture, country
the green is British

in summer
as fog covered rice
might well be
adequate cover
for foxes dodging hunters.

Old habits die hard,
but here it
is the grandfather riding
his bike to
the park to play “go.”

But it’s not
“go” but Padook, frustrating
As it seems
Simple to the untrained
Eyes, yet as complex

as any
chess match once you understand
how easy
it is to blunder,
hard it is to win.

Fieldstone stacked to make
a house stands out where
and silos are the
norm. Multicolored

school invites
youngsters to strive to
reach past rural start,
beyond chicken feeding to
some known school

the whole village can
be proud of, the first
student to
matriculate from
this county, later

a statue
built in honor of
the first from Jido
to become a Yonsei grad.
Not all will

do so well,
but this boy’s grandfather did,
his mother’s
Dad, the one who read
a lot, got lost one

time tying
plastic orange ribbons to
red bud trees
so your Dad would not
cut them down in haste.

Cooking smell,
it’s beef bourguignon
devours the ground floor of
three story cottage.
The attic

is used by
number four dancing
girl, who sips coffee
while working Kia
games for a mere one

point five per
month. “But she may have
a moonlighting job” my friend
suggests pays that much
per weekend.

But this is
wild speculation
thrown around when down
one zip in the sixth.
Then a well-shaved fan

bounces a
few enthusiastic cheers
causing breast
wiggles New Balance
could use in its next

ad, or is
ample replacement during
breaks. Then Lee Young Kyu
makes game-saving catch.

25 July 2012
Kia 3, Nexen 1
Henry Sosa pitches for Kia

You could see
how a teenager
might get a case of
cold feet, or
if there was an age

gap, or if the two
cultures were
far apart, or if
his unreal
philosophy countered hers,

but in this
case, no visible
yield or stop sign comes
into view,
just straight romantic

jitters from being
so lonely
so long. Rather than
with bravado, he lays low

applying finesse,
not his long suit, then
flying off,
allowing time to
ponder which thrust or

parry will
accomplish intimacy.
These two, so
bonded by words but
so shy in person.

26 July 2012

Copenhavn Logo “Have a Good Time”

If middle class were
this good world wide there
would be no
war, just beer-drunk anchor climb
kanal wall sitting

no aluminum
in low-slung hat, or
child beggars
or water

and food deprived, just
on big high-heeled sit
down chat with
waffles, perfect tall women,
misplaced Asians lost

in nervous laughter
pulling out
warm beer from pockets
as a cool
breeze allows

brief reprieve
from overheated planet
if, if, if
Copenhagen was
The norm, but it’s not.

Too many
camera-perfect scenes float
past to feel
guilt for long, so you
drop photos, write more.



Well-captained schooner
comes about in a
tight space, two
meters to
spare, without touching

bow or stern
on kanal 9, so
full of Friday merriment
few notice this maneuver
nor count the

forty six moves it
took to get the boat
headed out
to sea. Better shots
taken as football

fan smoker
strides confidently
to greet, as it turns out,
one. Couples of all ages
rule the night.

Some drag thirds
along, and parents take kids
to shield all
temptation, and here
there can be plenty.

The noble
pose is a tall woman at
the end of
a bike ride,, dressed up,
gliding to a stop.


Copenhagen 2

Intense look
mingles with laughter
conversation that
you sat down
next to on purpose finding

yourself a love, yet
in a group of four,
with limited time to learn
how things work
while fifty

something goes
backless in a black
bra, fluorescent dress,
deep tan, blonde,
of course, seeking any love.

Just your luck, these two
short-skirted happy
party girls remain in full
chat, moving
long hair with

outstretched arms
that raise breasts into an
upward tilt
that conveys desire
without remotely

who the target of the move
may be. One
break-up news causes
pterodactyl laugh.



Sweden blurs by on
the Violia,
forty six
thousand lakes
and a three hour wait with

nothing to
do but look at the
outside of
Tivoli Gardens
across from

Copenhagen’s bikes
won’t fade, nor Sweden’s
endless fields.
One smart traveler
makes conversation as we

lurch, he now
ending holiday,
you at the
start as Kwang Suk and
Hyuntay sleep.

It’s eight,
two more hours before Stockholm.
Two diners
return to sit and
chat, find less noise in

sleepy car
thirteen. By some luck the one
source of air
is an open aisle
window at our seats.

July 28 2012
Copenhagen to Stockholm train


Memories of Drottninghoff

Three Asian
ladies decide to
share an elk
fillet in Stockholm,
much to the waiter’s

chagrin. A young man out guns
his mother and sticks
to his cheeseburger order
over Swedish meat
balls or elk.

So his dad
gets the elk, and rare
at that. What
a delight, with top
notch Béarnaise sauce and

a delicious brown glaze with
tomatoes and red
onion, super, and since we
were killing time, topped
by cheesecake

and cakey
tiramisu that could leave
a lasting
memory of our
Stockholm time. I wish

My best new
Friends were here to see water,
boats, lone man
standing in river,
“fly fishing palace.”

30 July 2012


Skansen Travelogue

On one of many
islands, around which
are docked boats and ships of all
sizes, just
like yesteryear, a

set of old
farms and Nordic zoo
are planted with the
actual barns,
houses, churches pulled apart

and reassembled
with original chairs,
beds, plates, dating to thirteen
twenty. One
sight worthy of note:

a T-shirt
saying “sleep with me,
get a free breakfast.”
Those rumors
about blondes in Sweden are

true, the vast
majority are blonde all the
way. Beauty
here is a lifestyle
except the brunette

waitress who
lost six points for being so
bringing the wrong food
and hating her job.

31 July 2012
Stockholm Malmo overnight train


Three In Three

Once every thirty
years you had
to pull the logs off
your roof to replace birch bark
used to keep

the rain and
snow out in Sweden’s
medieval farmhouse.
Out-in, in-out, it
matters not

which direction as
this is all
you can think about
as you talk to women who
perform the

duties you would wear
clothes to do, while they
wear appropriate
ancient garb.

After half
a day chatting old school with
milk maids and
baronesses, the
three at the outdoor

grill spark warm
feelings, serving “big or small”
hot dogs. One
of each plus you would
be three on three.

31 July 2012
Stockholm to Malmo Night Train



She’s not changed except
for the relief from
Jule’s coming of age, and
Hellmut, so
loyal, supportive

and full of good taste
in music,
philosophy and
the magic of social life.
Lack of drama sits well on

a gray Hamburg day,
beautiful for a
walk because the rain was short
and light. Years
do not oxidize

closeness attained in
moments on beaches,
trading paintings with Liz Briggs,
eating B.C. Young’s gumbo.

Bowie asked
“where have all the good times gone?”
But they’re here,
Harder to find, less
Frequent, still poignant.

No amount
of sadness or delinquent
youth can stop
us from enjoying
our time together.

2 August 2012
Hamburg, Motel One



Hyuntay sports his green
outfit at Documenta,
skipping and
squatting depending
on full or

empty. He
screams hunger between
white walls and the walk
to “New” gallerie.
Mom takes him to ice cream as

Grateful Dad runs through
the yellow building down in
The park. No
special effort has
been made by

the curator
to cover the last
five years, as has been
the custom in the
past; instead, she displayed the

letters sent
to beg for inclusion, but
she only
included their letters,
none of their art! Oh

what a mess
this minimalist version
was: I can
imagine enraged
artists everywhere.

5 August 2012,
Finished Poolside Varna

Bulgarika 2

A map of Varna
gets passed around so
one can find a shop
to improve
computer performance in

one way or
another. Marina hates
the sun, she being
so pale, and now thin.
She’s an animal, or so

her Skype announces,
but more in the mode
of painting than in
a social
setting. When cultures meet it

inspires new
work, new perspectives, new friends,
new techniques, and for
the brave and sneaky,
new love, new philosophy.

values, being important,
get put back
as we reach out to
each other around

beer talks
long enough to attack the
some new way, with oiled
egos, Slavic style.

5 August 2012


Nikolay and Marina
(Bulgarika 4)

Here in their
new house, the one with
old fruit trees, rabbits,
grape vines and
an apartment for

his parents, a dog,
a cat, two
studios and wood,
antiques from Holland, the whole

artist group
invades for “Kvas,” the
Russian bread juice they
line up for
in Moscow. This one

is a touch sweeter
so Hyuntay
and Kwang Suk drink it.
Cheese soufflé
wine, Bulgarian pizza,

fresh fruit and
crepes round out the authentic
local lunch,
as cameras flash,
Marina laughs, and

proudly shows
us Darina, seventeen,
a model,
bodacious, and just
as pretty as Mom.

7 August 2012
Varna, Bulgaria


Boat Dinner Dance

Dinner on
the Danube with James
Johnny and Girlie comes with
dancing (Waltz to Watusi)
on a slow

boat the provides us
perfect shots
of Budapest as
night. A tall Russian,
four Chinese, and two

really good
dancers (though not in
partnership) one male: ballroom
star, one female: with extra
high-heeled kicks

thrown in to perfect
rhythm in
the most mini dress,
a trophy bride for
successful pink shirt

Girlie looks a little hurt,
three months with
child. The pleasure is
new friends, sharing life’s

bounty, as
earth spreads wealth unevenly.
Whether new
or reuniting,
nothing beats a dance.

13 August 2012


Hamburgers Come From Hamburg

Wiebke gets
left to Hellmut this
time by, as
the wheat farmers crank
combines, and

dust flies in Germany, north
of everywhere but
the Baltic.
Train travel,
which shall never end

in Europe,
as it has for all
but cargo
in the US, gives
us a view:

lush loam, cut crops, windmills and
sail boats: another
warm cloudless
day to end
a near-perfect trip.

Boats bring tears:
too many memories of
lake days past,
summer swallows, those
studio lodgings

in warehouse
buildings, Lexi Logan and Phil
Floran chased
out. Family is
the new happiness.

14 August 2012
ICE 35 Hamburg to Copenhagen,
while floating across to Denmark


Fruit Comes from Frankfurt

Two men work
a crane truck in warm
Denmark at four twelve
under blue

skies. Memories of Varna’s
beach, Beethoven’s house
and cities
we never
saw like Frankfurt run

through dreams of
Oma on a ski
team with a
Korean flag on
her hat as

she slaloms a course only
his subconscious could
dream up. “Fruit,
not hot dogs,
are from Frankfurt,” James

tells the Times,
or some fast-moving poet
he must know
forever to be
the interpreter

of what they
all mean. Small forests between
Half Moon Bay, reach now
for love, make it last.

14 August 2012
Hamburg to Copenhagen ICE 35
Across in Denmark


View From Train Window

Cubicle feed crop,

farm houses

and power windmills

create a peaceful


in plentiful years.

Distant dust

floats a signal to farmers

only in

August on the first

of many northern

islands, a

touch isolated

except for passing

trains, bikes, cars.

White plastic as thick

as mistrust

wraps round bales for winter use.

Corn grows well,

price doubles due to

failure in

the US. Most salt away

or pay off

debts with a bumper

year paid for well by

a market,

ever growing in size and

need. Denmark’s

luck comes at a time

of mass starvation.

14 August 2012

Hamburg to Copenhagen ICE 35

Across in Denmark


Thirty-Four Hour Day

We pressed our luck once

James conked out,

and took the last train

to Oslo (not to

Clarksburg) to mingle with the

dancers, whores

and all-night kebob

cookers. Four

corners in

a row of working girls made

us duck for cover

in a pub

the featured disco,

Earth, Wind and Fire, and

a Tom Jones rendition that

missed many

words, but delivered


notes on cue,

adding to the rainbow globe

lighting as

patrons paired off, leaving one

table of old

men to grumble, laugh

commiserate in

a bar that

sported better glasses than

beer. Weisbier

is best in warm booths

watching cold come-ons.

15 August 2012

Oslo, Norway


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.


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.


Two merchant types get
my money. The one
whose owner
lives above, as he
knows where to send me

to find what I need,
and the small farmer who comes
in early to sit
at market,
or sends in

his aunt who sits all
day with only beans
and garlic,
collecting less than
five dollars a day.

They come to town by
bus with plastic bowls and bags
full of fresh-picked food
that city
folk drive by

to stores and
pay double for chemically
as an old woman
wails, cries, screams at a

man who has
no excuses. A back hoe
smoker dumps
gravel, two ladies
wait for a church bus.


Few examples can
be found that
resonate on such
a pure harmonic as when
lovers meet,

both fleeing years of
sadness, gaining hours
of relief, only
to return.
The agony-ecstasy:

spouse as furniture,
smiling child
so, in a town with
no eyes, and playful women
who tease fruit

packers at the bus
terminal, a one
month respite is quenched.
They hug as
if it’s been years, laugh at small

tokens, watch
movies, talk like old friends, and
renew life
knowing not many get
any relief. Small

town, abuzz
with Sunday activity
provides warmth
for two enamored
souls to find refuge.


Large peach from
discovered tree makes
a new friend on the bus
down to Joellanam-do.
The first offering,

banana, five years
ago, floods
back, then he offers
tissue, and
a bag to dispose the pit.

Fruit gifts by
strangers hardly prove
cultural softness
or similar spirit, but
in these days of war,

floods, heat and famine,
a kind act
by a stranger shows
has survived intact beyond

to each other. Oh why must
it go on?
When will communal

surpass our
ability to extend
greed for yet
another morose
generation, when?



It’s a good time: questions lead to vibrant conversations

in a meeting of oh-so-many professors. They bus them

in so at least a few will be around to question each other

after their presentations. Is there time then to huddle away

from the noise and aspirations of self-appointed dukes-turned

pirates? Capital Diaspora increases in volume, velocity and

derivatives so labyrinthine and full of contradictory legalese

that determining melt-down culprits becomes so hard it’s not

worth doing. Voila! What should be heaven on earth for capitalists

is interrupted by those who have been oppressed the most, who suffer

the palpable divide of the miniscule mega-rich and massive starving

poor: middle-easterners. Already cordoned by culture, further-assailed

by invading “infidels,” stuck living over oil, virtually landless as war

spreads and rival tribal gangs carve space, steal resources, add

torture to their bag of tricks to cover financial malfeasance in the

age of fascist vitality. The double-eagle (not a hole-in-two

on a par five) rises from newly moved nest. Revenge of its own

well-planned firestorm gives the investment class a few safe

bets outside China, as Halliburton sails again. Dick, Don and George

evaluated, forecast, gave this mess to opponents before the collapse.



It starts: if we attack, everyone loses, if we don’t attack

We lose, if we lose everyone wins. What to do? Where

to go? What to grow? Typhoon Sanba threatens the

rice crop, greedy “Christians” defy their own book, reach

out to the unwary lonely-hearts. Speculators close factories

to eke out the last profits available: seek and find cheaper

labor, so Camden, Buffalo, Youngstown, Chicago, Durham,

Rochester, Cleveland, those towns are “coming like a ghost town.”

It starts: an ambassador here, Secretary of State there: here a

bomb, there a bomb, everywhere a bomb-bomb. It starts: linguistic

arguments, religious fervor, acute rhetoric, Minnesotan response:

logic, common sense and communal helpfulness trumped by

irrational emotionality, marching orders, and class wars popping

up all over the globe, as money piles higher, yet in ever-diminishing

numbers of piles. They say the first item anyone bought for minted

coins made in (present day) Germany was beer. What will the

last item be? A goat? Arable land? An I-Pad? Song and dance

may not be enough, even Gangnam style, to distract the

masses from the next (last?) chapter in human history. Saddle

up, you’re already on the most important ride of your life.


He hangs ten, podium six to ten inches too far

away. One fears any excitement at all on the part

of the speaker could cause a chain reaction: sprawled

professor, smashed podium, head bruise, twisted ankle.

He’s a joker, one after the other, but one is not laughing

because, like 80% of the day, it’s incomprehensible Hangul,

unknowable Korean, another example of one’s inept academic

forays. Drooping ill-hung banner plus sharp angle gives one

only a glare off the white board, as if seeing the words

would help. On a good day once can pronounce the

simplified alphabet, but what do those utterances mean?

One joined a club in order to gain gas money for speaking

ir fame (and departmental approval) for publications other

than “Modern Russian History” or vanity-press poetry. Just

what is the standard, where did the judges get their

license? He’s a natural, well into his twentieth joke, still

sheltered in the semi-important field of academic prankster

by strenuous high school in the sub-zone attached to the

teachings of Confucius, modified by Seventh Day Adventists.


24 October 2012

Poet Gary Snyder pointed out that most humans treat animals

As children: men are lecturing and giving instructions, and

Women tend to nurture animals as much as they can, to make

Sure they are alright. To be closer though, one must, as Merwin

Wrote, become silent, observe, allow yourself to be observed,

Then commit to the relationship. Which Lori has done, in the wild,

In her home, among the left-behind animals in Naples, becoming

Much closer to nature than most, and, having suffered numerous

Trials, also gained so much from the comfort of knowing that life

Interconnected is a joyous life. Communication endures lonely

Continents, second-day football, a passing nod to tennis and golf

Champions, but Lori and others like her, knowing how the often

Careless false superiority makes us thinking beings thoughtless

When it comes to those we share the earth with, took up the

Charge years ago to make life better for those around her: toad,

Pelican, cat, dog, bear, fox, squirrel, and even the raiding bluebird.

Anyone lucky enough to also feel this kindness has the double

Pleasure of being able to speak, thus increasing the benefits from

A woman whose greatest gift has been to care. Our goal is to

Carry on having learned something, as if we were that good.


Little Bear

You dance with two

Other boys and sixteen girls

At Munheung Chodunghakkyo.

The day is pure fun,

Even if an egg falls

Off your plate.

Blue stars on yellow pants,

With Jai Young laughing at

Your side. The miracle is

The way your magic flows

Even when life is so full

Of tasks to do: cello to

Practice, piano to master,

Chinese to pronounce. Your

Beautiful young days keep

Us happy with teams to cheer

For and dances to record on

Video. Friendship beats all those

Hard times my son, so hold

On to friends the same

Way you hold oma: tightly.

If you ever have a hard

Time read this poem

Again, feel my love.


It Happened One Autumn

She laughs, turns potential monumental error

in our favor. He practices Psy’s dance to dazzle

Gwangju patrons who cried when precious

pears fell to soon in summer’s song: typhoon.

A lady in bock colors totes granddaughter’s violin

as Saturday classes defy environmental commands,

non of which rises to priority level as two dressed

in white crawl the well, ring the farm supper bell.

Lately taped to push face spots off, in order to

regain domestic intimacy, yobo wears an additional

mask so less are scared. What spins next from

potter’s wheel? Rekindled love? Sacred native feel?

Her talent rises, as does his, the artisan and music

whiz. Effective again as a group of three, potential

reached, nothing questioned, only this time freedom

means wanting to be home more, or at the art store.

Bright Sycamore blue-backed sends large leaf

that lands between four arms, now six, stretched

in admiration, triple hug. It took years to get this

feeling back, how nice it is to be back on track.


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 and
stole the homes of better men
and women
who loved the land. Rise
Christians, take a stand!


Christmas love

spreads joyfully to

friends, new and old, as

natural as mountain streams

flow under

ice and snow

still moving, to join.


comes from sharing a

round table. Buddha


Jesus, Confucius,

Abraham, Gandhi

and Luther invite a pope

to break bread

under one God

that all pray to here

in Gwangju,

there in Amsterdam,

and Davao, where the

hunt for food

and water reverts to old

ways, not the

usual Christmas,

but children scramble

for goodies

like coconuts, fruit, rare meat

while we feast

on turkey, baked so

well, spring rolls folded

and rolled by

hands so delicate you can’t


what they’ve done. Merry

Christmas everyone.


Pale orange

infuses hue to

settled snow, mountain

peninsula quiets down

as hoards sleep.


strategic, thus played

and owned by all but itself

we settle

for a peaceful split.

Bald brown rice

fields poke remaining

shafts through December dust. Dim

distant light

marks farmhouse nestled

in foothills rarely

climbed, even in summer. Where

do pheasants

go to keep warm? One

jagged peak

welcomes winter walker but

lonely trees

do not get hugged since

movement equals warmth.

Long gray clouds

provide pink sunrise. Busses

move lost souls

to spiritual

connections. Joy Spreads


New world closed system prevails

upon the rest with

the aid of

global tsunami,

greenhouse gas flood/drought and just

enough war

to keep rioters

under ten billion, because

that population

means we all

starve. Concrete chambers await

all successful truth


organizers, or

wise documentarians.

Michael Moore

proved that truth ires the

owners when it occupies

Wall Street, demands real

public funds

for long lost

education. The movement

is met by

Orwell’s jaw-breaking

troops, Vonnegut’s sad

dance floating

this time above wage slaves all

over the

feudal world, ordered

until suicide.


A tall girl

just winked at him in

an otherwise snore

filled meeting.

She knows so much about him

She walks his way on

ten minute break.

Saddles up,

inquires so gently

about his latest

exploits, or

better put, research.

His eyes try to be

soft, yet keep

wandering to her torso.

When loneliness leaps

onto a public

life, the clown

syndrome causes real

yearning, boundary

crossing, rule

breaking, big secrets begin


Pent up urges splash

into a lifestyle

she can not

pull off, but wants to, even

must attempt

to save sanity.

Skin touch or morals?

Tax Revenues and the poor,October 15, 2013

Jimmy Carter,Christian

George Schirtzinger Jimmah, it isn’t government’s job. You think so, you think you and yours know better than others the choices they should make, among them how much money goes to “charity”.

The Good Samaritan didn’t have a government minder telling him what to do. Much less an old grunt who installs people like Robert Mugabe and Hugo Chavez into power. It is one thing to be charitable, it is another to have money taken from you so others can claim “charity”.

There’s a reason you are reckoned to be among the most abysmal and feckless of Presidents.

That you keep coming back trying to grasp for relevance is a measure of how little you have learned over the years.

Where is Amy, these days? Hopefully she hasn’t spawned, which will end your branch of genetic material to the pool.
about an hour ago · Like

Doug Stuber Ah, but with $17 trillion in debt due almost exclusively on our penchant for WAR, there’s no money left for safety nets,job training,or affordable health care either. So it’s a moot point. First Came NAFTA, then GATT 2, then shipping our manufacturing base to cheaper labor with TAX CREDITS for doing so. No comes more unemployment and a higher crime rate, but still, plenty of money for MORE for-profit JAILS and FEMA camps. What next,thinks you George Shirtzinger? Quick, hire more police! Protect the rich at all costs! I’ve gotten a lot out of helping other people, especially the under-educated in Durham and other parts of North Carolina….and I don’t need to thump a bible to do so.
26 minutes ago · (DISLike)

Doug Stuber Ooh don’t get me wrong,I have plenty against Jimmy Carter…while thumping HIS BIBLE he also propped up dictators in Indonesia and South Korea,via bloody counter-insurgencies. It’s the likes of Clinton and his Banking Reform Act and Welfare Reform Act I hate even more. Wow don’t get me started on the KING of the debt raisers: No one managed to TRIPLE the debt in 8 short years other than RONALD REAGAN. You could easily make the case that George Bush One and Two also stunk and killed people willy-nilly to accomplish…well….nothing…except I guess Saddam Hussein is Dead, and Manuel Noriega sits in a high-class prison cell with phone, fax,porn and who knows what all in Miami. Go figure: once we controlled Iraqi Oil (say 2004 for a ballpark figure) the price of oil skyrocketed 3 times from(in gasoline terms) $1.25 to 3.75 a gallon. Shouldn’t it have gone down since we owned it? No,thanks to JP Morgan who was fixing the futures market. It got so crazy and they were so determined to BUY BUY BUY contracts to up the price,they ended up having to purchase holding tanks and actually DELIVER oil rather than cover their positions,as most do every day. HELL, they kept buying for three years straight and never sold. Oh but they did drive the price back down to about $1.80 a gallon right before the 2008 election,but it sure wasn’t enough to counter McCain’s pick of the “Alaska Loon”…made me wonder if the Repubs were not serious about winning…in an attempt to be NOT in office during any potential meltdown from CLINTON’S Banking reform Act which allowed banks to lend $30 for every $1 they had (the previous law allowed a generous $12 to be loaned out for every $1 in the bank)…again TAX REVENUES will amount to a pittance compared to the continual problem of the geometric debt we owe to increasingly wary lenders. HELP THE POOR? Heck shouldn’t we be more worried about our bankers? HA

George, if Carter was merely FECKLESS, please, how do you reckon those SINCE him have done?

14 October 2013 Conversation

• So, how are you?
Great bunch if junior high school back stabbing dingbats we gave in Washington these days. It’s unreal the extent they are going to protect price gauging in medicine. What a “government”! By the rich, of the rich, and for the rich” people
• Today

Marilyn Davis
i still think the problem is not so much the government but those who roll over for a buck
meaning any one of us in those times that we have or do.
Doug Stuber
But for the sheer fairness of it all, the fact that the government passes laws Written by the rich, of the rich and for the rich ONLY creates a system far different than the one we grew up with. One in which the owners of the means of production control the entire lives of all their employees, to the benefit of ONLY the shareholder class.
Marilyn Davis
Doug Stuber
everyone has to make money: that is a problem in and of itself. SO no one can be blamed for making a safe house for their family. but the safety nets for those who do not “measure up” have been replaced by continual wars, more jails and an expanding lower class. The real problem then isn’t people who attempt to live in better conditions by becoming better educated and making more money by getting better jobs. The real problem is that this dog-eat-dog system leaves so many behind and we’ve WASTED our resources in order to feed those who manufacture bombs, nuclear power, etc. The native Americans had a short but interesting lifespan, and the MAIN GOAL spiritually of most tribes was to make sure everyone in the tribe felt their contribution was vital to the tribe, even if all they could do was tie boondoggle knots. This sense of brotherhood and dedication to helping others is so missing in today’s world, that the few who dedicate their lives to helping others are considered freaks. My only shot at redemption is to help others. My students are stunned at how much I help anyone who wants it. No other professors do that here. More than one Korean professor has been upset at how much I do it. HEHE. If the average folks in our towns don’t turn away from their own quests and MAKE HELPING OTHERS their quest, our governments will run all over us. SO I am saying the same thing as you, in a different way.

Marilyn Davis
now this looks like a rant if i ever saw on give me a second i want to hear this
Doug Stuber
In Simpler terms:
Doug Stuber
Ode to Horace Mann Be ashamed to die until you have won Some victory for humanity. Horace Mann
Be aware that energy is life, save some for your kids.
Be afraid that our minds are bent by news not books.
Be awed by the healing power of the simple purple cone flower.
Be amazed that after four short years she knows so much.
Be awake before the bombs drop, before the money rules.
Be agile: live in a town that walks and bikes to work and play.
Be amused by ants and birds, goats and potato fields, lilacs and sycamores.
Be angry only long enough to solve the problem, then move on.
Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity.

• so many thing going on so fast right now in a way leading up to this debt deadline
• and the potential changing of the guard
• or political structure
• or leadership
• or military manouver
• did i loose you?
• the money thing and the tribe thing
• it is much on my mind or under my microscope
• interesting thing to the tribe thing these days legally is that the tribe owns the child not the parents which for some can be problematic
• 9:43am
Doug Stuber
well yes there is a ton going on, and pointing to the debt, which was tripled from $1 to $3 Trillion (3,000,000,000,000) under Reagan and has continued to blossom all but two years (both under Clinton, by sheer luck)

Marilyn Davis
have you heard of the color changing dragon that seems to be about to breath fire
one thing that concerns me is the historic debtors jail and David

Doug Stuber
is one way to go. Then the grab for resources is another point of view. The declining ecosystem is another interesting point. Fukushima alone makes another case for the lunacy of nuclear power, not to mention nuclear bombs. None of this can be tackled by mere voters, as the system is rigged. I like Peace Boat and many others who suggest creating communities that make what they need, share the clothes they already have, and defy the globalized system by being self contained, self-sufficient units. The USA is a long way from this by far, but Ithaca NY and Chapel Hill NC, are nibbling at the edges of this with their OWN CURRENCIES, free busses, and, thankfully, massive tax bases due to great jobs in the area.

Marilyn Davis
i am extremely concerned
not to mention the useless eaters or something like a draft

Doug Stuber
Oh yes breathing dragon….it’s a way of saying that if the economy collapses the US will start another big war to try to squeeze even more productivity per man-hour out of its remain factories, the rest of which have already been shipped to cheaper labor, hence lowering the value of labor EVERYWHERE…to the point where an entire lost generation exists in half of Europe due to no jobs. Oh what the folks at the top will so to make more profit for themselves, IT IS STUNNING. US Corporations got a TAX BREAK for moving jobs overseas. How’s that for “government?” he he?

A Draft is possible if the big war starts
containing protests if the economy really fails is already possible if any of the FEMA camps I read about are real. I guess they are
Useless eaters? Not sure about that reference
Marilyn Davis

• the old and the young
the disabled
the useless eaters” the population reduction by 2/3rds

Doug Stuber
hey hey hey I like those folks, I am old and my son is young, does that make us useless eaters? he he

• Doug Stuber
So who is planning to get rid of us, and how can they if we grow our own food?
Marilyn Davis
German history (more than i ever wanted to know) has now crossed me some and it is still moving right along with different names to old dirt

Doug Stuber
Id this the Monsanto GMO theory? Meaning, they can refuse to sell seeds to say Africa or India any time they want, and thus decimate the poor? Already 45,000 Indian farmers have committed suicide once they realized their new seeds meant they would have to BUY seeds every year. Oh Monsanto is the DEVIL for sure

Marilyn Davis
we are definitely on the same page there

Fourteen Ninety Two, Copyright Doug Stuber, 2013

Fourteen Ninety Two


She wants three times more than she gets, but does

not know how to get it. They laugh when he tells

of performance art beyond the capacity for most to

understand.  She glitters her face in accordance to

artistic norms. He comes in sneakers carrying twenty

new paintings rolled up, a heavy load strapped underneath

nap sack, twisting lumbars out of place. Broken toes, at

least a sprained knee and a crushed ego do not slow him

down in his quest to make a great art show. She uses him

like a pawn in a death-match with her best friend. He was

called to rescue her from beer, but when he stayed a friend

long enough to witness the war, he was his own sword

slicing away by trying to stay friends with both. They love

to point out how great it all could have been if he had stuck to

the plan, been more plyable, more relaxed, more able to pick

one, drop the other. But he doesn’t drop friends just because

they treat each other miserably. He laughs at the next comparison,

that Yoko Ono is the “Picasso of Japan,” is she even the Yoko Ono

of performance art? We get to sit and talk about what happens

continents away. “What if Europeans never discovered America?”