This one is in Cypress owned by Ferridun, the singer.
Now or Never
A turtle flies through the universe.
We ride on the back of the turtle.
The Undergods dwell in Canandaigua,
The Overgods look down from clouds.
Even if we’re 300 moons away from
When this mattered, most of our lives
Are touched by one holy inspiration: nature.
Cosmic coincidence should not amaze here.
You are in the middle of the new awareness.
Black rocks spin and dive in deep water.
A four-year-old runs then swims.
Relaxed willow provides humid shelter.
You peek under the giant grass skirt
And see four tangled feet. You don’t peek further.
Gray locusts send twirling twigs to hair.
You swim out to a cooler spot of deep water.
The white snake, awake again,
Leaves Bare Hill, not reeking havoc
But cutting new creeks to hike along,
Full of crawdads and water spiders.
You retrace ancient steps. You sneak
Through the old neighborhood, now trespassing.
Four tangled feet, a few skipping stones
And the spirit within you.
Now awareness reigns. Corn presents
A raw treat for passing minstrels. Nothing
Talked about or noticed matters.
Canary Row Hoe Ho
There’s a hippy girl in my class who wears Mao’s cap, dates
a long-haired boy and wrote a kick-ass environmental piece.
You’d like to poke through every long-leafed elephant-ear on
campus, stroking nature, this beautiful sub-plot, with hoe, adze,
al or clipper: chopping down in order to raise back up, involved
with earth as is intended. Some say a new time has come, White
Buffalo and all. Consequences outnumber rewards at a twenty to
one clip, as Mongolians suffer from bad air and China’s expanding
desert, even though they’ve done their part to live in a preservationist
way. But global means brutal these days: global trade = wage slave,
global warming = no food, global war = death for the multitudes,
profit for the stinking rich few. Love abounds in campus towns,
while “repo-men” reap millions, and songbirds still find seeds around
as legs spread out the leaves. Our new man is African, and that’s
so fine with me, and babies laugh, and mothers smile, here in the
land of the free. So what that free means money, instead of love
and food. When no one has a dime to spare, friendship will lift
our mood. Or will there be the occasional hijacked truck or plane?
Who cares as long as we can load up the kids, drive south to live
in a genuine, warm, Steinbeck-decorated pipe that used to be a drain
Armistice is only Words Away
Red and yellow leaves smash above remaining green
On brittle trees stressed by drought.
The fall crop grows together from fear.
War ruins the party here, starving refugees move out.
Warm sun parches grass to dust in Chapel Hill.
Light kills. News disrupts gentle walks.
Two thousand one claims close lives, no way to hide
The reign death’s image starts with superficial talk.
Peaceful winds entice lovers bent on keeping war at bay.
Rice is blown to bits, extreme starvation, war means war.
The dissidents’ Gulag hut awaits activist Americans,
And “your flag decal won’t get you into heaven anymore.” 1
Three deer caught in lights that look like monster’s eyes.
Nature, fraught with tarmac, endures another “bombs away.”
Scream , young angst poets. Wipe the cynical smirk off and scream!
One life to infect your neighborhood. One chance only: today.
Hargraves Blues
No obstacles in the physical realm can stop the
Flow of fix or ruin. One bicyclist, content to move
In limited space, dodges traffic, kicks her stand
And heads in to read. She gets paid to read, not many do.
No life is long enough to support all the relationships
We build: kids to cats, Moms to cleaning, teacher-student,
Boss to worker. One walker strides down Rosemary Street,
Pulls his hat over his ears, holds palms open, seeking change.
No gesture, however insignificant, goes unseen
In a town full of women. Drivers bounce from one plan
To another, running reds. Phone calls, calendar notes and
Breakfast fill seconds between lane changes, defying death.
No effort, regardless of intention, can sew a revolution
Without mass appeal. Two men shrug, walking into shade.
Nothing for them to do but drink and smoke and go to sleep.
The truth is here to see but no one’s looking anymore.
No wind, even from Saskatchewan, can clean us now.
Some loudmouth stumbles in offering to teach, but
None will have it. A rider, bussing there and back for free,
Takes comfort when a man stands to offer her a seat.
No sandwich, ever so scrumptious, lingers past initial taste.
Sun shines on a bouncing orb. Four for four, he’s another
Wizard with his hands. He does not get paid to shoot a ball.
His hand-to-eye skills have no value in this part of the world.
Jesus is a Liberal
Jesus Christ would not be proud
To see religion in this state. (Virginia that is.)
TV evangelists preach a canon of intolerance.
Jesus never expected people to hate in his name.
Building amusement parks in homage to God
Makes as much sense as waging war for Christ.
A god who attracts such diverse attentions
Is not a nice god or even a holy god.
He must be the god of money, or,
The god of land acquisition, or, perhaps
Even the god of death. Now that should
Set bells ringing in your bible-belt ears.
The god of death destroys life and love,
The god of death is worshipped in Lynchburg.
><><><><><><><><><
Curled hair bobs and flows
loves this nut who is
not very kinky for a
man who wears
knee-high stockings, but…
She waits, feels
abandoned except
during busy days.
PC discussions
mingle with game playing as
energetic child
asks which sport is next.
No friend lives without love, as
only life’s
loveless souls are shunned.
Spirit breaks
if oppressed. We knew
we could not impose
or survive any
more: our common ground.
I long for
your laugh, enthusiasm,
lust for life,
knowing glance, heartfelt
hand stretched out for me.
Birds move fast
in cold Korea, scurry
for scant seeds;
determined women
do all for children.
HAYTI Center, January 31, 2013
Community Health Centers swell to bursting after private
universities buy the general hospitals, start turning away
anyone without insurance. Plenty die who would ordinarily
be saved if the Hypocritic oath were as weighty as the
almighty dollar. Making big bucks of the already-made-
miserable in society is not reserved for lawyers or mortgage
bankers, so let’s add hospital corporations, medicinal supplies,
overpriced insurance, overpriced schools, nice controls and
the real prospect of Medicaid/Medicare cuts that would make
matters worse for who, guess who!? Let’s get this straight:
first they build out for-profit jails and FEMA camps, then they
bail out the thieves at the top, now they figure to balance one trillion
dollars per year deficits on the backs of the same neighborhood
that saw all its jobs disappear and filled the jails…and the way
they will start is to finish medical support!? That and firing
more teachers, allowing beidges to collapse, and, yeah, oh yeah,
still hoisting research grants for next generation weaponry. Health
care, oh HEALTH CARE you glorious symbol of all that is
fascist about my dear USA. Lord, keep me healthy!
Multi moments multiply, multicultural generations blossom youngsters
As capitalist refugees, ex pats and local ladies and men brave the
provincial natural reaction to any invading force, be they linguists
or “liberators.” Bone-up on enough local customs and you can
flourish, especially for those adept at leading two lives: public
and private. Indeed the gossip wire is powered by the
most efficient Tesla/Bondini magnetron. Go gently into this,
learn fast, join in, do not go it alone. Friends dear friends
will make this neighborhood so appealing, over time you’re
not gonna wanna go home. The swirl of what comes next
becomes intricate as economics worsen pm a rotating
basis, the direct result of greed soaked, yet bailed out anyway
bankers. Where is safe? What is safe? Old? Arable land?
Protein? Find your place fleeing youngsters, paradise lays
At your feet, just work hard, make contacts and primarily, be
Born into the right family, or, if need be, marry in. Never let
The love die. Build multiple paths and bridges over philosophical
Abysses. Remain yourself and insist on self time, or poker
With ex pats, or dance parties filled with common hook-ups
And soap opera exits up steep leg-exposing stairs. Welcome home!
Viscosity
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
Top
Secrets
Poetry written in Korea
and downtown
- Douglas 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 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.
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
apartments,
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
greenhouses
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
cheerleader
breaks. Then Lee Young Kyo
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
countering
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.
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
collecting
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.
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.
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?
WJS at 83 The James Gang Rides Again
Twister, the game of
tangled bodies, morphs
this year, as
alarms sound: pillows stacked while
friends huddle below.
“This year our
weather is so strange:”
indeed, Tsunami, melting
ice, monster
volcanoes blowing.
As another year
passes, the James gang,
not Jesse
and Frank, or some 60s rock
band, but the Stubers,
stretch across
continents, soon to
reunite because closeness
must first be
geographic, then
hearts beat as
one because we can see each
other’s eyes,
read emotions in
body language, play
games, relax.
Skype does not replace a hug,
nor poems.
Ink unites by brain,
Hearts connect again.
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.
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).
Over-Trumped
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
overkill,
inspiring rich
kid pamphlet-drop suicides
at Seoul National,
until, on the most
unlikely
peninsula, they
yielded power to
the masses.
A scant thirty years later
tendencies
toward those ugly times,
dictatorial
edicts, a
supposed presidential
suicide,
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
ever-decreasing
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?
Dougstuber's Blog 