Art Music Poetry 76

This one is in Cypress owned by Ferridun, the singfer.

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!



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


















Poetry written in Korea

and downtown

  1. 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


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 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


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


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).


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?

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