Boomer Verses

Along the watchtower in that most destructive hour the watchman reports a disturbance a most extreme perturbance like no other ever seen before since the waters stirred upon the shores of time maybe something worth a dime no, but like the smothering of electrons, protons, neutrons recovering yeah I say unto thee cuz my advice is free: them atoms in the great winepress of the world all along Hiroshima they got unfurled the uncurling of the world the unsacking of Nagasaki. so far, so far from Hackensackee There must be some way outa here! said the boomer to doomer. “If you miss the train I’m on you will know that I am gone.” Just sit and watch the tube a while: At the inception “500 miles, from Alamagordo World’s first Destroyer’s breakthrough 500 miles from where Destroyer of worlds first first laid out his plan unfurled. “. . .but I digress” said the networks to the press. through a sixth-floor window it flew: phase two. And that’s the way it was, November twenty-two What’s it to you? said the captain to the crew. Then six years, six million tears, another fuse: when the Memphis blues sung out the news from that Lorraine balcony, a terrible thing: the execution of Doctor King! He said Let Justice roll down like the waters as the ancient prophet and the potter with his vessel upon the wheel spinning strong in lets make a deal. But who sentenced the prophet to death? musta been on confederate meth. Meanwhile back at the ranch we unload the next tranche. Before it gets gone, send it to Saigon so the American dream goes on and on. Who’da thought Nixon would be the one with Henry’s help make Saigon get gone. Who’da thunk it that a peanut guy from Plains would dig up plan to rearrange the flood of crud that watergate poured out and hold the fort ’til the 444 got let out from Tehran trouble and ayatollah clout. It’s morning in America and whoopdee doo! Must be some way out and what’s it to you? But hey! “Mr. Gorbachev tear down this wall!” was worth the strain and pain of it all! What’s even higher is our shining city on a hill . . . but then a Manhattan mourning that started, still, came crashing down in 911 emergency from unexpected terror insurgency. There must be some way outa here. Kick the machine into high gear. Grumblings here and rumblings there Theories queries here there everywhere From babel to scrablle to kabul from dachau to moscow to what now? Yeah but I say unto thee: Behold the One upon a tree raised high for all the world to see. For Dick and Hane and you and me. but only ’til that first day morn. I got waterfront in babble I’ll sell you said the choker to the forlorn and ripe with blimpty empty porn. Still it all comes back to me: that same hard truth I see. In all of history there is but One who plucked out that fatal thorn that big question mark we all death obscured by human brain on meth. So no matter what you say. I be going with him on that fateful day when last I catch my breath upon that crooked turn that we call death. I’m going with Him. We’ll rise again! Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Now its up to you to toke it.

King of Soul

Euro 2014-44

a poem to show history, in case you didn't now, if you're caught up in the 21-century show: The Sarejevo snafu snuffed out simplicity. No longer did the world make sense, if it ever did. One Archduke less in the world and all hell breaks loose.

Scramble, scramble, time to gamble, said Kaiser to the Emperor. Let me see what my generals say: We’ll make the Belgians whimper. That’s it! We’ll hit ‘em where they least expect it. We’ll show those Serbian radicals who’s in charge. Cuz we know the Russians will get possessive with their Balkan pawns. And yeah, they’ll wanna hunky dory with the French. But no! they ain’t a gonna. Suddenly All’s hell on the western front for four dam’d years: mudholes trenched in blood sweat drenched Tears and fears, for sure; yet they did endure until the madness got tamped down, for sure or maybe not so sure. But yes, they did endure! until it all died down Burnt bridges, muddened stitches, doughboy britches mud-slather’d blood-splattered in ’18, squelching out the bad dream. Almanac of Gotha cast aside, forever there to hide in Belgian mud, and so the Royals fell with a thud, except for George the British king! Oh death, where is thy sting? In Flanders Field the bells do ring. Wager not when the dice get rolled. “Ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee!” Yes, you, who assumed ye knew what fate would become to you. Did you comprehend when the war grew and grew the way to out-live that ancient Royal fray. How many royals did they save today? But then a low-life corporal slithered from his mein kamph cell to envision a new teutonic thule-school hell and to trash the treaty of Versailles—spitting venom into Euro eyes. With a mere twenty years between the wars Suddenly ’t’was no peace in the stars.

Yeah, I say unto thee, sad but true as blackshirt furor grew and grew Versailles security got ambushed when demon corporal launched his beer hall putsch. Next thing you know all hell break loose Euro heads strung in nazi noose Again! Oh no! Sudetan treaties ripped to shreds as suddenly, while yon highbrows come and go looking for Michelangelo, what they encounter instead is ancient Beast come back from dead. So suddenly, they can’t get their bearings as Euros quake with teutonic swearings: rabid slobbering through an Austrian’s brushy fuzz far more deranged than any emperor ever was uber menschen sucked in ancient thule, ghoul drool. Germany went panting for the ranting fool. All hell broke loose, Europe in a nazi noose ’til the Rus crossed the Oder and yanks crossed the Rhine, Little Austro-maniac self-eliminated, just in time Yanks closed up Pandora’s box: all them german demons pox’d. After all that big-kill, the world stood still for a while. Then came style. (to be continued) Smoke

Virtuosity

In the 18th century, the crafting perfection of Italian instrument-makers and Itlalian musicians collaborated to produce an orchestral work of virtuosity. The violin— an instrument carved in wood, and strung with animal-gut strings—was brought into handcrafted perfection by both the craftsmen and the musicians. Italian instrument-maker Antonius Stradivarius had rendered perfect musical potential into his violins, which was then placed into the hands of master musicians such as Antonio Vivaldi and his orchestral performers. The outcome was musical virtuosity, which can be experienced in a performance of any of the four sections, or, movements of the Four Seasons concerto, but especially the Summer movement, which expresses, in musical metaphor, the approach of a summer rainstorm.

Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g65oWFMSoK0 Two centuries later, in a brave new world of 20th-century rock music, a new type of musical virtuosity was enabled and actuated through the performance of electric guitars. Guitar Virtuosity is demonstrated by the Eagles in their performance of Hotel California.

Listen: (especially within the Eagles’ dual guitar solo at the end of this vid: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=09839DpTct I thought you might like to hear of couple of virtuoso musical performances. I hope you agree, Vivaldi, his orchestra, and the Eagles were, and are, amazing musicians who fully actuate the meaning of the word: virtuoso. I hope you enjoyed hearing their virtuosity. Here’s my contribution to to the meaning of that word. Follow

Desecration

In a scene from my novel, Glass half-Full, Marcus and Bridget visit the Lincoln Monument. They came to an inner sanctum. Carved on the white marble wall in front of them were the words of the slain President’s Gettysburg address. Marcus stopped, taking in the enormity of it, both physically and philosophically. He was looking at the speech intently. Bridget was looking at him. After a few moments: “Isn’t that amazing? “Yes.” She could see that he was thinking hard about something. The great chamber echoed a murmur of humankind. “Supreme irony.” The longing of a nation’s soul reverberated through the memorial… in the soundings of children, the whisperings of passersby. Deep within Marcus’ soul, something sacred was stirring, and she could see it coming forth.

“The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but can never forget what they did here.” He was reading aloud Lincoln’s words on the white wall. But for the echoes of a million people who had passed through this place, there was silence. After a moment, Bridget responded. “…and yet, there it is carved on the wall, for all to see: ‘the world will little note what we say here….’” “Right, Bridget. Isn’t it amazing?” Suddenly, amid the noise was a loud shouting. Marcus could hear where it was coming from. He moved quickly away, toward the noise, to see what was happening. Bridget felt the sudden coolness of air on her hand, in the absence of Marcus’ gentle grip. As soon as he emerged from behind the marble column, Marcus was puzzled by an incongruous, glistening wet flash of red upon the feet of Lincoln’s statue. What the hell? Instinctively, he ran over to it. He could still hear a constant shouting; it was a ranting. Then his attention settled on the man who was yelling. He had a bucket in his hand, dripping with red paint. The rant went on, and suddenly Marcus was comprehending it: “…you sonofabitch see if you can get that off and then rub it on your white ass, your sorry white ass that destroyed what this country could have been you’re a traitor to your race.” This must be a dream, a very bad dream. Marcus was noticing the speaker’s bald head, goatee, his moving mouth spouting insult. Then Marcus was deciding to do something. It seemed to him that it was someone else speaking when he asked, loudly, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” 63 The stranger, startled, turned to Marcus and looked at him. Then he opened his foul mouth: “I’m gonna make things right. There’s a lotta things need to be made right. It’s gonna start now.” A bad dream. Marcus could feel his ire rising. His voice must have quivered with “You better leave now. You’ve defaced national property. You better find a park ranger and turn yourself in. If you don’t, I’ll turn you in.” Marcus found himself yelling, as his challenge escalated through the marble edifice. The man turned and began to walk down the steps. Impulsively, Marcus thought, and shouted: “Who are you, anyway?” Marcus began following the man down the steps. “They oughta bury you under this place.” Marcus was right behind him. Glass half-Full

Pearl of Great Price

Here's an excerpt from my 2013 novel, Smoke: “How could this place have been a battlefield for a world war?”

The old Frenchman cast his eyes on the passing landscape, and seemed to join Philip in this musing. He answered slowly, “War is a terrible thing, an ugly thing. I did not fight in the war; I had already served my military duty, long before the Archduke was assassinated in Sarajevo and the whole damn world flew apart, like shrapnel. But I had many friends who fought here, and back there, where we just came from in my France, back there at the Somme, the Marne, Amiens. Our soldiers drove the Germans back across their fortified lines, the Hindenberg line they called it. By summer of 1918 the Germans were in full retreat, although it took them a hell of a long time, and rivers of spilt blood, to admit it. And so it all ended here. Those trenches, over there in France, that had been held and occupied for two hellish years by both armies, those muddy hellholes were finally left behind, vacated, and afterward . . . filled up again with the soil of France and Flanders and Belgium, and green grass was planted where warfare had formerly blasted its way out of the dark human soul and the dark humus of lowland dirt and now we see that grass, trimmed, manicured and growing so tidily around those rows of white crosses out there, most of them with some soldier’s name carved on them, many just unknown, anonymous, and how could this have happened? You might as well ask how could. . . a grain of sand get stuck in an oyster? And how could that oyster, in retaliation against that rough, alien irritant, then generate a pearl—such a beautiful thing, lustrous and white—coming forth in response to a small, alien presence that had taken up unwelcomed residence inside the creature’s own domain?

The answer, my friend, is floating in the sea, blowing in the wind, growing green and strong from soil that once ran red with men’s blood.” Smoke

Choose One Path

The whole dam world was flooding with violence and war when, in 1916, Robert Frost published his poem about two roads diverging, and how he chose one and not the other and that has made all the difference in his life. This is what happened to me, although mine was much later in time. In 1977 I took a turn that has made all the difference. I was hanging out with some people who were into the so-called "secret doctrines," theosophy, Madame Blavatsky, ancient Egyptian mysteries and blah blah blah. But I turned and went the other way. I entered a door that had been unlocked for me by the One man who had lived through this life and was sentenced to die a criminal death, which he did, and then resurrected, fully alive and well and lived to tell about it. . . which he did, and which testimony was given then, now, and ever since and has continually been spoken, written about, sung about and celebrated since about 33 A.D. Therefore I said to hell with Blavatsky and the secret doctrines and the dark side and the Force and blahblah. I will follow the example of the ancient prophet, Daniel, who was aware that strong and important people would come along, people who forsake the Almighty God. Now we're talking about the God whose presence in this world is obvious in the glory of every sunrise and sunset, and whose testimony of Life victory over defeated death has reverberated around the world ever since people started calling one time "BC" and the next time "AD." And I don't care if the joker comes along with his secret doctrines and his special knowledge and his special discovery from the land down under and his dark arts and his third reich rhetoric and his fourth reich magamania bullshit, standing at the top of politics or business or so-called religion or philosophy maga-land or the temple itself calling us his "precious Chr******ns". . . I don't care. Go jump in the lake. I'm going with the One whose main point was proven for all time when He allowed the powers to be to nail him to a cross, and then, three days later, walked out of that grave!

In all of history, do you know of any person who has died and then lived to tell about it? There is only One, and he's the same one who went up on a temple-top, and on a mountaintop, and was spoken to with special promises from his nemesis. But Jesus told Satan to go jump in the lake of fire, or get the hell outa here and get behind me. Go, instead, and worship the Creator of the Universe. But hey, that "road not taken" - that dark path that I left behind in 1977 - is still out there for people to get sucked into. If this message rings true for you, and you know what I'm talking about. . . Don't do it! Don't take the dark path. Don't fall for the secret mysteries. Fuhgeddabout the secret doctrine and philosophy and rebaked Aussie darwinism and every other wind of doctrine and turn to the one who conquered death itself. Then so. . . will you do. You will survive death. Just do it and don't worry about it. King of Soul

Music Earlier and Later

Here's a snippet from my 2017 novel, King of Soul: The year is 1969 (same year I graduated high school). The first scene (in chapter 17)depicts two college students talking about music of the period, particularly what happened at the Altamont pop festival in California. Then, (at the beginning of 18) the scene shifts to symphony concert in which Beethoven's 9th symphony is performed for listeners in Chicago. Grace Slick said it was weird up there. Then she kept saying 'easy', like telling them to take it easy, and be kind. The music stopped. "Paul Kantner got on the mike and said the 'Angels' had punched out Marty Balin, and he didn't appreciate it. Grace said they were fucking up, like the 'Angels' were fucking up. Then this Hell's Angels guy - I guess he was their leader - jumps up on the mike and points at the band, starts talkin' trash or something, and it was like, the whole thing was going downhill fast. "That's probably why the Dead never went on. They left, never played. They must have been freaked out. I mean, everybody must have been freaked out after that. Those Hell's Angels guys were supposed to be keeping the peace, but what they were doing was more like bullying people around." "Sound like they were on a power trip," said Will. "Yeah, and they got more obnoxious as the day went on. The worst thing that happened was at the end. After dark, all the vibes got even more weird. The Stones were playing, and there was, like, a constant scuffle going on around the stage. Some people were really tripped-out, freakin out, right next to the band, and Mick Jagger kept yelling at the people right around the stage, telling them to cool it, and calling for 'those cats to stop beating people up.' I mean, he even threatened to shut down the whole concert, like, 'if you people don't quit punching each other out we're gonna split.' He kept saying that over and over. It was like, whiny, 'we're gonna split, we're gonna split, man.' He was sounding like my little brother whining, when my big brother would pick on him. "We're gonna split, we're gonna split. Na nana booboo!" (turning the page we find) Chapter 18, Movements: O Freunde, nicht diese Töne! Sondem laβt uns angenehmere anstimmen, und freudenvollere! Ludwig Von Beethoven While the widening gyre of anarchy was roaring so blatantly through Altamont, another thing altogether was happening in the hub of the heartland, that humongous, meat-packin' Windy City on western shore of Lake Michigan. In a concert hall on Michigan Avenue, a mere stone's throw from the site where, last year, Mayor Daley's legion of policemen had taught the boomer upstarts a thing or two about how his version of order would be enforced in the city of Chicago, a theater-full of listeners sat expectantly. They were awaiting the arrival of Ludwig Von Beethoven. His scribbled notes upon a 5- lined manuscript would soon provide the roadmap to guide them through an extraordinary experience, an o'erleaping of the bounds of time and space. At 8:07, as if by clockwork, Conductor Riccardo Ormando entered the hall from the wings, welcomed enthusiastically in a wave of applause. Now the time of his orchestra's purple mountains' majesty of preparation would yield forth the fruited plains of actual, musical delight. . . King of Soul You can hear Beethoven's 9th here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rOjHhS5MtvA

London 1937, Smoke

Here's an excerpt from my 2013 novel, Smoke, The scene is London, Haymarket Street, Coronation Day 1937. The policeman asked Nathan if there was anything else he had noticed about the deceased. “He handed this to me,” said Nathan, “even as he was falling to the ground.” It was a folded white paper, with this handwritten message largely scrawled in black ink: Wallris-- John Bull's ransom will smoke out the black shirts tomorrow. If not, your bridge could burn. Chapman The bobby, raising his eyebrows, looked up at Nathan. “Mr., uh..., your name sir?” “Nathan Wachov, of Islington.” “Mr. Wachov, did the gentleman, Mr. Wallris, did he display any signs of struggle?” “He was struggling to stay on his feet, sir, but was incapable of it. He was losing strength rapidly when I went to his aid.” “Did his death appear to you to be, ah...natural?” “He was gasping for air, and mucous was dripping from his mouth. I don't know; I've never had anyone die in my arms before now.” “Gasping?” “Yes. Wouldn't you say that would be a natural response of anyone who is taking his last breaths?” “Yes. Quite so.” The policeman looked down at the body again. “I'll need to take this note, you know. Since this incident has resulted in a death, I'll need to retain any items that could be evidence.” “Evidence… of what? He gave it to me.” “While he may have handed it to you, that doesn't mean he gave it to you for keeping. This is routine procedure, I assure you, Mr. Wachov, in such a case as this.” “Certainly, do your duty, sir.” Two medics arrived with a gurney. Officer Morley began to facilitate their task of removing the body. “Stand aside, now,” he commanded to the onlookers,” raising his arms to shoo them away. “Move along now. We’ve a new king to crown today. Better get on with it.” Stepping aside, Philip looked quizzically at Nathan. He was curious about the note. “Black shirts?” "Fascist renegades," replied Nathan. Smoke