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Halloween Pumpkin

Cat Head Theatre

MiuMiu Mason & A New Pair of Scissors

from: A Border Comedy

A cold breeze smelling of seashells and rice
And then of trees arousing me
More than city life as I experience it requires
Is pushing back the curtains by the bed where I’m lying for a little while longer
To dream
That I’m a prisoner.
But I can’t pretend to sleep while writing this.
And if you turn from this to any other didactic poem you will see the contrast
Between adventure in the meditations of a woman and imagination in the speculations of a man,
The one depending on accumulation, the other on loss and gain
Which aren’t the same for everyone, enclosed in different circles
And in different skulls
And most of them guarded
Although things get in or out sometimes—the smell of blankets
Hanging in the dark, for example,
Or the story of the father who punished his daughter for being lazy because he didn’t understand her kind of work—
But those too are ideas.
Ideas contend with stories
And this is more worthy of consideration than the judgements which separate them into “good” and “bad”
Angels.
I know the poet is vain who writes of paradise.
Experiences run together through transitions
Which are long and short at once
And so I watch the long leaves at the narrow window of my cell
And blink.
Perhaps what is most amazing is that with crimes on my conscience
I can still kiss the wall.
My containment
Consists of a series of connections
Sustaining my conviction of having done something
And every act expresses a necessity
To improve.
In over half my dreams a moral dilemma figures.
There is a grazing horse charred in a grassy corral
And a bluejay named ‘Julie’ directing a flotilla of ships through a canal
Or a convocation of logicians in striped shirts watching a boxing match
In a rural gymnasium owned by my grandfather who is sad
And the dilemma emphasizes the parallels
Whose shadows shift
Through the rationalizing ambitions of the story.
My guilt is much like Descartes’ doubt.
No—those doubts were certainties, though achieved through “pain
And other sensations
Which could not have been foreseen”
And serve as bars
Or gates
Or guards of guides.
Signifier and signified.
They are snapping the distance
In a dream with an outward gaze that’s all about a gain
Of metaphor and change of shape
At this “stopping point”
Under the pressure of the senses
Which draw from ‘nature’ and develop reality.
That’s our reason for acting.
Reason is an aid to stories.
It’s the ghost out of the cell,
Reciting what it remembers, ruling nothing out,
Like Clio or Narrator or Anonymous.
But if the flesh of the ghost is no longer under pressure
Then, like a ghost, it’s gone
From its unusual or even downright alien position,
Us,
Of which it is an imitation,
Not knowing where to go,
An aporia,
Which will allow us to go beyond the limits of any one view point
And remain there.
Though it may not seem to follow.
But I’ve gained weight, my own weight
Under my own trusted and selfish senses.
My memory is filled with their impressions
I write when nothing answers
That something appears.
A terrible slaughter occurs.
As Kwame Anthony Appiah says, technology has not yet rendered slashing and hacking obsolete.
A city is a big city or a beautiful city
Or a crowed city
Or a small progressively-governed university city
And so forth.
Intellectual systems, speech in dreams, things that change like grass
Always end in combat
(Definition: action; motivation: lack)
Resulting in expulsion
(Expulsion here assumes the nature of a certain form of justice)
But a lot of things have changed.
An anecdotal story is often a span
Consisting of separate facts
Each tenuously connected to the next.
What we respond to are the attractiveness of the facts
And the view each one provides.
There are even such things as philosophical anecdotes
Going around,
Beautifully feathered and perfectly circling
So as not to diverge even an inch from the truths
Thrown among things
And lost in the woods.
Then along comes a woodcutter wearing blue boots
And carrying a bird in a sack over his shoulder
To justify his claims
To the accuracy of the metaphors of branching and perching
He uses
To describe both story and storyteller
When asked.
Where else can one find
Justice?
The young soldier knocks on the ground and an onion shakes.
The story is never universal
Though it may repeat
And even symbolize, like rocks for good or parts for wobble
And music.
With what does a story begin?
The marvelous is a cold vehicle for ink and paper.
The power of Rosa Luxemburg could not be imposed.
But here’s an ambitious undertaking;
An attempt to account for the Twentieth Century!
Goya’s small unfinished sketch of “Time, Truth, and History”
Was painted two centuries ago at a comparable time,
(1797).
It shows Time with its hourglass bringing naked Truth into the light
While History writes.

-- Lyn Hejinian

Sweet Tired Cat

Kitten Composer

The Art of Sleep

thanks MD

CATS

arte


Thanks MD

Mikey!!

Thanks

Understanding Orchids

MARLOWE
How do you do, sir?

GEN. STERNWOOD
Sit down.

MARLOWE
Thank you.

GEN. STERNWOOD
Brandy, Norris. How do you like your brandy, sir?

MARLOWE
In a glass.

GEN. STERNWOOD
I used to like mine with champagne. The champagne cold as
Valley Forge and with about three ponies of brandy under it.
Oh, come, come, man. Pour a decent one. I like to see people drink.
That'll do, Norris. You may take off your coat, sir.

MARLOWE
Thank you.

GEN. STERNWOOD
It's too hot in here for any men who has blood in his vein. You
may smoke, too. I can still enjoy the smell of it. Hum, nice
state of affair a man who has to indulge his vices by proxy.
You're looking, sir, at a very dull survival of a very gaudy
life, crippled, paralyzed in both legs, barely I eat and my sleep
is so near waking it's hardly worth a name. I seem to exist
largely on heat like a new born spider.

MARLOWE
Yeah.

GEN. STERNWOOD
The orchids are an excuse for the heat. You like orchids?

MARLOWE
Not particularly.

GEN. STERNWOOD
Nasty things. That flesh is too much like the flesh of men. Their
perfume has a rotten sweetness of corruption. Mmm... Tell me
about yourself, Mr. Marlowe.

-- The Big Sleep
1946, MGM,
Directed by Howard Hawks
Screenplay by William Faulkner

Poor Leadership and Condoleezza Rice

The recent crisis in the Middle East has place the spot light on Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice. More importantly, grass roots African Americans are calling "Conde" Rice a total "yes woman" for the Bush Administration. Looking back, when Rice was questioned before the Senate, about the bogus reasons for going to war, Rice defended the administration’s now infamous false claims that Iraq had weapons of mass destruction. Many in African American community now compare Rice’s antics to that of high lord of "uncle tomism" Clarence Thomas.

We are reminded of Martin Luther King’s speech of April 4, 1967, at Riverside Church in New York, to a crowd of 3,000, where Dr. King called the Vietnam War as an "enemy of the poor." What an irony! It must be remembered that Dr. King fought against segregation to create avenues for African Americans to attain employment in high places. It is unfortunate that Condoleezza Rice and others are using their position to defend an unjust war. A war that Dr. King would have opposed! We have a new model of oppression in America today. This model accepts African Americans and other minorities as long as they go along with the line laid out by the power structure. Despite the fact that there where no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, "Conde" defended the falsehoods of the Bush Administration. Finding weapons of mass destruction was the stated reason for going to war! We are being fed a new chorus of falsehoods that Dr. Rice seems eager to defend.

According to many African American activists, and many leaders in the NAACP, Condoleezza Rice represents a new generation of "radical uncle toms" that see their role as defenders of the Bush Administration and its morally corrupt methods of disinformation. This disinformation has led to a war in which thousands have lost their lives, and the time honored Geneva conventions on torture being kicked to the curve. Many African Americans are now beginning to question the idea of simply honoring an individual because they are a person of color. Over the years the racist white elite have cashed in on this idea by placing someone of color in an important position only to use that person against the interests of the community from which they come. To see black faces completely surrender to the falsehoods of conservative power is indeed a new blow to the African American community.

Under the Bush administration the technique has been perfected. Progressive white leaders can often be neutralized when they attack the concepts of Condoleezza Rice with false charges of racism by racists themselves! This is why it becomes imperative for African Americans and others to oppose those who stand against the interests of their own people. This problem is evident in the Mexican American community as well, as the Bush Administration has appointed a Mexican American, Alberto Gonzalez, for Attorney General. Alberto Gonzalez is but the new John Ashcroft who supports torturing detainees. It is apparent that the Bush administration is using people of color to support its undemocratic, unjust, superpower formulas. Many Mexican American activists see Alberto Gonzalez has their "uncle tom."

The tactic of using people of color as a cover for unjust policies is nothing new. Throughout the ages unjust systems have sought to use the people that they oppress to do their ideological dirty work. The Bush administration represents one such refinement of that process. This is happening across the United States as minority faces are being used to defend injustice. Minority faces are being used to "parrot" the disinformation that has lead to war, and have become not only the new radical uncle toms but also the new "radical Aunt Jemimas!"

Now, the Secretary is saying that she does not support a "cease fire" between Hezbollah Guerillas in Lebanon and the Israeli defense Forces. With hundreds of innocent Lebanese civilians being killed by Israeli bombs many consider this a foolish mistake. Many experts are saying that Israel cannot defeat Hezbollah, and by bombing innocent Lebanese this will increase the radicalization process in the region. Already, the former head of the Christian militias, General Aoun, is saying that Christians may join up with Hezbollah to fight the Israeli’s. There have already been calls for Christians not to support Israel’s excessive force.

If one puts aside the rhetoric, we are left with individuals who use their minority status to project the will of unjust leaders, and play the political game of "selling out" to the highest bidder. The minority community must speak out, and not let the Bush administration decide who our leaders are. Condoleezza Rice and Alberto Gonzalez should be rejected on the basis of their unjust and undemocratic views, not accepted simply because their "color" is being exploited! Condoleezza Rice has shown poor leadership in dealing with the current crisis in the Middle East. By refusing to support a cease fire, many feel that Ms. Rice and the Bush Administration have taken a reckless and irresponsible path.

-- Mario Salas

Send comments to:

Msalas7831@satx.rr.com

Chris

Vanishing Act

Each bed with a child in it, or his wife,
his brain lined with sleeping bees,

my father is having to leave the house
with delicacy, easing the dead bolt open

in the dark. The house exhales him.
I'm thinking of a driving lay-up, of a girl

in homeroom, blue necklace, brown skin.
Transistor radio on my pillow, volume low.

I know some things, not enough. My eyes
are closed, I'm listening hard, that song

again, Knock down the old gray wall,
my father standing beside his car—gone,

key in his hand, snowflakes in his hair.
At dawn, an Indian head test pattern will stare

from the TV, the freezer will churn out
its automatic ice. On the windowsill

an iris in a vase will have taken
the last water into its cut stem. I will

notice it, how it is there, and had
stood there the whole time, that flower.

-- Chris Forhan

Gouge, Adze, Rasp, Hammer

So this is what it's like when love
leaves, and one is disappointed
that the body and mind continue to exist,

exacting payment from each other,
engaging in stale rituals of desire,
and it would seem the best use of one's time

is not to stand for hours outside
her darkened house, drenched and chilled,
blinking into the slanting rain.

So this is what it's like to have to
practice amiability and learn
to say the orchard looks grand this evening

as the sun slips behind scumbled clouds
and the pears, mellowed to a golden-green,
glow like flames among the boughs.

It is now one claims there is comfort
in the constancy of nature, in the wind's way
of snatching dogwood blossoms from their branches,

scattering them in the dirt, in the slug's
sure, slow arrival to nowhere.
It is now one makes a show of praise

for the lilac that strains so hard to win
attention to its sweet inscrutability,
when one admires instead the lowly

gouge, adze, rasp, hammer--
fire-forged, blunt-syllabled things,
unthought-of until a need exists:

a groove chiseled to a fixed width,
a roof sloped just so. It is now
one knows what it is to envy

the rivet, wrench, vise -- whatever
works unburdened by memory and sight,
while high above the damp fields

flocks of swallows roil and dip,
and streams churn, thick with leaping salmon,
and the bee advances on the rose.

-- Chris Forhan