Fablespinners: Literature's Online Open Mic!

by Victor Om Shanti

i loves me
a tar black nigga.
but, i can't abide
even a high yaller one,
whooz assfault sticky.

do y'all know where
i'm comin' frum?

i mean, it's like,
you've just run ten miles
up de ruff side o' da mountain,
tru a blizzart of snow,
ta where all you can see ahead
is dat smooth blacktop highway.
ya jest know it's gonna be
a lazy trot to Canaan Land,
when up jumps some squat ugly
tar baby mothafucka,
sticky soft pliable,
as a 'bama two lane
in de swealtrin' hot late summa,
layin' underfoot.

but let me say again:

i loves me
a tar black nigga.
but, i can't abide
even a high yaller one,
whooz assfault sticky
gap teeth dividing darkniss
for all the world
like the center roadway line.

an assfault nigga whooz only joy
is slowin' de progress of
long stridin' strivin' Black Folk.
rapping adhesive arms
'bout dear legs,
preventin' 'em frum cuvrin ground,
all de wile empty-head parrotin'
dat it's massa, dat devil, keepin' our progress down.

do y'all know where i'm comin' frum?
i sure know where 'tis i wanna go!

but, sheet!
i'm still gonna make my own way
to dat mountain top,
jest a piece away.
'cuz in my dream
i have a vision.
ain't no pot-hole brained,
stone igg-rant,
siddity,
country in da inna city,
permanent employee grade
mutha-niggaz
gonna lead me astray!

even if i haveta travel
on ofay grey pathway.

'cuz i loves me
a tar black nigga.

by Victor Om Shanti

"Hard work is what will get you up in the world boy. Always give 110%, if you want to succeed."

How many times had I heard my grandpa make those statements? I don't know. Innumerable. He must have known of what he was talking. He wasn't a naked tailor. He was a very well dressed owner of his own shoe store, with aspirations of owning a chain of them, who had started his business career as a bootblack.

I decided to throw myself into the corporate world with his enthusiasm in mind, via employment at R. H. Macy.It was inventory season. Counting ladies' dresses was the mission for the day. I knew that as one of the few Negroes on the staff of such a prestigious house of commerce there was a heavy responsibility on my shoulders to work more diligently than the whites to prove, in their eyes, that a boy of color can work just as hard as they.

Even before the second hand closed on the center of the twelve, marking nine A.M., exactly, I began to count, and count, and count...and count. After the first fifteen hundred dresses and three hours had passed through my hands, my fingertips began to tingle. At fifty-three hundred, the tingling became a blister. God, there must be forty acres of dresses on this floor. But, like a mule in harness, push on I must.

I laughed, almost aloud, as I saw myself as the representitive of all Negroes, standing before Mr. R. H., himself, saying, "Sir, you can count on me!"At 7,774 the blister felt better because six hours and thirty-seven minutes of counting synthetic dresses hung on wire hangers will develop a good protective callus.It was then that I noticed a suit under a scowl heading my way.

"Look sharp, boy.", I heard my internal warning monitor say, "Looks like an upstairs supervisor heading this way."

"Hello.", I said proudly, "I'm up to 7,774 with less than 500 to go!"

"To Hell with your hello. We've been watching you, boy."

I bristled defensively. Although, just a few day older than my eighteenth birthday, the racial epithet intended was clear to me. Certainly, the hostility was blatant.

"Boy? What do you mean you've been watching me? And, if you have been watching me, you must have noticed that I've been working almost all day without even taking one of my entitled breaks!"

"That", he said pulling himself ramrod straight, while spitting the words for dramatic emphasis, "is exactly what we've been watching, boy. As steward of the floor clerks and storeroom maintainers and suppliers union, I want you to know that if you keep this crap up, we'll see you get fired!""FIRED!"

I was dumbfounded. Grandpa couldn't have been that wrong. 'Course he also said a whiteman would never give a Black man a break, unless it was his neck, if he didn't have to.

"Listen, punk. We've struggled too long and too hard for years to let some Johnny-come-lately temp make the bosses think they can work us 'til we drop. Cut the showboat crap or your ass will be sailing out the door before morning."

by Victor Om Shanti

The serious poets within
The rebel poets without
Fighting the common foe
of platter clash
and cycle engine crash
Striving to be heard
By unhearing herd
Struggling by dint of spirit
To be heralded based upon merit
Trusting that word power magic
Will catalyze a tragic love affair
Into that plowshare which will bust
The tough rough sod of musty life
Knowing that alliteration will plant seeds
In the fertile soil of listening psyche
Faithing these seeds will blossom
As meme metaphors which will ultimately MATTER
The serious poets within
The rebel poets without coffee cups in hand
Stand with back to java-hut glass
Heads bobbing, lips mocking,
Thinking while drinking
A tall 44 toke
they're kicking lyrical ass
Of serious poets within structured walls
Coffee/Pot Poets
Writing structured verse
For structured minds
To deconstruct society's strictures
The rebel poets without
The serious poets within
Sound like yang without yin
Are bland martini without gin
Feel like a birthday clown without his grin
The serious poets
The rebel poets
Eyes peeled for a common vision
Unity without division
Within a piece of peace
Struggling by dint of spirit
To be heralded based upon merit
Striving to be heard
By unhearing herd
Yet how can they hope to catch the ear
Of every fathersonmotherdaughter
When the one can't bother to hear the other
Forlorn seriously rebellious coffee/pot poets
Without a light of love within.

by Victor Om Shanti

"I think I'm pregnant.",
said she.
There was a pause.
"Pregnant?",
said he.
"Pregnant."

"I think I'm pregnant.", pausing for effect,
said she.
"Pregnant?", his brain on connect,
said he.
"Pregnant as with a baby.", crying
said she.
"Pregnant! No need to cry, baby."
said he.
"Pregnant. Does not the word scare you,
as it does me?"
"Pregnant? No. A child of ours would remind
me of thee."
"Pregnant, scared me when I thought
you might flee...now,
Hearing your words,
I'm filled with baby,
hope,
and glee.

by Victor Om Shanti

I am a man of constant sorrow
That email chain I did not send
To fourteen friends
And close-knit kinfold
I was to send it on its way.
To close-knit kinfolk
He was to send.

I did not send it
As was instructed to
All my friends
On the internet.

It promised me before tomorrow
Unbounded sex, and cash for free.

If only I'd clicked
The forwarding key.

But there was a warning
So filled with dread
I did not heed
Perhaps, didn't read.

Woe to them who thinks
This message spam
And does not send
They'll wish they'd b'dead
Now a crown of thorns
Sits on my head.
a crown of thorns
sits on his head.

I am a man of constant sorrow
That chain email
I did not send
First, my O.S. died
Then my hard drive fried
Before I cried,
"Norton, rescue me!"
Before he cried,
"Norton, rescue me!"

Be sure you heed
Email you read
But don't accept
From your lovers and friends
It may spell your end.
From lovers and friends
May spell your end.

So, if you've learned a lesson
From my tale of woe
Pass this on to ten folks
That you know
Or else you'll reap
What you should sow.
Or else you'll reap
What you should sow.

20030303

by Victor Om Shanti

On the dark road to Destiny
Mugged, was I, by Love
While distracted, I stood, holding my gun
Her Cupid fletched arrow
Heart pierced me to the marrow
I accuse, and I convict her,
With no chance of pardon
By the governor,
Of stealing my heart.
For she's the One.

She's the one, the arsonist of love
Who inflames my heart and fires my passions
Hauled into the line-up
Within the fortressed chamber of my soul
From among the usual romantic suspects
I had no trouble at all
Identifying the perpetrator
When the prosecutor called.
Firmly pointed in her direction
I affirmed, "She's the One!"

Before the Court of the Queen of Hearts I pled my case
Arraigned her most fully without any haste
The body of evidence mounted, your Honor, is beyond reproach
Let the record reveal to the best of my recollection
That within her grasp, she has held the cor of my affection
Ever so tenderly in the hollow of her palm.
That whenever I am in need of rest
She's eased my spirit tenderly to the cleavage of her breast.
That each time I've sought shelter, like an injured bird on the wing
With sexual healing she'd nurse me till I'd sing
Like a song bird whose love songs have broken the calm.

The Queen pondered briefly, then gave her decree
I convict her summarily
What, then, should her sentence be?
If it pleaseth the Court, let it be what pleaseths me:
That we, together, be bound over to the institution of matrimony
That the blindness of love afflict our eyes
Restricting our gaze to eyewitness testimony
Of the passion that we share
Without distraction, without retraction
Let the heat of our attraction be as hot as the Sun.
Yesterday, today, and forever more,
Brand a sign on my forehead,
"She is the One!"


20030113

by Victor Om Shanti

Two mutually escorting women in cafe laughing
Longing lips brushing flashing teeth
War clouds rumble on horizon
The WTC burns
As the conversation turns
One holds high a placard
Supported by the other,
No War, Save the Babies, Give Peace A Chance,
A feeling well taken
Let's think it through
Under Shar'iah,
If not for war,
Two women on a soccer field,
Beheaded.

by Victor Om Shanti

In response to favorable comment concerning my recent publication here, August 12, 2005, of "Yo Grito De Lloras (Me recuerda el PSJ)", I wrote the following:

Thanks for your comments and your offer to ride your pony to Crawford to read it to the fringe elements encamped there. Make sure the pony (a la , my short-story, 'Las Zanahorias') gets real carrots as a reward.

Cindy Sheehan is a national tragedy underscoring, in part, what happens when socialism, via Medicare and HMO's, undermines mental health programs. She is a poster girl for the exploitation of those with mental disorders by those with demogogic motivations who are trying to reclaim the glory they lost after the anti-Vietnam War era past by reacting in knee-jerk fashion to oppose whatever President Bush says, even if he were to ask for consensus that the sun rises in the East. Sheehan and her type are a further demonstration that the opinions of those who arrive at decisions based on their feelings are inextricably woven into their very being, no matter the overwhelming evidence against their opinions. To challenge them with logic based on evidence is to challenge their sense of their right to exist.

I can only feel pity for a woman who has lost her son, is disowned by her family for dishonoring the purpose of the life of her son, and is being divorced by her husband, most likely, for all the years that her current public manifestation of mental illness, manifested itself in their private life.

Nonetheless, I think that she should be given the benefit of hospitalization to deal with her illness and her genuine grief. I would hope, at some point, the exploiters surrounding her would be jailed for sedition.

Flashback, thirty, to forty, to fifty, years ago. I am most dumbfounded (and this is my own flaw) at the vast dichotomy between the aspirations of idealistic teens, scores of whom voluntarily gave their lives for an intellectual, albeit incorrect, social aspiration and the current real behaviors of their former leaders who survived the civil war of the seventies.

There is something particularly distasteful about 'Burn, Baby, Burn Barbeque Sauce' in it's in your face contempt for the conditions which led to the Watts Riots forty years ago. Although, it is in keeping with the evaluative criteria of Karl Marx that capitalism has showed itself a superior economic system towards a just distribution of wealth, in the crucible of history, psuedo-Marxist have failed to accept that fact. In contrast, I think it is beyond the bounds of decency for those who have realized the error to exploit within capitalism their own misguided actions which led to the deaths of hundreds and the ruin of millions who had sincerely believed in them and their flawed philosophy.

I was not so surprised, and I know it wouldn't at the time have made any difference but to elevate his stature, that in the period of the Second Civil War, Eldredge Cleaver was a paid employee of the government of North Vietnam, as well as, an autobiographically admitted serial rapist, murderer, thief and adamant Biblically based supporter of wife beating. At some other point, maybe, you could explain to me the common, enraging, phenomenon of Kathleen Cleaver, who, the scion of a U.S. diplomat, educated at the finest Ivy League schools, Doctorate in Law from Yale, internationally traveled, not to mention, extraordinarily beautiful, was drawn to Eldredge like a moth to a flame.

There still exists implementation of the same error by those who champion capitalism and the original interpretation of the U.S. constitution's federal democracy. That is an absence of teaching the fundamentals of the Constitution and the benefits of capitalism. Back in the day, when J. Edgar Hoover waged covert war on the Rainbow Coalition (not the usurpation of Jesse Jackson, but an amalgam of the Black Panther Party, the Young Lords Party, The Young Patriot Party, The Red Guard (I Wor Kuen), The American Indian Movement, and MECHA) and as is the condition now, with nauseating political correctness, there is little implementation of educational policy which would instruct just why socialism/communism is more emotionally satisfying, in the short term, but is vastly more evil, in insidious and overt ways, than "evil capitalism" in the long run.

Had such instruction been taught by the survivors of the Great Anti-Fascist War, many of the children of the successful would not have been driven toward socialism by feelings of guilt, and, the Civil Rights Movement, perhaps, would not have fatally detoured from a road which demanded participation in the American system of politics and economics to a side trail of Marxist/Maoist Communism, and by extention, the anarchy which, today, is the Demi-Commie Party of Howard Dean,M.D.

If the survivors of the debacle of the Vietnam War/Second Civil War era would instruct the current generation, then perhaps, the motivation of the Islamo-fascists can be understood in proper context and defeated; the death headedness of gangsta culture might better be transformed into energy of civic upliftment rather than an effective agent maintaining slavery by other means.

It is in that spirit of reforming education that I wrote and published "Yo Grito De Lloras". It is an unabashed penance and plea for absolution for the authoring and publications I did during that period.

However, given the lingering influence Socialist/Communist philosophy has within mass media, there is still considerable work to do in order to repair the damage caused by us in the past.

I find it disturbing, or perhaps, it is grief over the loss of an opinion, that who I believed was the greatest intellectual I ever personally met, Angela Y. Davis, Ph.D., based on her easy access to an encyclopedic range of knowledge, is in reality a "feeler", not an intellectual, despite graduating magna cum laude, and a member of Phi Beta Kappa. I have reached that conclusion because of the preponderance of the evidence. She insists upon still championing communism, despite the facts of history.

"I still consider myself a socialist. What we learned from the collapse of the Soviet Union and the Eastern European socialist countries has made me more insistent on democratic forms of socialism." Time Magazine, Sept.22, 1998

Typically, her rebuttal to history is that the right persons have yet to implement the theory. That has been the excuse for pogroms which have liquidated millions and a source of my poem, "Revolution To You Is Romance".

While there exists within me an impulse to try to see good within everyone, until they demonstrate I should not have trust in them, Angela Davis goes too far in trying to wed the idealistic theory with practice when she promotes a campaign to abolish all prisons, at least in the United States, which she calls the prison industrial complex.

"Certainly there are people in prison who have committed horrendous crimes, but that should not justify treating [them]...as people who have no future -- treated to the penal repression that one finds in so many institutions."

and,

"We have a great deal of work to do to counteract the stereotypes and to recognize the humanity of so many people who are behind bars."

My thought:

Educate Our Children.
Protect and Serve The People.
Books and Bars
By Any Means Necessary!

by Victor Om Shanti.

Well the revolution came.
Oh, by the way, we didn't win.
I'm pretty sure, as,
I saw the factoid on CNN,
That Purple Berets were on sale,
In the Napster discount bin.

Remember back when
The people's army
Seized the racists' armored car?
You gotta remember.
It was back in the day,
Before you armored your
Mercedes-Benz.
You know back before you became
A poetry whoring recording star.
Around the same time fans
Could still be counted
As friends.

Well the revolution came and went.
Heard they held the whole incident,
In a media circus tent.
Showed it between commercials on B.E.T.
That Japanese corp.,
Which goes to prove,
Niggers weren't scared of revolution,
after all;
Nor were niggers afraid of change.
Why niggers changed to niggaz
And stopped fucking to knock boots.
Changed from fucking over their women,
To knocking up dey bitches.
Then bling-bling laden bastards
Of dey babies mommas,
Proclaiming emancipation from forgotten massas,
Changed from revolutionaries to revolting.

In Chocolate City, where our folks rule,
Mommies wrapped in kinte cloth
Gave props to da mayor for representin',
Keepin' it real, as he kept on keepin' on,
Keepin' drugs outta schools by presentin'
One spoonful at a time, up his nose,
Put down dey crack pipes long enough,
To high five misunderstood Marion Barry,
On the way to looking down on bootblack shines,
When looking up to O.G. pimps and mules.
They stopped being ashamed to be on welfare,
To swelling with pride that their president, Bubba,
Hands free of condoms, with his party of suckers,
Found them constitutionally overlooked
Slave-chain entitlements,
Martha Luther King, never could have dreamed.

Hell yah! the revolution came.
I remember, well, the Tet offensive
sloganeering campaign -
"Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Mihn.
Ho Chi Mihn is gonna win!",
The kids on campus sang.
Now, that Amway, is huckstered in Vietnam,
We discover that Eldredge
Was one of Ho, Ho's downline.

Digame la verdad, Comrade Venceremos Brigade,
Minds of gusanos who digested your guano,
Got to know, por cierto:
Did Malcolm X die,
Did the Symbionese Liberation Army fry,
Was it required that in Oakland, Cali,
A gang-banging, trey-eight shootin', thug slay,
Black Panther Minister of Defense,
Huey P Newton, who,
With his life, had to pay,
Through the barrel of a syringe, prior to the gun,
So that African-Americans can
Charge chicken and waffles, with Courvoisier
Ribs, slathered in Bobby Seale's own
Burn, Baby, Burn, Barbeque Sauce,
In money green and blood red flava's,
On American-Express gold gilt cards,
At authentic hundred and twenty-fifth street,
Corporate subsidized, ghetto-themed, bars,
Never stained by visitation
From the first nigga president
Who jes happened to open an office
in the hood, 'cause he read your lyric 'bout
how soothing on the nerves was nigga poon-tang?

When the Dominicans, (not the nuns),
Done took over Morningside Heights,
Jesus Christ opened a bodega temple in
Co-op City's slum, converted from a mosque that
useta be a synagogue,
I knew then,
like I know shit from shinenola,
The revolution had been co-opted.

Fo' shizzle! Just down the interstate,
From where the salt 'n' peppa three
Were mayhemmed by the triple K,
Then buried together in a dam,
Pushy, rainbow flag clad, uppity niggaz
Were heard to bleat,"Fraud, fraud, stolen election!"
Their right to vote, they were told, was disenfranchised
When a door to a voting booth
Was hidden by a Bush.
"We're not permitted to escape the seventh
level of hell, by the man",
Questionably ordained,
Stone extortionist,
Ministers preach,
When they expect us to read ballots
Before we can cast our votes,
By pulling a lever, by hand!

In that same political season, African-Americans,
Who, while at home to watch,
On commercial laden, cable TV,
Behind a banquet of watermelon and R C
Channel surfed, sufficiently long, from
This week's episode of "Pimp My Pride" to peep
Women in Fallujah walk miles to polling places
Defying threats of assasination
Standing in slow moving lines
While motar shells fell
Stepped over bodies of fallen martyrs
To finally flaunt, blackened pinkies
On sad, damned, hands
In order to prove they'd executed,
Their Yankee won right
To decide, inshallah,
A self-determined way to Nirvana.

Last week, my mind drifted back
To our days of revolutionary zeal
When I was rushing to close an arbitrage deal.
Saw you sitting in a cab
on the way to your loft in SOHO
Just outside the range of the falling ash
(Do you still broadcast drive-time jive, during the week, ..
or have you moved to the anchor chair?)
Whatever! I knew it was you from the Newyorican accent
underneath Ivy League veneer.
You were fuming that your president, and mine,
Was not pressuring friends of friends of Islamic assholes
(No, not the F.O.I. - that would be a whole other issue)
Enough to make the subways safe for decent folks.

"What the hell", I'm sure I heard you snivel, "are these young punks
spewing that they'll die for their mental masturbation cause.
Just because they'll get a crack at some gash."

On the web, recently,
In the PETA-leaning blog,
"Free Hooey!",
The internet chat reported,
so I know it must be true,
That first, a poet tried, at last,
to kill a poet prophet
'Cause he thought the brother tried
To kill his profit;
That was just a tiff over cash.
It was, then, I knew the revolution's time,
not to mention our own sense of revelation,
Had done come to an end, not with a tick-tock,
But with a plain crash...

It's an oft repeated paradigm
"It's an ill wind that blows no good"
What blew in from the East Wind
Blew in the same ole shit.

Oye! Felipe. Holla!

by Victor Shanti

We have abolished the insane asylum
We have by fiat and concensus
Normalized the mentally ill.
From that self-righteousness,
is it consequent that
In our streets scores perambulate
Muttering aloud within earshot
Of those to whom they are not speaking?

Some are wirelessly wired
To cellular net.
Those not netted are slain
By insane coward police.


We thought we'd abolished the asylum insane,
When its walls were rendered,
Its denizens released
But, alas, all we've done
Is its perimeter increased.

20030209

C O M I N G S O O N !

If you like the literature you've read at Fablespinners: Literature's Online Open Mic, then listen to it at Fablesingers: Literature's Voice.(http://fablesingers.blogspot.com/fablespinners.xml)

by Victor Om Shanti


I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina
Quando fiam uti chelidon-O swallow swallow
Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Shantih shantih shantih


T. S. Elliot, line 434, "The Wasteland": Shantih. Repeated as here, a formal ending to an Upanishad. "The Peace which passeth understanding" is a feeble translation of the content of this word. per,

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/18993



A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still

Jose can you see
Hop upon my knee.

Jenny in the outer pew
Scan my petition well
Hold it up for all to see
Adopt herein as a beginning to forever
Recite it then as a mantra of conception
To trampoline jump from shell a to z
Hoping against moping that Heisenberg
knows for certain.
Cast all the chips
For the prize
Behind the curtain.

Don't say so!
Don't you go!
Don't go in!
Please don't end!
Don't tell Ricky!
Wear my tie!
In your caw!
On the stro!
Don't snort blow!
Don't spill honey on the mats, suki yoko!


Mantras still will save
The jury's hung on Jah ruling.

Seen!

Back in the day, Hairy Puta, the One Impressed To Be A Credit To The Race, was struck with a rock above the eye, by those who were different than he, prior to his inquiry, "If the second law of thermodynamics applies to all things, what is it that props up Jim Crow?"

Thusly, he was taught, "There is but one particle wave defining all other projections of the law prismatically split into three thousands rays percieved as one."

If there is an causal action, there will be a corresponding reaction dividing a dichotomy between database believers, those who know, they think, and, hormonal faith-ers, those who are correct, they feel; as between the anabolic and catabolic, as between liberation and enslavement. The camp within which the entity falls is a consequence of works decisions; the ability to overcome Heisenberg's indecision is Planck's constant times the energy of shakabuku at the ceremony in the air.

When he, Drowned In The Spritzing Of Vatican Brain Washing, was taught "from each according to his ability, to each according to his need", he ran amuck, madly, with that ball, towards an ever receding goal-post, ignoring for too long, slipping and sliding in the blood of innocents spilt to prove the implausible spoken by fuzzy-cheeked elitist snobs in elbow-patched, tweed sports coats, Ashworth Diamond Jersey Vest sweaters, ascot ensconced necks, protesting just causes with the phrase, "If we turn our swords into golf clubs, they will play with us.". Who, while denouncing puppies, but not babies, gutted by fanatics, seek politically correct accommodation, through active inaction, with their murderers, by ignoring four of the ten.

As this brother among Amafricans, crossed burning sands, to enter a house whose monarch is "Goodwill", observe wryly, Hairy Puta, the dawg known as, "Stoneface", had beaten into him, "First Of All, Service To All, We Shall Transcend All!". even as, one of his brothers was pursued to incarcerate on trumped charges, another was assasinated while on noble crusade, and still, a third, whose piety was so beyond reproach, he was, in exasperation, smeared with sexual innuendo, by his foes.

After that time, the Scholarship-honored Shomon, smugly, arose at the conclusion of bell ringing and chant chanting to inquire,"So if this is as wonderful a space-time spanning lotus sound as you imply, why is Japan the only country to have, not one, but two atomic bombs dropped on its' head?

To agent provocateur him was given the transcendent reply, "if such mundane effects were caused by decisions made by it, what greater reasons lead to cause the important?"

Listen closely then, Hairy Puta, and understand that when the Multiple Diplomade Engaku considered all that he had been taught, all that he had experienced, and all the contradictions between them, he retreated from the Largest Fruit of Johnny Chapman City unto the City by the Bay of Saline, to ponder:

What cause, my gawd, did he make that:

I was engaged to marry the sprouted seed of the lower four worlds, the four horsemen of the Apocalypse, the Seven Deadly Sins, wrapped in Armani suit, bow-tied, soft spoken, broadly grinning like a Cheshire Cat, delivering spews that he claimed he learned directly on the Mother Ship, while parked in an alleyway of old Detroit. I bethrothed the lascivious hypocrite spawn of he who is a shepherd of the sheeple people and married a gold-mining mule from the Mile High Ciy.

I set myself to pioneer arid deserts where no one with soul would wont to follow.

I re-create as an essence of a trestle supporting a bridge across a gap between righteous consequences and unsupportable reward for drunken insane avaricious borderline narcissitic vehicles.

I prepare myself as a storehouse of Jeopardy questions when never a contestant presents with answers to give.

I reached for the stars but could not grasp the sand beneath others, let alone, my own, feet.

I grieve that Medicins San Frontieres rejoices that they feel so good taking money from Bono's Nobel's prize, given to him for his donation of the sweat of other faith-ers, as the recipients of their largess decay from, (SALID), acquired from the sanctimonious, abundant logic immunity disease, generation after generation.

I punish myself daily for my good deeds, while rewarding the inquities of others with entrance into Eden.

I hold fast to the notion that by personally sowing vowels and consonants as onomatopoeic mandalas:

* I will liberate we who are looked down upon; we whose words go unheeded, even though we sincerely try to be friendly.

I hold fast to the notion that by personally sowing memes of devotion:

* it will yield bouquets of udhumbara flowers more numerous than the grains of sand at Bay Five, on Jones Beach, throughout Amafrican worlds.

I stand bloodied but unbowed, in the cruel clutch of circumstance.

Thus, was satisfactory evidence given. The cause was by he.

Does it, then. not flow as a consequence, this Bodhisattva has devoted his being to the notion that, although like a blindman at an orgy, each moment to moment, surprising himself with his optimism, if he constantly strives along the rough side of the mountain broadcasting a salvation mantra, he will fulfill the fundamental instruction given him, which will lead all to the Supreme Way.

Aaaaaaaah
Maaaaaaaaahn Traaaaaaaaaah
Izzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Salllllllllllll Vaaaaaa shunnnnnnnnnnnn Stilllllllllllllllll

Aaaaaaaah
Maaaaaaaaahn Traaaaaaaaaah
Izzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Sallllllllllll Vaaaaaa shunnnnnnnnnnn Stilllllllllllllllll


Aaaaaaaah
Maaaaaaaaahn Traaaaaaaaaah
Izzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Salllllllllll Vaaaaaa shunnnnnnnnnnn Stilllllllllllllllll

A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still

We give thanks and appreciation to those
upon who's shoulders we stand
to see elephants in the middle of the room.

A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still

Jose can you see
Hop upon my knee.

Jenny in the outer pew
Scan my petition well
Hold it up for all to see
Adopt herein as a beginning to forever
Recite it then as a mantra of conception
To trampoline jump from shell a to z
Hoping against moping that Heisenberg
knows for certain.
Cast all the chips
For the prize
Behind the curtain.

Don't say so!
Don't you go!
Don't go in!
Please don't end!
Don't tell Ricky!
Wear my tie!
In your caw!
On the stro!
Don't snort blow!
Don't spill honey on the mats, suki yoko!

Aaaaaaaah
Maaaaaaaaahn Traaaaaaaaaah
Izzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Salllllllllllll Vaaaaaa shunnnnnnnnnnnn Stilllllllllllllllll

Aaaaaaaah
Maaaaaaaaahn Traaaaaaaaaah
Izzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Sallllllllllll Vaaaaaa shunnnnnnnnnnn Stilllllllllllllllll

Aaaaaaaah
Maaaaaaaaahn Traaaaaaaaaah
Izzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Salllllllllll Vaaaaaa shunnnnnnnnnnn Stilllllllllllllllll

A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still

We cherish beyond measure
Our parents, teachers, and legislature
Who taught us to treasure
Substance over symbolism.

A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still

We are indebted to ancestors
Who for us prepared the way.
We are beholden to our progeny
Who, if not for them,
This saha world would hold no purpose.

A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still

I drive the finest Mercedes-Benz
My friends drive Porches
My baby's mama has made her amends
I work hardly, all my lifetime
Cuz plenty help comes from my friends
All the womens ride in my Mercedes-Benz.

A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still

Jose can you see
Hop upon my knee.

Jenny in the outer pew
Scan my petition well
Hold it up for all to see
Adopt herein as a beginning to forever
Recite it then as a mantra of conception
Trampoline jumping from shell a to z
Hoping against moping that Heisenberg
knows for certain.
Cast all the chips
For the prize
Behind the curtain.

Don't say so!
Don't you go!
Don't go in!
Please don't end!
Don't tell Ricky!
Wear my tie!
In your caw!
On the stro!
Don't snort blow!
Don't spill honey on the mats, suki yoko!

A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still

Aaaaaaaah
Maaaaaaaaahn Traaaaaaaaaah
Izzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Salllllllllllll Vaaaaaa shunnnnnnnnnnnn Stilllllllllllllllll

A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still

We offer tribute to the soldiers, sailors and marines
We remember especially those who's deferral of lingering
In the excesses of the sentient world
Gave us the opportunity to squander our birthright.
Spill a little wine for our friends who are n'est plus,
especialmente, . . .

A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still

We hope to hell
This has not been in vain
For we give ourselves wholly
to science and it's practical applications
honmak kukyo to.

A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still
A mantra is salvation still

A mantra is salvation STILL
A mantra is SALVATION STILL
A MANTRA IS SALVATION STILL!

Welcome everybody to my life!!!


20050805

by William Ernest Henley; 1849-1903


Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.


In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.


Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.


It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul. "

by Victor Om Shanti

The phosphor glow of the CRT, instead of your smile,
Does not warm my heart.
Softly caressing the keyboard keys, instead of your breast,
Does not passion start.

I'm doing fine, I've been first rate
Searching for an analog date.
I'm on my Don Quixote quest
Devoted night and day, sans rest,
To find my Dulcinea.

You expressed a wish, more like a want,
To exercise your perogative
For space,
So, I treat you as an Astronaut.

I tried in vain
To lust for you.
You like me as a brother.
It was my view, that you,
Had to me bid, adieu,
Since, email pen pals just won't do."

Our world is circumscribed by one-way glass
We see our image of reflected good
They see us as we are

Mother Africa stands in the doorway of her room
She is weeping angrily 'bout the children stolen from her womb
she say
I named my child Amafrica
'for the slavers stole him away
They beat me and raped me
then told him I threw him away

I'm Crying O O O O O.

Down in Babylon Amafrica imprisoned in a cell
Says 'I know my life wasn't always seventh Hell'
Though stolen from Mother Africa
I love her just the same
My home was Eritrea
But no place there can I claim
I'm crying O O O O O
What's an orphan to do

Back at Africa's a mother waits
hopeful but forlorn
she say 'if you see my child, tell him Please forgive me.
Please come home.'
'I'll leave a candle in the window,
the key is under the mat.
I'll be wearing a green dress
with a red flower in my hat.
I'm crying O O O O O
Child your mother loves you.