HUNT PERCHANCE TO KILL

The collective pulse

Of a violent species

Grows ever dimmer.

A Grizzly recently received a reprieve from being hunted down by "officials" for bad behavior due to the benign nature of the Grizzlie's attack. Apparently it was determined the Grizzly was startled and meant no real harm to the Idaho hunter holding a high-powered rifle designed to blow apart all desired species for pleasure purposes. I believe this is referred to as an "avid sportsman". The Grizzly landed a couple of blows that resulted in a broken arm and some abrasions for the hunter and then either lost interest, wasn't hungry or understood the possible repercussions of the "kill" and melted back into the forest. The man was airlifted out, licking his wounds.

"It's very clear from the incident that the bear was surprised and ran away. It did not intend to kill or consume the men", said an official from the Fish and Wildlife Agency. Had the Grizzly gone all the way and destroyed the man who held the rifle that could, in turn, destroy the Grizzly, something commonly referred to as the "law of survival," there would have been an APB out for that particular Grizzly determined to have held the intent to kill in its grisly heart.

Call me crazy but if some sick-ass hunter pointed a gun at me for his jollies with intent to bead me in with his high-powered, technically advanced rifle and blow me to kingdom come, I would come at him with intent to bite off his nasty-ass head. That hunter was given a reprieve by the Grizzly and should put that rifle away and join the Endangered Species Coalition and honor the animal that spared him his life.

9/11

Phoenix emerges

From the Fall of innocence

Innocents fallen.

9/11 casualties:

3,000 innocents die trapped in twin towers

6,026 American troops dead in pursuit of...

Scores more brain damaged/amputees

150,000 innocents die trapped in Iraq/Afghanistan

Those poor, dear souls who went innocently to

work on Tuesday, September 11, 2001 were

presented with a horror beyond imagination and

had to choose whether to jump or face a more

gruesome death. Their deaths have been greatly

dishonored by our country's "shock and awe"

response which has killed other innocents many

times over and has tarnished our image and

reputation in our world community. The 9/11

dead deserved better; a commitment to a more

peaceful existence would have been a fitting and

lasting memorial. We could have reassessed our

practices of resource exploitation and corporate

adventurism, all in the name of democracy

building, and stayed out of the pipelines of other

sovereign nations.

A memorial at Ground Zero is appropriate as a

tribute to our twin tower casualties but a far

greater memorial would be a lasting embrace of

truth and decency.

Here is a poem I read out of the New Yorker, just

a few weeks following the tragedy. I thought it

beautifully rendered:

I Saw You Walking

I saw you walking through Newark Penn Station
in your shoes of white ash. At the corner
of my nervous glance your dazed passage
first forced me away, tracing the crescent
berth you’d give a drunk, a lurcher, nuzzling
all comers with ill will and his stench, but
not this one, not today: one shirt arm’s sheared
clean from the shoulder, the whole bare limb
wet with muscle and shining dimly pink,
the other full-sheathed in cotton, Brooks Bros.
type, the cuff yet buttoned at the wrist, a
parody of careful dress, preparedness—
so you had not rolled up your sleeves yet this
morning when your suit jacket (here are
the pants, dark gray, with subtle stripe, as worn
by men like you on ordinary days)
and briefcase (you’ve none, reverse commuter
come from the pit with nothing to carry
but your life) were torn from you, as your life
was not. Your face itself seemed to be walking,
leading your body north, though the age
of the face, blank and ashen, passing forth
and away from me, was unclear, the sandy
crown of hair powdered white like your feet, but
underneath not yet gray—forty-seven?
forty-eight? the age of someone’s father—
and I trembled for your luck, for your broad,
dusted back, half shirted, walking away;
I should have dropped to my knees to thank God
you were alive, o my God, in whom I don’t believe.

—Deborah Garrison

From the issue of Ocotber 22, 2001.

Tazzie's Teachings on True Nature

Treading through the park,
Cloaked in anonymity,
I speak to my dog.

I've had relationships with dogs through the

years. As a kid, we always had some sort of

hound that I would attach myself to. I recall

the dachshund, Schultzy (appropriately German)

who I saddled, decked out in my cow girl

regalia, and was deservedly bitten. Then there

was Colonel, a big golden something or other

that I danced with, Rochester the black lab,

inappropriately named after Jack Benny's

sidekick, Daphne the Lakeland Terrier who

spent much time under various pieces of

furniture. My last childhood dog was

Clementine, the giant Airedale that I would

run around the San Clemente High School

track with and whose untimely death

shattered my teenage heart. My first and

only dog that was really mine was and remains

Tazzie, the Australian Shepherd. I picked her

from a litter of four because she was checking

herself out in a mirror, cocking her head back

and forth. I guess she knew she was a beauty.

I brought her home to be a sibling to what

looked to be an "only child" household. I got

more than I bargained for, she became my

dear friend. Taz was a blue merle, which meant

she was black and white in dog classification

lingo. She had 1.5 brown eyes and .5 blue eye,

Her glance was both penetrating and half vacant.

She was beautiful and graceful, ran like

fury and could stop on a dime and change

directions with more skill and precision

than any NFL linebacker. Ever protective

of Phoebe and the house she stationed herself

at our front window in our absence acting as our

surveillance sentry. She barked when necessary

but not for her jollies, she loved us fully without

making demands, she gave kisses quickly

and with great precision but didn't require much in

return. She enjoyed her own space but liked us

nearby, where she could watch over us. She owned

a streak of wariness, which prevented her from

becoming the model "coffeehouse" dog, my initial

expectation. She was not a friend to a stranger

and required a certain warming up and assessment

period. But, if you passed the test she was your

devoted companion. Taz was the perfect

canine companion and was with us for 15

years until her half vacant and penetrating

eyes gave me a look that said, "It's time. Let

me go." It was two weeks before Phoebe

went off to college and I still marvel at the

exquisite timing. We, her small family, took

her to a most amazing veterinarian and

stroked her as she lay on the clean white

examination room floor, her head partially

in my lap and her paws held tightly by Phoebe

and Keith. She was relaxed and surrounded by

love. I didn't sob until she was gone,

which happened in a matter of seconds. I am

sobbing today writing this because I miss my

friend who was always there for me and gave

back so much more than she received. She

taught me that we all have a "true nature"

that lives within us and that should be

celebrated and allowed to shine brightly.

SIR PAUL

Blackbird singer sings--

Long and winding yesterdays

Here, there, everywhere.

In the summer of 1964 West Coast kids,

especially teenage girls, were eagerly

awaiting the arrival of The Fab Four for a

one night stand at the Hollywood Bowl. I

was 13 at the time and a devotee of California's

own Beach Boys, led by my secret love, singer-

songwriter Brian Wilson. But, on the sly, I was

smitten by the likes of Paul McCartney. Who

could be cuter, what with all that shaggy hair

shaking as he sang through his smile about

wanting to hold my hand. I never got to hold his

hand nor was I allowed to attend the Beatles

concert. Something about them made my

parents uneasy; maybe that radical shaggy hair.

They were deemed a bad influence and ours

would be a relationship of vinyl to turntable.

That is until July 15, 2011 when I boarded the

subway somewhere in Greenwich Village

to Brooklyn's Yankee Stadium to

attend McCartney's "On The Run" tour. There,

under a full yellow moon rising over a packed

stadium of three generations of Beatles' lovers,

Sir Paul carried the night. This 69-year old icon,

gracious and humble and still adorable, gave his

adoring fans three solid hours of solid gold. It was

a perfect night.

How The Edsel Got Its Name

Relaunch the e-launch

With the poet at the helm--

E not for Edsel.

Silver-tongued American bard, Marianne

Moore, was asked by Ford's Manager of

Marketing Research to submit "inspirational

names" for the E-car, to be rolled out in

grand fashion by Ford on E-Day, September 4, 1957.

"Who better to understand the nature of words

than a poet," said the Ford man. Moore's naming

submissions, which included:Resilient Bullet,

Ford Silver Sword, Mongoose Civique, Varsity

Stroke, Pastelogram and, my personal favorite,

Andante con moto, were passed over in favor

of the now-infamous "Edsel",named after Henry's,

as in Ford, son. The Edsel hype let out by dribs

and drabs, including a top-rated T.V. special, The

Edsel Show, never really delivered its promise of

bringing a new and different intermediate line of

cars to the American public. Instead it was mocked

for its conventional sameness and turned out to be

a dismal marketing failure for Ford Motor Co.

Despite problems with its physical appearance,

including a grille that was likened to images of

vaginas, horsecollars and toilet seats, many of

the Edsel's forward thinking design features:

transmission lock on ignition, self-adjusting brake,

gear selection by steering wheel buttons are now

standard features in sports cars. But, in the '50's

the American public were having none of this.

I can't help but think if the big shots at Ford

had gone with Marianne Moore's, Andante con moto,

they would have pulled off a celebration of hipdom

rather than giving history its cliche synonymous

with failure. So, pay good heed, you marketing

moguls, to your silver-tongued bards.

STUFF

Accumulation--

Must-have, non-necessities

Nano-second fix.

Just returned from a trip to L.A. piled high

with Phoebe's flotsam and jetsam from

Apartment living, which will now reside

in various containment vessels, all quite

swollen and strewn about the house,

lying dormant until reunited with owner,

Phoebe. This is a girl who does not

travel lightly, nor does she practice a

life of fashion minimalism. But, the

piles of "stuff" are lively and interesting

and are richly brimming with the essence of

her. In a quick glance I see a white

laundry basket piled full of all manner

of coffee table books. The one on the

top of the heap is called, Blue Note, and

features famous album covers done

during the hey day of Blue Note Records,

mainly designed by maestro, Reid Miles.

Next to the coffee table books in want

of a coffee table is a large see-

through plastic container piled high

with clothing that didn't quite make

the grade for the summer "experience"

and were left behind facing the

indignity of smashed quarters. I see

the winter camel's hair coat, the

vintage fur coat she bought

off of ebay for $30, tees, blouses, hmm

a denim blouse that might serve me

well this summer. She'll never know.

The framed and un-framed art that

gave a little pop to her Dunn-Edwards

antique white Westwood walls now sits

propped against her bedroom walls biding

their time until lifted again to eye level when

school resumes in the fall. My favorite

is an Andy Warhol poster of Blondie's

Debbie Harry; all oranges and blacks

and bright red lips. A black and white

Beatles picture stands against the closet

wall. They looked so young and fresh

and eager.They were her age. There's a mason

jar filled with an air plant and lots of air that

sits on her desk, sharing space with

my zillions of books I must read over

summer. Her precious Bonsai plant, a

gift from Justin, sits next to the air

plant awaiting some of my TLC. I

promised her that. This is just the

stuff that I'm eyeballing as I sit on

her very comfortable Beauty Rest

bed and word doodle on my

computer. There's a truck load of

stuff in the basement. And this

from a mere 21-year old.

She is well on her way

in the practice of accumulation;

a practice that seems to last a

lifetime. Normally I would

grouse over this a bit, sniping

about uber consumption and the

real meaning of economy. But now,

at this moment, it is oddly comforting

to behold the spectacle of overflowing

hampers that punctuate her life and

now punctuate mine.

Trigger

Triggering subject

Composition decomposed

A poem emerges

I'm reading a bit about poetry. Just a bit.

There's something called, The Triggering

Subject, which represents the kernel of the

idea that initially brings your pencil/pen

to paper or fingers to the keyboard. At least

that's poet Richard Hugo's take on it. But don't

get the idea that this kernel is a foundation, of

sorts, from which you construct your poem. Not

so! The trick is to get away from that triggering

subject, lest it subjugates you, and explore the

nooks and crannies of imagination that sometimes

gets lost in the drive to "communicate". It's an

interesting notion that didn't make sense to me

at first, but now I get. Imagination flutters on

its own breeze and is lost if caged. The triggering

subject is simply the launching pad from which

you plunge into the unknown. Here's my first

attempt at using this technique. By the way,

it's really fun to see where things go.

Situation Room

What's the situation in the situation room?

Here's the situation in the situation room.

Jump rope mantra, playgrounds, pigtails,

Around the world arms lift and dip,

Hot pepper 1-2-3-4, fast

Faster, pump it up, Double Dutch.

What's the situation in the situation room?

Here's the situation in the situation room.

Leather wingbacks, sleeves to elbows.

Madame Secretary sneezes

Operation Super Mario

High stakes, hot poker, poker-faced.

That's the situation in the situation room.

Floating on a dream

A thought, eyes open startled--

Pen feels icy cold.

Lately my head has been bulging with

ideas, for no apparent reason. Well,

perhaps the reason is apparent but

the stream of ideas aren't particularly

noteworthy but are streaming, nonetheless,

sometimes at a rapid pace. They come out

of nowhere, like heat seeking missiles,

and can strike at inopportune moments.

On the shuttle, in the car, on a run, while I'm

talking to someone. "Excuse me while I

interrupt our conversation to write down

a little blurb that's nagging my brain and

yes, I have been listening to you." You see

the awkwardness in this whole messy business?

I suppose I should be happy that life's flotsam

and jetsam is floating around in my brain and

making me want to pick through it to find

small treasures worthy of space in my moleskine

or in my "blog of the five followers." But, it is

annoying. Here's a poem describing this:

Distraction

A bit of something, a thought, I panic

Hold it, hum it, la dee dah

A tune, a ditty drilled into jingle

Dum Dee Dum Dee Dum Dee Dum

Rifling through satchel, la la la la la

Crap, where's my pen La dee dah

She slides the window... dum dee dum dee dum

Open... I turn, distracted

Her black nail polish chipped, la dee dah dee

Why black? dah

...Gone...

On a cool breeze up with Widow Makers

La la la de fuckin' dah.

The image is a photo of Phoebe's. I think this

is an appropriate time for its use.

Bard's prescient whispers

Gives fast-forward glance at life.

Is that all there is?

Shakespeare, quite eloquently, outlined what he

believed to be the seven stages of man's development

from birth to death. This famous monologue delivered

by the character Jaques in "As You Like It" was once

quite accurate in its depiction of the evolution of a

man's/woman's life but now needs another stage to bring Will's

sociological assessment into the 21st. century. First,

let me reacquaint you with the original stages:

"All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms'

And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lin'd,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion;

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."

While the above does a fairly good job of condensing

our evolution, in time lapse slideshow fashion, I

feel the need to squeeze in yet another stage that

should pop into the lineup between #5 and #6. The

pre-pantaloon stage might be referred to as the "self-

indulgent philanthropist", unfettered by trifles of home

and hearth, searching the cosmos for meaning, laying

down legacy like breadcrumbs on a path.

Will's take on the various developmental stages didn't

account for us lasting so darn long; didn't account for

pilates and yoga and organic lettuce and Viagra and

the middle aged renaissance/crisis. With Pantaloondom

on the horizon, I step into the new #6 spot.  Sorry Will

but I must keep a healthy distance from that "Sans" stage.

Phew! 

RAIN ON PANE

Early a.m. tap,

Gentle rap on window pane.

Ever, nevermore.

Recently in the wee hours of the morning I

awakened to the rapping, more like tapping

on my window pane. When using the words

rap or tap in reference to a rhythmic noise

my mind always conjures up Edgar Alan

Poe's, The Raven. That morning was no

exception. I pictured a large, black bird

outside of my bedroom window, gently intruding

into my state of slumber with a light tap. You all

must know the poem, probably first read

in junior high or high school. Here's the

famous opening stanza:

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-

Only this, and nothing more."

Written in 1845, The Raven became an immediate success and

helped launch Poe's writing life, although financial success

followed nevermore. Poe went on to publish "The Philosophy

of Composition" the following year, where he attempted to

elucidate his writing process in rather methodical terms;

somewhat shattering the mystery and intrigue of the beautiful

and haunting Lenore and the ominous bird of "Nevermore".

Length, Method, Unity of Effect, are the three central

elements of Poe's philosophy of writing. Keep

it short (easily digestible in one sitting), be deliberate and

methodical(no mystery to this business) and have your

ending worked out in advance (a foundation, of sorts, upon

which a poetic structure is built). Put them all together and

voila, "A poem that should suit at once the popular and the

critical taste." Perhaps, Edgar. But the imagery; the stormy

night, the tortured lover, the rapping, the tapping, the ever-

present bird answering each sad question with, "Nevermore."

It's inspired. The picture is indelibly inscribed in my brain,

evermore. Read the poem again for the first time and

prepare your imagination for the next rainy day.

"FAMILY" VALUES

Anoint thyself

The only true believer

And spawn deviltry.

The National Prayer Breakfast, hosted by members of the U.S. Congress, is held on the first Thursday of February every year since its inception in 1953. It is a veritable who's who of our elected officials, including our President. The event is sponsored by the secretive and sinister Fellowship Foundation, an exclusive conservative Christian old boys' club also known as "The Family". The stated underlying belief that binds members of "The Family" together is a common love for the teachings of Jesus. Prominent evangelical Christians have described the organization as one of the most politically well-connected ministries in the world. So, the love of Jesus and the love of influencing politics and policy-making seems to be the underlying purpose. Might as well throw into that love basket the love of money, power and greed; a virtual Cosa Nostra of Christian fundamentalists. Some of the sterling members of this exclusive club include: Jim DeMint (Tea Party addled Senator), John Ensign (Nevada senator who banged his married campaign aide), Mark Sanford (ruined Gov. of South Carolina and fake Appalachian Trail hiker who had an affair with an Argentinian bimbette), Charles Colson (Watergate conspirator turned conveniently Christian nutjob), and David Bahati (the rising star in Ugandan politics who has expressed a desire to "kill every last gay person"). This year's National Prayer Breakfast was again a religious revival of sorts with our President, the one that 18% of our country's craziest believe is a Muslim, taking on the role of evangelical preacher. "I pray that God will show me and all of us the limits of our understanding and open our ears and our hearts to our brothers and sisters..." AMEN! Obama still hasn't learned that no matter how many references he makes to God, his faith, his Christian beliefs, he will still be a Muslim born in Kenya who is advancing a secret agenda of Socialistic Sharia. So, our elected officials spend a morning on the taxpayers' dime participating in a Christian revival meeting while snubbing their collective noses at the Constitution they all take an oath to uphold. The Establishment Clause of the First Amendment states, "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion..." We are on a slippery slope towards a theocracy aided and abetted by "The Family" values.

Click here to learn more about "The Family"

The Tasmanian Devil

Looney Tunes species

Quelled of devilish dervish

Tragedy for Taz.

It's not that I have a natural affinity toward a furry little

marsupial with abnormally large incisors and a larger

than life attitude. But, a few years ago, just two weeks

before my daughter left for college, we had to say

goodbye to our beloved family dog, Tazzie. Although

she was an Australian Shepherd, she never experienced

life in the Outback and for 15 years resided in the urban

outback of San Diego. However, she was named after

the Tasmanian Devil, memorialized on a broader scale by

the Looney Tunes cartoon character, Taz. My Taz was

also somewhat devilish, with lots of attitude and a

penchant for unnecessary protection with full use of

incisors. She was on-task and ever vigilant, keeping our

home and environs free from unwanted intruders, such

as the mail lady, water meter man and assorted canyon

wildlife. I loved her dearly and think of her often; sudden

reminders will give me a heavy feeling in my chest.

One such reminder happened the other day when I read

about the plight of the real Tasmanian Devils that are

indigenous to Tasmania. They are struggling as a species

from a type of cancer that has taken them to the brink of

extinction. They need our help. It seems that our earth

has developed into an Ark of sorts, where we must now

intervene in creative ways to help protect the critters

that we selfishly share our quarters with. Give

generously to Devil Ark, for all of our Taz's.

http://www.devilark.com.au/

Muscle memory

Waits for renewed acquaintance

Disparate circuits.

OK, where am I going with this one?

Here's the thing, I think I've

tripped upon an interesting phenomenon

in brain behavior. Or at least in my

brain's behavior. I'm going to call this

new discovery Synapses Reacquaintance,

mainly because I like the word "synapses".

My discovery relates strictly to

language acquisition and goes something

like this: As one acquires a new language,

be it speaking or musical, the brain, leaving

its zone of familiarity will quickly

grab onto the next most familiar place, its

place of muscle memory. It makes no

difference when the muscle memory was

laid down, the brain will sift through

memory to find something familiar that

makes some sense. I've experienced this

phenomena two times recently. The first

happened when I was attempting to learn

Spanish. I immersed myself in Spanish

for three weeks at a language school and

quickly discovered that I had to beat back

the French that I took over 40 years ago.

It kept bubbling to the surface; vocabulary

I didn't even know I had any longer, entire

sentences. Suddenly, my French seemed

fairly acute and it was intruding on my

Espanol. Mon Dieu, I mean Mi Dios.

I found myself tongue-tied. The second

occurrence of Synapses Reacquaintance

came when I started taking guitar lessons, a

year ago. Again, my brain latched onto my

limited piano knowledge from childhood

and longed for keyboards over frets. I just

couldn't get the black and white key pattern

 out of my head and wanted to wring the guitar's

fretful little neck. Well, the good news is if

you stick with it, be vigilant, beat it back,

you can actually lay down a new set of

memories that, temporarily at least, can

turn into a beautiful friendship. That is

until the next time you screw with the

synapses.

ALIENS

Twenty Eleven

Sounds a little sci-fi-ish

Aliens are here.

Yes, they have been living among us, trying to

blend in, wearing blue oxford cloth shirts and

striped ties, sporting stiff smiles and fake tans.

They pretend to be "of the people" and to care

about real people things, but it is all a

pretense to cover up their alien agenda. Under-

neath their wax-like exteriors are cold hearts

that beat slowly and out-of-sync with the pulse

of the people. Hateful, spiteful, veangeful they

spew out vitriol-loaded verbiage and praise

acts of inhumanity and insensitivity. They

watch those unlike them and caste aspersions

freely using lies and deceit as a shield. If

you come across one, nod your head in assent,

act casual and back away from the words,

"liberal", "progressive", "choice", "universal

health care", "gay rights", "global warming",

"peace". They are the Republican thugs voted

back into the majority position in Congress

by a citizenry reeling from amnesia.