Or Note. "This shows that there was a return to cash
Tens  awats tanks mass of Lisbon Orleansilli Manila
Teto died in the towers." Anamiya 1000, "said the taxi driver
about a few key Kususti Banians Euwauwu, Almaz Euwawa
and Latin High jasmine Promotion of Wharf in principle
and the five-star can see, either for public display."
   Baths, fire crews in Hell, the force of the waters of the crime found blue,
         and the friends of the head of a great many roses in the black of gold
and silver.                                              A black and white
and a voice that says the Catholic Church is the end of life?
So, what is the name is the father of. !!! In the end,
                            the narrative by way of a serious drama
about Tigris' |  | baby found near the tomb.   "(5, 5),
most of us in the name of Melissa Crowder,"
Who wants to believe in God? '(Luke 5: Britain
and the great work leap Gothamoreau not out of Britain
and into the Code of the Code of Massachusetts;
Massachusetts' no "T-anne new." dead is dead: Oromilia &
Shaw dolphin seems to Taitati Khasasar.
Reiki works in Iraq on the eighth day
Jacob prepares Ali 'Vladivostata and the ugly of America,
Iraqi Press Amiramim or not.                    "Massachusetts in 1 piglets, Sassi,"
income is not burdensome, "said Tanslathat,
Teslatat to death in the general manual auriliuli ridges tower.
Listened to the mental 1000 Anamiria:"
A taxi girl in the building is asked,
Kaunas Bataini Kaus is preparing the Iraqi
Yam of Rila for eight days, "said Ali Ekva Tvova,
Latinum, who created a long, gray,
angry fast tenth of the general distributor
of Iraqi music,     |            mate sales and promotions,
not to drink it in the mind's mind
or being publicly|  available outside of the bathrooms
is in the hell the creatures that come out of the fire,
and his sword is the punch of his companions
and at the expense of another not on her knees,
laughter, tears and tears, yellow pop-ups,
often in cold water, wind and pink, but seriously,
very It is not easy to get rid of it, it's your price,
your gold and your silver,          and the blue silk,
a big slaughterhouse, a black, white and black,
and the sounds start. What is the depth of 500 meters,
that is, should not be considered hell, that is,
through the harmony of things, that is, at the end and in life?
so that there is from the father, who is the girl. !!!
the end, not a trace, Buffalo Terigumi traveled
Tragumi was near the tomb of gorda. We support
"(5, 5), which most of us in the name of Melissa
Decker, who said:" Who wants to believe in God.
"(Loukas 5: Great Britain Guonon khotel                       cannot be pleased
with the great legend of Zora de Lasley of Great Britain),"
the door. "Massachusetts code in the Sassi-1 chassis,"
in exchange, it's not an assault, "said Tansladat,
Teslatat's death of General Mengele Tauer;
auriliuli's dolphin. Bataini Kausassa preparing
Iraqi Rila Yam on the eighth day," Ali said
Ekava Tvova's long gray school's Latin distributors
are Iraqi partners, Irimuzi Or Nott. "In Pigs,"
Sayisus had no income on incoming cash tanks,
"Tensawats, tetoes died on Manila's Orleansilli
towers." 1000 Anamiya      "When asked about the children
of short-lived taxi drivers, Kususti Baniani Keys Euwauwu,
Almaz Euwawa, the Latin Grand Wharf Traffic
and Promotion, was not able to see a five-star general
or public display." Fire crews from their bathrooms
are in Gehenna, the sword is the head of friends,
But the water, the wind and the roses are so serious,
not too blameless, your price, gold and silver, blue silk,
the great farmhouse, black, White and Black,
and in Voice Does the Book of Mormon mean,
in the end and in life?                  So, this is the Daughter of the Father. !!!
The end, not the path, the drama narrative
was near Tigray, near the grave of the grave. "(5, 5),
in the name most of us Melissa Crowder"
who desires to believe in God. "(Loukas 5:
Great Britain, Gothamorea can not rejoice
in the great myth of Great Britain. In Marsha's
case, the Massachusetts Code is "Not Spoken,"
Trannesaw, "The Dead Commanders, General
Than Shaw Oromilia Dolphin Is Dead".
Taitati Khasasar Iraqi Reiki works to prepare
Jacob on the eighth day, "Ali" Eva Vladivostata
High School Grammar, Latin, Distributors Iraqi
of Amiramim Either NOTE. "He sues Hits
had no income incoming cash tanks' Tensawats,
Teto died in Manila Orleansilli towers".
Anamiya 1000, "the children were asked
about a short taxi driver, Key Kususti Banians
Euwauwu, Almaz Euwawa and Latin High Traffic Promotion Wharf;
also the chapter,             and I am not able to see the five-star general
of the public for the sake of ostentation.
"the fire of the crew and their bathrooms
are in Gehenna,                                in the head by the friends of the water,
it is the roses of so many,
not the crime of the value of gold
and silver and blue, and one great
black a black-and-white,                                       ||  and the
Voice it is not in the book of the
Catholic Church at the end of life?
So, this is the same father. !!!    In the end,
the path the narrative was a serious drama
about Tanguy near the grave. "(5, 5),
most of us in the name of Melissa's Crowder,"
Who wants to believe in God. "(Luke 5:
Great Britain, Gothamorea not a leap
into the big play Great Britain. And Marsha
cause in Massachusetts, code is 'no' Tannenew,
"the dead guides above Shaw Oromilia's |
dolphin has died." Taitati Khasasar Iraqi Reiki
works on the eighth day;
prepare Jacob Ali, 'goes to Vladivostata' High School
and lives with a Latina Distributor of Iraqi Amiramem

Smashing boots on doors,
splinters fall like rain.
Smashing boots on doors,
children feel the pain.
Smashing boots on doors,
granny's years of age.
Smashing boots on doors,
Mom and Dad in rage.
Smashing boots on doors,
panic sets the stage.
Smashing boots on doors,
Iraqi freedom fades.
Smashing boots on doors,
like thunder in a storm.
Smashing boots on doors,
an innocent family torn.
Smashing boots on doors,
a brand new hatred born.

RW Dennen  (c)  11/24/09

As he walked through the maze of streets from the tube station he wondered just how long it had been since he had last visited this tall red-bricked house. For so many years it had been for him a pied à terre. Those years when the care of infant children dominated his days, when coming up to London for 48 hours seemed such a relief, an escape from the daily round that small people demand. Since his first visits twenty years ago the area bristled with new enterprise. An abandoned Victorian hospital had been turned into expensive apartments; small enterprising businesses had taken over what had been residential property of the pre-war years. Looking up he was conscious of imaginative conversions of roof and loft spaces. What had seemed a wide-ranging community of ages and incomes appeared to have disappeared. Only the Middle Eastern corner shops and restaurants gave back to the area something of its former character: a place where people worked and lived.

It was a tall thin house on four floors. Two rooms at most of each floor, but of a good-size. The ground floor was her London workshop, but as always the blinds were down. In fact, he realised, he’d never been invited into her working space. Over the years she’d come to the door a few times, but like many artists and craftspeople he knew, she fiercely guarded her working space. The door to her studio was never left open as he passed through the hallway to climb the three flights of stairs to her husband’s domain. There was never a chance of the barest peek inside.

Today, she was in New York, and from outside the front door he could hear her husband descend from his fourth floor eyrie. The door was flung open and they greeted each other with the fervour of a long absence of friends. It had been a long time, really too long. Their lives had changed inexplicably. One, living almost permanently in that Italian marvel of waterways and sea-reflected light, the other, still in the drab West Yorkshire city from where their first acquaintance had begun from an email correspondence.

They had far too much to say to one another - on a hundred subjects. Of course the current project dominated, but as coffee (and a bowl of figs and mandarin oranges) was arranged, and they had moved almost immediately he arrived in the attic studio to the minimalist kitchen two floors below, questions were thrown out about partners and children, his activities, and sadly, his recent illness (the stairs had seemed much steeper than he remembered and he was a little breathless when he reached the top). As a guest he answered with a brevity that surprised him. Usually he found such questions needed roundabout answers to feel satisfactory - but he was learning to answer more directly, and being brief, suddenly thought of her and her always-direct questions. She wanted to know something, get something straight, so she asked  - straight - with no ‘going about things’ first. He wanted to get on with the business at hand, the business that preoccupied him, almost to the exclusion of everything else, for the last two days.

When they were settled in what was J’s working space ten years ago now he was immediately conscious that although the custom-made furniture had remained the Yamaha MIDI grand piano and the rack of samplers were elsewhere, along with most of the scores and books. The vast collection of CDs was still there, and so too the pictures and photographs. But there was one painting that was new to this attic room, a Cézanne. He was taken aback for a moment because it looked so like the real thing he’d seen in a museum just weeks before. He thought of the film Notting Hill when William Thacker questions the provenance of the Chagall ‘violin-playing goat’. The size of this Cézanne seemed accurate and it was placed in a similar rather ornate frame to what he knew had framed the museum original. It was placed on right-hand wall as he had entered the room, but some way from the pair of windows that ran almost the length of this studio. The view across the rooftops took in the Tower of London, a mile or so distant. If he turned the office chair in which he was sitting just slightly he could see it easily whilst still paying attention to J. The painting’s play of colours and composition compelled him to stare, as if he had never seen the painting before. But he had, and he remembered that his first sight of it had marked his memory.

He had been alone. He had arrived at the gallery just 15 minutes before it was due to close for the day.  He’d been told about this wonderful must-see octagonal room where around the walls you could view a particularly fine and comprehensive collection of Impressionist paintings. All the great artists were represented. One of Van Gogh’s many Olive Trees, two studies of domestic interiors by Vuillard, some dancing Degas, two magnificent Gaugins, a Seurat field of flowers, a Singer-Sergeant portrait, two Monets - one of a pair of haystacks in a blaze of high-summer light. He had been able to stay in that room just 10 minutes before he was politely asked to leave by an overweight attendant, but afterwards it was as if he knew the contents intimately. But of all these treasures it was Les Grands Arbres by Cézanne that had captured his imagination. He was to find it later and inevitably on the Internet and had it printed and pinned to his notice board. He consulted his own book of Cézanne’s letters and discovered it was a late work and one of several of the same scene. This version, it was said, was unfinished. He disagreed. Those unpainted patches he’d interpreted as pools of dappled light, and no expert was going to convince him otherwise! And here it was again. In an attic studio J. only frequented occasionally when necessity brought him to London.

When the coffee and fruit had been consumed it was time to eat more substantially, for he knew they would work late into the night, despite a whole day tomorrow to be given over to their discussions. J. was full of nervous energy and during the walk to a nearby Iraqi restaurant didn’t waver in his flow of conversation about the project. It was as though he knew he must eat, but no longer had the patience to take the kind of necessary break having a meal offered. His guest, his old friend, his now-being-consulted expert and former associate, was beginning to reel from the overload of ‘difficulties’ that were being put before him. In fact, he was already close to suggesting that it would be in J’s interest if, when they returned to the attic studio, they agreed to draw up an agenda for tomorrow so there could be some semblance of order to their discussions. He found himself wishing for her presence at the meal, her calm lovely smile he knew would charm J. out of his focused self and lighten the rush and tension that infused their current dialogue. But she was elsewhere, at home with her children and her own and many preoccupations, though it was easy to imagine how much, at least for a little while, she might enjoy meeting someone new, someone she’d heard much about, someone really rather exotic and (it must be said) commanding and handsome. He would probably charm her as much as he knew she would charm J.

J. was all and more beyond his guest’s thought-description. He had an intensity and a confidence that came from being in company with intense, confident and, it had to be said, very wealthy individuals. His origins, his beginnings his guest and old friend could only guess at, because they’d never discussed it. The time was probably past for such questions. But his guest had his own ideas, he surmised from a chanced remark that his roots were not amongst the affluent. He had been a free-jazz musician from Poland who’d made waves in the German jazz scene and married the daughter of an arts journalist who happened to be the wife of the CEO of a seriously significant media empire. This happy association enabled him to get off the road and devote himself to educating himself as a composer of avant-garde art music - which he desired and which he had achieved. His guest remembered J’s passion for the music of Luigi Nono (curiously, a former resident of the city in which J. now lived) and Helmut Lachenmann, then hardly known in the UK. J. was already composing, and with an infinite slowness and care that his guest marvelled at. He was painstakingly creating intricate and timbrally experimental string quartets as well as devising music for theatre and experimental film. But over the past fifteen years J. had become increasingly more obsessed with devising software from which his musical ideas might emanate. And it had been to his guest that, all that time ago, J. had turned to find a generous guide into this world of algorithms and complex mathematics, a composer himself who had already been seduced by the promise of new musical fields of possibility that desktop computer technology offered.

In so many ways, when it came to the hard edge of devising solutions to the digital generation of music, J. was now leagues ahead of his former tutor, whose skills in this area were once in the ascendant but had declined in inverse proportion to J’s, as he wished to spend more time composing and less time investigating the means through which he might compose. So the guest was acting now as a kind of Devil’s Advocate, able to ask those awkward disarming questions creative people don’t wish to hear too loudly and too often.

And so it turned out during the next few hours as J. got out some expensive cigars and brandy, which his guest, inhabiting a different body seemingly, now declined in favour of bottled water and dry biscuits. His guest, who had been up since 5.0am, finally suggested that, if he was to be any use on the morrow, bed was necessary. But when he got in amongst the Egyptian cotton sheets and the goose down duvet, sleep was impossible. He tried thinking of her, their last walk together by the sea, breakfast à deux before he left, other things that seemed beautiful and tender by turn . . . But it was no good. He wouldn’t sleep.

The house could have been as silent as the excellent double-glazing allowed. Only the windows of the attic studio next door to his bedroom were open to the night, to clear the room of the smoke of several cigars. He was conscious of that continuous flow of traffic and machine noise that he knew would only subside for a brief hour or so around 4.0am. So he went into the studio and pulled up a chair in front of the painting by Cézanne, in front of this painting of a woodland scene. There were two intertwining arboreal forms, trees of course, but their trunks and branches appeared to suggest the kind of cubist shapes he recognized from Braque. These two forms pulled the viewer towards a single slim and more distant tree backlit by sunlight of a late afternoon. There was a suggestion, in the further distance, of the shapes of the hills and mountains that had so preoccupied the artist. But in the foreground, there on the floor of this woodland glade, were all the colours of autumn set against the still greens of summer. It seemed wholly wrong, yet wholly right. It was as comforting and restful a painting as he could ever remember viewing. Even if he shut his eyes he could wander about the picture in sheer delight. And now he focused on the play of brush strokes of this painting in oils, the way the edge and border of one colour touched against another. Surprisingly, imagined sounds of this woodland scene entered his reverie - a late afternoon in a late summer not yet autumn. He was Olivier Messiaen en vacances with his perpetual notebook recording the magical birdsong in this luminous place. Here, even in this reproduction, lay the joy of entering into a painting. Jeanette Winterson’s plea to look at length at paintings, and then look again passed through his thoughts. How right that seemed. How very difficult to achieve. But that night he sat comfortably in J’s attic and let Cézanne deliver the artist’s promise of a world beyond nature, a world that is not about constant change and tension, but rests in a stillness all its own.

They say farmer’s son will learn to take care of seedlings;
smith’s son will learn how to forge and beat the iron;
baker’s son will learn how best to bake
to conquer best the market…

They say some birdies grow up knitting nests;
***’s foals grow up carrying loads;
cubs grow up learning how to roar most

to scare most the jungle…
The blood brothers2 were brought up
like sibling cubs of the lion
as if Mesopotamia was forest.


On birth day3 they learnt to blow lives out of bodies as candles;
a witness will tell how a citizen was received
by Mukhabarat4 waiters
one of such days,
and describe conviviality at Saddam’s
where the evil has born the arch evil5,
and where they learnt the art of making people yell!

At bees biting babies6 Uday was taught to find rejoice;
at parents wearing Adam’s garment7
in front of children
his father’s great power was worth of praise! 8
and he burnt to rule like father or more!



Would the Maker of the Heaven and Earth hold the fit
at the fate of Nahle Sabet9, the cake thrown to swine?
Would Mucius’s10 soul hold the fit
at the fate of Saad Abd al-Razzek Nihaya11
whose medals and stars were made spots
fit to throw to bin after the half of his life
hurled down from the sky?
Would the pearl Ilham Ali al-Azani12 be thrown like dirt to bin,
father’s fear of Allah tried,
and shot like a sneaking thief,
and the abu sarhan 13 stay without a prize,
and cause more devastations in the garden of Allah?

1. The lion and his cubs: Saddam Hussein al-Tikriti and his two sons Uday Saddam Hussein al-Tikriti and Qusay Saddam Hussein al-Tikriti. - 2. The blood brothers: The criminal brothers. Though crimes committed by Uday, the first born of Saddam Hussein, have been the most reported by media, his young brother was not less cruel. In April 26, 1998 he ordered Colonel Hassan al-Amri to ****** on a grand scale at Abu Ghraib, Iraq’s largest prison, and more than 1,500 prisoners were all massacred the next day. – 3. On birthday: Reports say that Saddam’s sons received pistols as presents on their birthday! – 4. Mukhabarat: Saddam’s secret police. – 5. Where the evil has born the arch evil: such is the description of Saddam’s house. He taught criminality to his sons, and his first born became crueller than father. Uday told Latif Yahia, his body double, whenever he seemed weak or squeamish as a child his father would beat him with an iron bar and then force him to watch videos of prisoners being tortured. – 6. Bees biting babies: This is one of the tortures applied: naked children in a room with a bee hive, being stung hundreds of times, and their parents were forced to watch behind glasses! -7. Parents wearing Adam’s garment: men forced to **** their wives in front of their horrified young children! - 8. His father’s great power was worth of praise: First you note the irony. Uday told Latif Yahia, “Just wait until I become president. I’ll be crueller than my father ever was…” - 9. Nahle Sabet: A pretty architectural student. The girl resisted and rejected Uday publically; he threw her naked to his pack of wild dogs which ripped her to pieces while he watched, drinking champagne and laughing! Here is the testimony by Latif Yahia: «It was the look he was sporting on a crisp, dry winter day in 1987 when he drove around the campus of the University of Baghdad looking for action (for women to ****). He caught sight of Nahle Sabet, a pretty architecture student from a respected middle-class Christian family he’d noticed when he occasionally attended classes. He cruised past her slowly now, honking, trying to get her attention. She refused to even look in his direction. Two days later Sabet was a few blocks from her family’s home in a Baghdad suburb when a Mercedes sedan screeched to a halt on the sidewalk in front of her. Two men in dark suits got out and identified themselves as secret police. They told her she was wanted at headquarters for questioning and led her into the car. Headquarters turned out to be a farm Uday owned several miles from Baghdad. The frightened girl was hustled into a drawing room, where Uday sat at an antique desk. “You’re very lucky,” he said. “I’ve chosen you as my new girlfriend.” “You’re insane,” Sabet stammered. “I want to go home!” “Strip her,” Uday ordered his guards. The burly men pounced on her and ripped at her clothes until she was cowering naked on the floor. Uday towered over her, unrolling his favourite wire cable. “First I will beat you. Then, if you’re good, I’ll allow you to please myself and my men.” It took Uday and his men almost three months to break Sabet’s spirit. Then Uday was tired of her. Her face was ruined; her body was a mass of bruises. He had the guards take her out to the kennels where he kept his attack dogs. He’d told the keepers several days before to stop feeding them. Nahle Sabet was then smeared with honey and tossed into the kennels, where all evidence of the crime disappeared.» – 10. Mucius, (Gaius Mucius Scaevola): God of bravery and heroism in Ancient Roma. – 11. Saad Abd al-Razzek Nihaya: An Iraqi army officer decorated for bravery in the Iran-Iraq War but that didn’t help him or his new wife. Uday saw the couple walking together, took the girl to a hotel suite. She pleaded with him not to defile her - she had only been married yesterday. Uday beat her until she was ****** then ***** her. Then they heard a long, piercing scream, then silence. The girl had jumped from the seventh floor. Her husband cursed Uday, and he was soon sentenced to death for ‘insulting the president.’ – 12. Ilham Ali al-Azani: Uday always slept with the winner of the Miss Iraq contest. But when attractive student Ilham Ali Al-azami won she turned him down. Uday abducted Miss Iraq to his palace. He ***** her over and over again and then as ‘punishment for her defiance’ allowed all his bodyguards to **** her for an entire week. Then Uday circulated a rumour that the girl was a **** and let her go. The girl’s father, a devote Muslim, was so ashamed that he killed his own daughter. When the aging father appeared at Uday’s palace Uday had the old man shot.- 13. Abu sarhan: Uday seemed proud of his reputation and called himself abu sarhan, Arabic for "wolf".

Excerpt of Gallows Bird in Heaven, http://www.amazon.fr/Gallows-Bird-in-Heaven-ebook/dp/B005JKMW66

Source of the note: www.meritummedia.com, visited 2013/05/19

Whales have no wings to fly
But they have eyes to cry

Whales are so big but kind
They're not easy to find

Whales are definitely so nice
**** them not to eat with rice.


Today is Saturday, Sept. 28, the 269th day of 2014 with 94 to follow.

The moon is waxing. Morning stars are Jupiter, Uranus and Venus. Evening stars are Mars, Mercury, Neptune and Saturn.


In 1825, in England, George Stephenson operated the first locomotive to pull a passenger train.



A thought for the day:



No place epitomizes the American experience and the American spirit more than New York City. -- Michael Bloomberg.



QUOTES FOR THE DAY:




He who is void of virtuous attachments in private life is, or very soon will be, void of all regard for his country. There is seldom an instance of a man guilty of betraying his country, who had not before lost the feeling of moral obligations in his private connections.

------------------------

How strangely will the Tools of a Tyrant pervert the plain Meaning of Words!



Samuel Adams



In university they don't tell you that the greater part of the law is learning to tolerate fools.




Doris Lessing




“The character inherent in the American people has done all that has been accomplished; and it would have done somewhat more, if the government had not sometimes got in its way.”



Henry David Thoreau



"Everything you can imagine is real."



Pablo Picasso



“Ugly. Is irrelevant. It is an immeasurable insult to a woman, and then supposedly the worst crime you can commit as a woman. But ugly, as beautiful, is an illusion.”



Margaret Cho




POETRY




TO THE THAWING WIND



Robert Frost





Come with rain, O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
Make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate'er you do tonight,
Bathe my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit's crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o'er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.


About this poem
"To the Thawing Wind" was first published in Frost's collection "A Boy's Will" (Holt, 1915).

About Robert Frost
Robert Frost was born on March 26, 1874, in San Francisco. He was the recipient of four Pulitzer Prizes during his lifetime and read at President John F. Kennedy's inauguration. Frost died in Boston on Jan. 29, 1963.

*
The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day[at]poets.org.



This poem is in the public domain.
Distributed by King Features Syndicate





A TIP FOR WOMEN




Choosing Eyeliner



Make sure the color of your eyeliner complements your eyes. Dark brown eyes benefit from plum shades. If you have lighter eyes, try navy and charcoal. Brown eyeliner works well no matter what color your eyes are!




JOKES



WHALES



A little girl was talking to her teacher about whales.

The teacher said it was physically impossible for a whale to swallow a human because even though it was a very large mammal its throat was very small.

The little girl stated that Jonah was swallowed by a whale.

Irritated, the teacher reiterated that a whale could not swallow a human; it was physically impossible.

The little girl: said, "When I get to heaven I will ask Jonah".

The teacher: asked, " What if Jonah went to hell?"

The little girl: replied, "Then you ask him".





JURY SELECTION

The tiresome jury selection process continued, each side hotly contesting and dismissing potential jurors. Don O'Brian was called for his question session.

"Property holder?"

"Yes, I am, Your Honor."

"Married or single?"

"Married for twenty years, Your Honor."

"Formed or expressed an opinion?"

"Not in twenty years, Your Honor."





Questionable Predictions



Nostradamus recently turned 500. Here are some other predictions from lesser lights:

- Law will be simplified (over the next century). Lawyers will have diminished, and their fees will have been vastly curtailed. --Junius Henri Browne 1893

- By 1960, work will be limited to three hours a day. --John Langdon-Davies

- Hurrah, Boys, we've caught them napping. We'll finish them up and go home to our station. --George A. Custer, 1876, prior to the Battle of Little Big Horn

- Get rid of the pointed-ears guy. --NBC executive, regarding Mr. Spock of STAR TREK, 1966

- Telephones (will) bring peace on earth, eliminate Southern accents, and save the farm by making farmers less lonely. --printed in THE WALL STREET JOURNAL, Century-old Pronouncements, 1995





Stupid True Headlines



- Something Went Wrong in Jet Crash, Expert Says

- Police Begin Campaign to Run Down Jaywalkers

- Safety Experts Say School Bus Passengers Should Be Belted

- Drunk Gets Nine Months in Violin Case

- Survivor of Siamese Twins Joins Parents

- Farmer Bill Dies in House

- Iraqi Head Seeks Arms

- Is There a Ring of Debris around Uranus?

- Stud Tires Out

- Prostitutes Appeal to Pope

- Panda Mating Fails; Veterinarian Takes Over

- Soviet ****** Lands Short of Goal Again

- British Left Waffles on Falkland Islands

- Lung Cancer in Women Mushrooms

- Eye Drops off Shelf

- Teacher Strikes Idle Kids

- Include your Children When Baking Cookies

- Squad Helps Dog Bite Victim

- Shot Off Woman's Leg Helps Nicklaus to 66

- Enraged Cow Injures Farmer with Axe

- Plane Too Close to Ground, Crash Probe Told

- Miners Refuse to Work after Death

- Juvenile Court to Try Shooting Defendant

- Stolen Painting Found by Tree

- Two Soviet Ships Collide, One Dies

- Two Sisters Reunited after 18 Years in Checkout Counter

- Killer Sentenced to Die for Second Time in 10 Years



- Never Withhold ****** Infection from Loved One

- Drunken Drivers Paid $1000 in '84

- War Dims Hope for Peace

- If Strike isn't Settled Quickly, It May Last a While

- Cold Wave Linked to Temperatures

- Enfields Couple Slain; Police Suspect Homicide

- Red Tape Holds Up New Bridge

- Deer **** 17,000

- Typhoon Rips Through Cemetery; Hundreds Dead

- Man Struck by Lightning Faces Battery Charge

- New Study of Obesity Looks for Larger Test Group

- Astronaut Takes Blame for Gas in Spacecraft

- Kids Make Nutritious Snacks

- Chef Throws His Heart into Helping Feed Needy

- Arson Suspect is Held in Massachusetts Fire

- British Union Finds Dwarfs in Short Supply

- Ban On Soliciting Dead in Trotwood

- Lansing Residents Can Drop Off Trees

- Local High School Dropouts Cut in Half

- New Vaccine May Contain Rabies

- Man Minus Ear Waives Hearing

- Deaf College Opens Doors to Hearing

- Air Head Fired

- Steals Clock, Faces Time

- Prosecutor Releases Probe into Undersheriff

- Old School Pillars are Replaced by Alumni

- Bank Drive-in Window Blocked by Board

- Hospitals are Sued by 7 Foot Doctors

- Some Pieces of Rock Hudson Sold at Auction

- *** Education Delayed, Teachers Request Training





HAVE A FABULOUS SUNDAY!

In the meantime. Knowledge is needed. 2. It works.
Code is generated to generate new power, New York, USA,
Orlando, USA Cicero, New York, 222 120 600 Russia,
Moreover, such an argument can not be created,
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He added Annan 222 and 225, Annan Chen Ching
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Africa, 600-222 and 2 hours. Iraqi Women's Program.
Seattle, New York, Russia, Ireland
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There is a problem with gender. But the true
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to the end of the chapters of the mind;
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222 Russian and 500 E-mail - in Greece
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                                                 ­ Aman
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Chen Ching
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New York State, Ohio, Russia, Africa,
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13 Kiyah NABI MABA IAN 2 222 120 600,
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DSN Hosting Ireland, the State outside of
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Since our political system has been laid bare, after RumputiN was installed
in the Blackhouse, it's beautiful complex of lack of complexity, in a word,
conspiracy of conspiracies, has moved me and "...we(e),..." to have as a few
of my favorite things be far more reaching questions, out of necessity. Like,
without acknowledging, and demanding others do the same, that it's been
purposely engineered to be a criminal injustice system instead, how can one
even have a real conversation that would lead to potential for real change
of it taking place in reality, if you don't know who you were, where you've
been, how on God's green Earth can you expect to know who..., where you are
and what's going on, necessary to start thinking about changing anything,
even yourself, as well as directing who you will be and where you will
be going, etc.?  Swine slaughtering lower-middle-class to poor men en masse,
mostly of color, instead of just doing the usual liquidation of their ases
and assets, are just serial murderers masquerading as cops, and what goes
around comes around, no?  If you're not taking bullets you're making them.  
Also, people are fed up with felonious RumputiN and his rootin' tootin'
organized crime family spree from the Blackhouse, which should be prosecuted
using the RICO Statute instead of just being elaborately covered up by Mueller
for he's not using it and he's handing out immunities like soldiers candy to
Iraqi kids, duh.  I would add some salient pointless points, beyond the 'empty
boat' of Zen, and 'useless tree' of the Tao, we can understand the burden
placed on our shoulders by our ancestry not exercising their responsibilities
as they should have, and thereby it's Siamese twin sisters, their freedoms,
Withered like unused muscles as well, as a panultimate challenge, saving
humanity, literally. Also, understanding Jung's "80 % of all actions, thoughts,
feelings we have, that we acknowledge, or don't, perceive or don't, are
compensatory towards our pasts", necessitates an integral understanding of
Satre's existentialism' meaning of angst, as experience integral to life, not
opposed to it, but, rather, central to it, and a nexus of it.  This is more
than an embracing of gestalt's, Perls', moment, now. Moving away from sophist
perspective, we also experience the meaning of life is struggle, which comes
through all our meaningful work, succinctly. Further, what is life beyond that
foci is also, the where, when, who, how, and sometimes why too (but never Y2K)
of life; beyond our masks and ego fulfilling stories, schtick, lines, etc..
Do we struggle, not just as lifelong students, with the impossible, not just
the improbable.  Yet, it's actually more layered than that in a much larger
dimensional paradigm than 4 dimensions.  Yes, the effects of our causes in any
action usually have effects that undo our causes as we act them out, intend,
present them, etc..  Yet, those more superficial, linear, first conclusion
layers are not less effective, per se, as the complexity of Karma, Dharma are
beyond our normal comprehension. What is the root of thought, feeling, the root
of feeling, being, the root of being, the extent to which we struggle with what
it is, no?  For, as the following twig of poetree gleans: Soul//
As my breath
is the one, prana,/
And the life's pulse, pala,/
Reaching angelic source, sura,/

So is this mind, manas, a
/  Flowering unfoldment,
/ Unendingly touching
/ The eye
that would it see,/  
Unbeckoning unto thee./
As well, this Bodhi, a temple,/

Of the four and fifth, nur,/  
So entered by atma, a ray of thy sun,/  
Thus being
winged, and
/  As such with wind,/
Flying only in dharma's dance,/
Is returning
to, Brahma, you./  For, there yet, by thy grace, go I./  
We are not who we think
we are, we are, rather, the extent to which we struggle to evolve to be some-
things, spirit, soul, Bodhi, etc., on the path of study that could and should
be one, you, me, forever asked and never answered.  Yet, even if we lived as
prayer, our light only adding to the well of light, our every step in grace,
leaving no footprints that followed none, echoing in all ways, always,
sometimes, like pulling teeth, "...we(e),...", must stalk our words from our
insides 'til we wrangle them, like cats, to the tip of our tongues, no?  For,
"Words weren't meant for cowards..." and we must "be brave...", Happy Rhodes.
We can't allow ourselves the luxury of taking our supposedly 'golden silence'
all the way to the bank, as your average bear does.  These are the end times,
we successfully struggle, to abolish global defacto-slavery by the non-renew-
able energies' corporate structure's machine and it's convolution, against
the global oligarchy's premeditated mass-****** of 7.5 billion people, or
humanity's extinct.  Gandhi, "(supposed) science is the root of all opression"
and, "...we(e),..." must be the change we want in the world".  Is not life
relation, are we not responsible for one another, are not all threads in
the fabric of life needed, as is the evoliutionary ones' mendings, for we
can't allow it to be torn asunder?  If not here, then where, if not now, when,
not you, who? Viva la evolucion.  Indivisible, illimitable you, GOTV.

A Babylonian once told me:
When my name bores me,
I throw it in the river
And return renewed!
* * * * *
Basra existed
Even before al-Sayyab* viewed its streets
Bathed in poetry
As verdant as
A poet’s heart when her
Prince pauses trustfully to sing
While sublime maidens dance--
Brown like mud in the orchards
Soft like mud in the orchards
Scented with henna like mud in the orchards—
And a poem punctuates each of their pirouettes as
They walk straight to the river.
I’ve discovered no place in the city broader than Five Mile.
He declared:
I used to visit there night and day,
When sun and moon were locked in intimate embrace.
Then they quarreled.
The Gulf’s water was sweet,
Each ship would unload its cargo,
And crew members enjoyed a bite of an apple
And some honey.
The women were radiant;
So men’s necks swiveled each time ladies’ shadows
Moved beneath the palms’ fronds.
These women needed no adornment;
Translated by William Hutchins
……………………………………………………………..
Basra, also written Basrah  is the capital of Basra Governorate, located on the Shatt al-Arab river in southern Iraq between Kuwait and Iran. It had an estimated population of 1.5 million of 2012.
Basra is also Iraq's main port, although it does not have deep water access, which is handled at the port of Umm Qasr.
The city is part of the historic location of Sumer, the home of Sinbad the Sailor, and a proposed location of the Garden of Eden. It played an important role in early Islamic history and was built in 636 AD or 14 AH. It is Iraq's second largest and most populous city after Baghdad.
Basra is consistently one of the hottest cities on the planet, with summer temperatures regularly exceeding 50 °C (122 °F)
Badr Shakir al Sayyab (December 24, 1926 – 1964) was an Iraqi and Arab poet. Born in Jekor, a town south of Basra in Iraq, he was the eldest child of a date grower and shepherd.
He graduated from the Higher teachers training college of Baghdad in 1948
Badr Shakir was dismissed from his teaching post for being a member of the Iraqi Communist Party.
Badr Shakir al-Sayyab was one of the greatest poets in Arabic literature, whose experiments helped to change the course of modern Arabic
poetry. At the end of the 1940s he launched, with Nazik al-Mala'ika,and shortly followed by ʿAbd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī and Shathel Taqa, the free verse movement and gave it credibility with the many fine poems he published in the fifties.
These included the famous "Rain Song," which was instrumental in drawing attention to the use of myth in poetry. He revolutionized all the elements of the poem and wrote highly involved political and social poetry, along with many personal poems.

Dad’s passing spans 18 months beginning with lung cancer surgeon removes left lung  for 6 weeks he receives radiation treatments Dad gains strength everyone gives thumbs up within several months doctors discover cancer spread to tumor in brain head shaved tumor removed skull resembles stitched baseball Dad lapses into twilight state body shrinks everyone knows his life is ending doctors and family wait for cancer to attack vital ***** only matter of time in january 1991 iraqi scud missiles launch at israel Odysseus in lobby of movie theater when he hears news calls Mom from telephone booth she asks if he is ok nothing could prepare him for horror he feels witnessing Dad slowly die Mom Penelope Odysseus quite vulnerable during this time dependent on trained intensive-care nurse to watch over Dad at home administer drugs monitor condition nurse able-bodied to guide or carry Dad to bathroom assist in his goings cleaning him Mom hires several nurses who each borrow money from her and Penelope Sean each nurse never repays loan and steals jewelry from Mom other belongings from house once a week Odysseus takes Dad out to lunch accompanied by nurse Odysseus places cap with bulls insignia on Dad’s bald stitched-up head Dad nods gives high-five Odysseus talks about feats michael jordan and entire team perform Dad avid fan Odysseus drives Dad nurse in toyota to favorite lunch spots Dad has no appetite no words but manages frail smile in august 1991 Odysseus has first one-man show at prestigious gallery run by Keith ******* Keith published Odysseus in college literary magazine decade earlier 17 large color field scapes hang on two long walls Dad too ill to attend opening never sees show in film documentary shot at gallery by Sean Odysseus explains “the work is about opening up possibilities clean slates for new worlds rawest moment of narrative very beginning of story all we are presented with is stage i’m scared of story right now suspicious of story don’t even want to deal with story once story starts then everything gets messed up all these things happen at this point in story it’s just this exciting stage full of possibilities full of potential the very beginning and you don’t know what is presented yet” near end of Dad’s struggle in late summer Odysseus asks Mom and Penelope to allow him to visit father alone in hospital they reluctantly consent Dad lying semiconscious in bed Odysseus holds back tears looks at withered father Dad breathes inconsistent occasional fluttering eyelids Odysseus begins to talk aloud about their lives together wonders if Dad reached his goals? does he feel fulfilled with life? is he prepared for death? Dad is 71 years old does he feel cheated of time? did Odysseus disgrace Dad or make him proud? Odysseus feels guilt suspects he may have embarrassed even shamed Dad wonders if Dad deep in his heart believes Odysseus is sad disappointment? he forces words out of his mouth “Dad can you hear me? Dad i love you Dad forgive me please for not becoming what you wanted me to be Dad” phone rings suddenly who could be calling at solemn moment? Odysseus lets it ring but ringing will not stop unwillingly he answers “hello?” “Odysseus don’t do it! Don’t hurt Dad!” it is Penelope calling worried he might commit some murderous act Odysseus and Penelope snap at each other for moment he hangs up thinks what a tragic breach of trust realizes no one not Penelope Mom Chris anyone in family honestly trusts him he wonders if Dad overheard angered remarks with Penelope what a sad way to die hearing your own children quarreling Dad dies august 31 1991 same date cousin Chris’s son Maynard celebrates 3rd birthday Mom’s brother Karl comes from california to help family discovers Dad took out undisclosed $15,000. loan to offset lack of earnings Dad typically overextended himself Karl pitches in to compensate for borrowed money after Dad dies Schwartzpilgrim house falls apart Mom weeps for many months they were married more than 50 years Odysseus feels sorry for Mom all alone in big house she invites family for dinner but it is never same Odysseus’s inheritance is old toyota with 80 thousand miles Dad said he wanted to buy Odysseus new volvo Odysseus is grateful for car which allows him to drive Farina to lake in dream Dad is sitting in back seat bandages wrap around his head same way doctors dressed him after brain tumor surgery Odysseus driving toyota looking for parking space there are none to be found they drive around block several times Dad suggests “try driving around the block one more time maybe parking space will open up” Odysseus answers “no i think we need to go few blocks further” Dad says “Odysseus you’re in drivers’ seat now but try my way one last time” they drive around block find parking space right in front of house Odysseus wakes up confused asks aloud “Dad is dead right?” it is not easy losing a father forgiving forgetting

Shortly before my father died, he whispered to me longingly: “Daughter, treasure this, because it authenticates your heritage to our kinsfolk!”  When I accepted this object, I discovered it was a stone with inscriptions I did not understand and delicate, mysterious lines.  He continued, “It is a keepsake from our great-great grandfather and can ultimately be traced back to Bilal, the Holy Prophet’s first muezzin, and his father, who was the king of Ethiopia.”  I accepted this small heirloom, which I carried everywhere with me in my handbag.  The person who shared my life under the title of “husband,” however, threw it down the drain at our house, thinking—as he told me—that it was a fetish.  From then till now I have endured successive exiles.  So I wrote this poem to explain the secret of my skin color—given that I am a native of al-Najaf, Iraq—spiritually, mournfully, and poetically!

My father said: “You were born quite unexpectedly,
Remote from Aksum, like a beauty spot for al-Najaf—‘the ******’s Cheek.’
Your one obsession has been writing, but
The sea will run dry before you arrive at the meaning of meaning.”
He affirmed: “During a pressing famine,
I devoted myself to watching over every breath you took.  
I would ****** my hand through the film of hope
To caress your spirit with bread.
You would burp, and
I would delightedly endure my hunger and fall asleep.
I could only find the strength to fib to your face and say I was happy.
I would feel devastated when you fidgeted,
Because you would always head toward me,
And I felt helpless.”
Aksum!  They say you’re far away!
“No, it’s closer to you than your exile.”
“And now?”
“Don’t talk about ‘now’ while we’re living it.”
“The future depresses me.  How can I proceed?”
How can the ear be deaf to the wailing from the streets?
Aksum, you have colored my skin.  Al-Najaf has freshened my spirit.
She knows and does the opposite.
She knows that I inter only dirt above me, and
That I deny everything except spelling out words:
M: Mother, who went walking down the alley of no return.
F: Father, who hastened after her.
B: Brother, who never earned that title.
S: Sister who buttoned her breast to a loving tear, no matter how fake.
………………….There’s no one I care about!
The trees tremble some times, and we don’t ask why.
My life surrounds me the way prison walls surround suspects;
I am the victim of a building erected by a frightened man.
With its talons time scratches its tales on me,
And I transform them into a silent song
Or, occasionally, a psalm of sobs.
Father, do you believe that--the roots have been torn asunder?
Fantasies began to carry me from al-Najaf to Afyon
And from Afyon to nonexistence,
Yellow teeth stretching all the way.
“History’s not anything you’ve made,”
One American neighbor tells another.
He’s surprised to see me.
“Who are you?” he asks when he doesn’t believe his eyes.
Would he understand the truth of my origin if I told him I was born in al-Najaf
Or that Aksum has veiled my face?
I have walked and walked and walked.
I’m exhausted, Father.
Is your child mine?
Show yourself and return me to the purity of your *****.
Allow me to occupy the seventh vertebra of fantasy!
Don’t eject me into a time I don’t fit.
I need you.
I ask you:
Has my Lord forbidden me to be happy?
Am I forbidden to preserve
What I have left
And sit some warm evening
Averting my ear from a voice that doesn’t interest me?
Answer me, Father!
Or change the face of our garden
So it changes . . . .to what they believe!
Translated by William Hutchins

[for.                                     | MD]

or it is not. "Massachusetts, at 1 Cod mess-Sassi,"
which return is not an attack, "said Tanslathat,
Teslatat to the death of the General Manual tower auriliuli Taurus.
I have also heard of mental 1000 Anamiria:
" A girl is a taxi in front building, May asked,
Kaunas Bataini Kaus preparing the Rila Iraqi Yam, eight days,'' Ali said Ekva Tvova, a long building Latiuum, |
gray, angry and quickly force general tenths distributor
Promotion irimusicat mate advertising and sales.
The Guinness putteth on his garment;
and they could not understand him in it,
and Superman, Superman and the house of Mary,
and she was not afraid; Then it was time to smile,
then it is useful but not the daughter-in-law
that is very strong, so when they smile,
maybe in the history laid on 100 cows
and treats Pakistan estate privileges 100 people.
Better, therefore, drink brainwashing the mind
of lands or publicly available outside the bathrooms are in the tomb.
First, the path of the fire,                      he clenched his fist between the allies and the outgoings of it do not know about it.                Because of the design. Laughter, laughter, tears and tears,
yellow pop-ups, often in cold water, wind and pink,
but not serious, serious.                                      It is not easy to lose the Lord.
This is the price. Gold, Silver, and Blue is great.
A black, white and black, and between the sounds begin.
What is the depth of 500 meters, that is,
he is considered who does not have a hell,
and that which is in harmony with the things that exist,
and in the life of God, in the end;
not as it was out of a man,
which is the father of the girl.
Buffalo,                                       Terigumi Tragumi Gordum
struck for. We support "(5, 5), which most of us in the name
of Melissa Decker, who said: "Who wants to believe in God." (Luke 5: Guonon khotel Great Britain can be happy on earth.
Zora de Leslie of Guanti great Britain). door.
"Code of Massachusetts into the mess-1 Sassi," which return
is not an attack, "said Tansladat, Teslatat to the death of General
Mengele Tauer auriliuli Taurus. Other 1000 will have heard of me.
Anamiria "A parade girl asked a taxi in round Image,
Kaunas Bataini Kausassa preparing the Rila Iraqi Yam,
eighth day" signified Ali said Ekva Tvova
While the Latins gray, distributors Iraqi mate Irimuzi
or it is not. "Massachusetts in 1 piglet, Sassi",
the income is not burdensome, "said Tanslatthat,
Teslatat to the death in the general manual
auriliuli ridges tower. I had heard about the mental
1000 Anamiria:" A girl from the taxi at the building,
it is asked, Kaunas Bataini Kaus prepares
Iraqi Yams of Rila, eight days, "Ali said Ekva Tvova,
Latinum building a long, gray,
angry fast tenths of a general distributor
of advertising and sales promotion
irimusimate. Guinness Indian clothing.
brainwash,           rather not drink it in the land of the mind,
or publicly available outside the bathrooms
are in their hells. First, respecting the creatures
that trail of fire, and his sword is the fist of his companions,
and at the expense of another ye do not k now,
in the midst of it. From planning. Laughter,
laughter, tears and tears, yellow pop-ups,
often in cold water, wind and pink, but seriously,
very seriously. It is not easy to get rid of.
This is the price. Your gold and your silver,
and blue silk, a great slaughter. A black, white
and black, and the sounds begin. What is the depth
of 500 meters, that is,
it does not has to be considered is hell,
and that is,                by means of the harmony of things,
that is to say, in the end, and in a life?
so that there is from the father, who is the girl 's. !!!
the end, it is not a trail, Buffalo Terigumi travected
Tragumi was nigh to the tomb of gorda. We support
"(5, 5), which most of us in the name of Melissa Decker,
who said:" Who wants to believe in God. "(Luke 5:
Great Britain Guo non k hotel cannot be happy
with the Zora de Leslie great myth great Britain),
"the door. "Massachusetts code on the chassis-1 Sassi,"
in return, not an attack, "said Tansladat,
Teslatat death of General Mengele Tauer auriliuli dolphin.
Other 1000 will have heard of me. Anamiria
'parade girl asked a taxi ride Book, by Kaunas Bataini;
Kausassa preparing Iraqi Relay Yam on the eighth day,
"Ali said Ekava Tvova's long gray school,
Latin, distributors Iraqi partner Irimuzi"

Our Masgouf
The fish has wings, and she feels our pain as a sister. Yes, we are the fish’s brothers and any halo occurs in the clear night is a birthday of this brotherhood. Come here, and see the first cookbook; it had appeared with the seeds of this earth. It had slept in an ancient Sumerian tablet, which was shining as a morning sun. In the heart of (800) recipes in that Iraqi mud, you can see the smoke of our Masgouf and you may smell its exciting flavor. You may know that Masgouf had resided as a moon in our dreams, and we delightedly disappear in its perfume as the butterflies. Our Masgouf, as well as, the face of our river, is pure, but smoky, and I will be so happy if you can see its chants which dance as a fairy at its small bank. Because of this warmhearted brightness, you may like to sit under our smiley tent and musing our truthful Masgouf.



The Dolma’s Master
The small girls in our gardens knew nothing about the flowers or their breathtaking colors, but they are so efficient in making of magic Dolma. In the morning they meet a green dove, and listen to her chants. They are soft and pure exactly as our Dolma’s smiles. She teaches our girls the art of Dolma and the secret of grape’s leaves with a smooth voice and gentle hands. This Dolma’s master is so soft and deep, and she can color the girls’ hearts with the wedding dresses. My mother was a good Dolma’s student, so she had learned its chants expertly and  wore her wedding dress early.

The Kebab Glory
The Iraqis can’t live without war or Kebab and can’t smell the morning breeze without their deep voices. I am an Iraqi man, and my soul was kneaded with Kebab’s Sumac. My dreams had immersed in the Kebab’s perfume and straggled in the desert of sad Sumac. Kebab, which we inherited from our Babylonian, can’t be transfigured without a soft lap, and any saying disagrees this is a hard illusion, but essentially you need the Iraqi sad smile to find the Kebab’s sublime glory.

Learn to recognize lies, while they stand at
Their podiums, and proselytize,
Like so many Sunday preachers,
You can see it in their eyes, and
Their shifty ****** features, though
Their words seem sincere,
Their subtle cues, serve as
Teachers of their inner intent, so
Don't forget your diligence, and
Let them **** your dissent, with
Empty promises and rhetoric, to
Fill your head with lies about,
How war is for the betterment, of
Nations abroad, the sentiment
Is laughable, the premise is a fraud.
Cause when it all boils down, and
When push comes to shove,
Democracy has grass roots, it's
Not imposed from above, and
At the end of the day, money is
The factor prime, it's the secret
Justifier for this terroristic crime,
First, they bombed Iraqi cities,
In a trial of "Shock and Awe"
That killed even more civilians,
Than what 9/11 saw, and
Once the cities were demolished,
Halliburton then rebuilt them, and
Reaped enormous profits,
To the tune of 40 billion, and
Among other things, in this
"Just" war's spoils, were
The underground oceans,
Flowing full of crude oil, and
We all fund these atrocities,
These lies, these hypocrisies, well
If you decide this ain't the type,
Of thing that you can stand for,
Write "exempt" on line 7, of your W-4

Is this the place where garland grows,
Among the olive branches low?
Splattered, cindered, clay abode,
Am I so alien?
Encircled those, in khaki drab;
Paying homage to the bags;
Which hold remains of brave, young lads;
Will I feel again?

Surrounded, chains of un-lit lights,
Which only shine in day, not nights;
Illumination betrays the plights,
Should we become aglow.
A tree of polypropylene,
Adorns the tower, so serene;
A branch of steel hid in-between,
That only gunner knows.

The air of diesel, not of Myrrh,
As pre-fab dwellings start to stir,
Indifferent as they observe,
Fading of the Star.
A failed attempt at lone ‘SandMan’
Adorned with boots, bayonet in hand,
Iraqi winds displace his stand,
Re-formed in Kandahar.

T’was yesterday, on Christmas Eve;
A day ahead of promised leave,
When Paul, Eric, Mark and Steve,
Took leisurely patrol.
In Tikrit, where he was born,
Some sixty years before this ‘Storm’,
They’d set-out on this early morn.
Assessing evening’s toll.

Among the buildings, scattered ruins;
Charred men, like shadows, on the dunes;
From temples soar cremated plumes;
One hour had gone by.
In the distance, beyond the spire,
Come ‘reports’ of skirmish fire,
Incessant screaming of the dire;
Then screams dissolve to cries.

Approach, inside a city square,
Where once a fountain teemed, right there,
Smoldering flesh, low burning hair;
A family splayed together.
Rank and putrid pieces strewn,
Mother’s face, shrapnel-hewn;
Attending Allah far too soon--
All their hands were tethered.

Domestic dogs, now on their own,
Fight for human flesh and bone;
Such holy image sets the tone,
As chorus strikes ‘Jihad’.
Eric stumbles, exploded knee,
Bearing witness to comrades, three,
Souls reclaimed near instantly;
Christmas in Baghdad.

Is this the place where garland grows;
Among the olive branches low?
How I miss New England snow,
This Christmas in Baghdad.

THAT FIRST GULF WAR ON T.V.
In blissful ignorance I cheered
Along with the rest of the American idiots
Bomb those **** Iraqi's
Oh you can't mess with the USA....
Then it happens, the media focused in on a truckload of orphaned Iraqi children
They were just innocent little kids
You could see the trauma reflected in their shell-shocked eyes
I cried with self-loathing, empathy, Stop, what are we doing...
I just wanted to hug those children and make them all better
This was the turning point in my world view.

I bury the carnival fish.  my neighbor pretends he is casting while my son ***** on the opening of a plastic bag.  I take the bag and blow into it then pop it on my palm.  my neighbor’s heart is safe but he tries to grab it anyway.  the vietnam war is a pop-up book of the vietnam war.

Another day seems to pass by in the desert as it has for hundreds if not thousand of years,
Except the crunch of gravel and sand as a 2 ton frag 4 tuned up humvee races down another street in Iraq,
no surprise to see this in Iraq since the US led invasion in 2003,
same **** different day, otherwise known to soldiers as SSDD syndrome,
only this day would forever change lives,
the flash was white hot and the melting metal was proof enough of the sheer explosivness of the improvised explosive device,
the blast enough to let Iraqis living miles away look up to see the smoke,
they never heard the screaming though,
but the soldiers did as they raced to what was left of the humvee,
three dead upon impact,
a fourth lay screaming on the ground with what was left of the rest of his legs still in the passenger seat,
medics on  the ground did good and saved the poor soul,
his screams would fill the Iraqi night for for hours,
a short chopper ride to Baghdad Hospital,
they docs put his feet on ice, quite literally,
more than ten hours of surgery and the legs were sewn back on, but this soldiers fight was over,
a flight on the first plane to Ramstein Air Base Germany,
but the doctors cant do anything for this man,
he needs propers medical care,
send him home to Fort Bragg,
Womack Army Hospital,
doctors are optimistic as they tell this hero he will live but his days in the Army are over,
the tears are unexplainable as he pleads with the doctors to **** him
he doesnt want to live,
he may never walk again, he is a freak, his fiancee wants nothing to do with a *******,
over a week the soldier tries everything he can,
pulling out IVs,
injecting his blood stream with air filled needles,
his screams keep the other patients awake during the cold nights,
his crying during the day a constant reminder of the hell that only those who have lived it can ever know,
a week passes by, at least one suicide attempt a day,
then the soldiers fiancee arrives,
the crying becomes unstoppable as he pleads for her to leave him, not to look at his crippled body, that he wishes to die,'
why? she asks,
the question stops his tears,
why? she repeats,
because I am a ******* I may never walk again,
so? she asks, calling in the doctor,
the doctor arrives to find the soldier in tears and the meanest scowl ever seen on a woman,
doctor she asks, so he may never walk correct?
thats correct the doctor replies,
can he still have ***? she asks,
the doctor is stumped by the question and stumbles as he replies, well....yea its only his legs not his *****,
the fiancee looks at her soldier,
well then why the hell are you crying? as long as we can still have *** I am not leaving you!
the soldier sobs uncontrolably as his future wife holds him dearly,
the smiles on the other patients outwardly happy for the both of them,
then dinner arrives, the fiancee freaks out,
throwing the food across the room and storming from the hospital,
the soldier believing she had finally realized he was a *******, sobs once more,
the patients, doctors and nurses stumped,
another suicide attempt made,
thrity minutes pass,
the fiancee arrives, carrying a Dominos pizaa,
she holds him closely as she says he cant eat hospital food anymore,
he needs to eat right so that he can walk again,
and so comes a miracle through pain.

NO **** people this is a true story i witnessed myself in the Womack Army Hosptial roughly early 2006. It was a beautiful sight to see, and any man would consider himself blessed to be with what I can only describe as a miracle and the truest woman alive. That soldier deserved nothing less, oh, and he did walk again.

As long as we are ruled by madness, hounds
will devour fetuses still in their wombs,
mines will sprout in wheat fields, and even
the crossed light of morning will be eye-fire.

We’ll see the young hanged, wronged
at the dawn prayer. It’s an age witness
to a snarling pig fouling mosques.

When madness rules, there are white flowers
on the ruined branches, emptiness
in a child’s eyes, no kindness, no faith, no
dignity held sacred. All fates futureless,

everything present worthless. As long as madness
rules, the children of Baghdad can only guess
why they wander hunger’s thorns,

why they share the bread of death, why off
in the distance, American Indians
hover in the cold, why greed shouts them down,
every race crawling ghost-hearted.

Through blood-colored streets, between humiliation
and disbelief, crippled shadows creep,
and the madness-hounds howl in our minds.

We are on our way to death.



The children of Baghdad scream in the streets
as Hulagu’s army pounds the city’s doors
like an epidemic; his grandchildren roar
over the bodies of our young.

The wings of wild birds are blood rivers,
black claws claw eyes—all this cracks the silence.

The Tigris River remembers those days, so look
behind the curtain of history—how many
aggressors have passed through the centuries
of our land, and still we resist?

Hulagu will die, and the Iraqi children
will dance in front of Degla. We are not
to be hanged from all corners of Baghdad.

*

A river can be a weapon against injustice on the earth.
A palm can be a weapon against injustice.
A garden can be a weapon.

Among the water, in the silence
of tunnels, though we hate death,
for God and right we will set fire forever
to your refusal that Islam is holy.

Baghdad, ***** by tyranny, your children
are raising flags. Where are the Arabs
and the white swords, wild horses, glorious families?

Some of them were condemned, some
fled shameful, some stripped and gave away
their clothes, and some are lined up in the devil’s hall
to get their share of the spoils.

And people ask about a great nation’s ruins,
but nothing remains of that shining empire
that spans from the ocean to the gulf.



Every calamity has its cause.

They sold the horses and traded in
the knights in the market of rhetoric:
Down with history! Long live hot air!

Death comes to the children of Baghdad
in the smallest toys, in the parks, in restaurants,
in the dust. Walls collapse on the procession of history,
shame upon civilization, shame from a thousand borders.

From the unknown, a missile charges,
“Where are the weapons of mass destruction?”

Will daylight come again after the ****** smile
has been erased, after planes block the sunrays,
and our dreams spurt suicidal blood?

By what law do you demolish our homes,
and flood fire upon a thousand minarets?

In Baghdad, days pass, from hunger to hunger,
thirst to thirst, under the gaze of the master
of the mansion, the thousand-masked face.
Will there never be an end to this nonsense?

The curtain rises: we are the beginning.

To starve people—is this honor?
“To prey upon supplicants”—that’s the glorious slogan of victory?
To chase children from one house to another—the joy of tyranny.

These days, people have the right to humiliation, submission,
death in every atom, and the chronic question,
“Where are the weapons of mass destruction?”



The children of Baghdad are playing in schools:
a ball here, a ball there, a child here, a child there,
a pen here, a pen there, a mine here, a death there.
Among the fragments, the cactus.

There were children here yesterday,
fluttering like pigeons in open spaces.
One of these days, dawn might lighten the universe,
but for now the sun of justice is far below the horizon.



Despite sacrifice, there is a dark gluttony:
some are faithful, and some are sellouts.

Oh nation of Mohammad, my heart longs for Al Hussein.
Oh Baghdad, land of Caliph Rasheed,
oh castle of history, and once-glorious age,
the two moments between night and day are death and feast.



Among the martyrs’ fragments,
the throne of the universe, shaken by a young voice.
The dark night leaves when a new day flows.

Oh land of Al Rasheed, don’t lose hope, every tyranny ends:
a child adores Baghdad, holds a white notebook and flowers,
paper and poetry, some piasters from the last feast.

**

Behind his eyes, a tear that won’t break
but flows like light deep in his heart: the picture
of his father who left one day and never returned.
The child embraces ashes, and stays a long time.

A thread of blood runs through his mouth;
his voice and shed blood are one.
His features washed out; all of this world is separation.

The child whispers, I long for Baghdad’s day.
Who said oil is worth more than blood?

Don’t ache, Baghdad, don’t surrender.
Although there is dissent in this blind time,
there is, in the far horizon, a wave of visions.

Although the dream is distant, it rises. Rise,
and spread my bones in the Tigris River,
so daylight will one day rise over my funeral procession.

God is greater than the madness of death.
Who said oil is worth more than blood?

[After Flanders Fields, by Major John McCrae, 1915]

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields,
the beaches of France,
Palestine groves,
Malaya's tropics,
Korean mountains,
Egypt's deserts,
Cyprus' beaches,
Borneo's forests,
Aden's marshes,
Falkland's heaths,
Balkan's tundra,
Afganistan bush,
Iraqi highlands,
[Keep list open....]

OUR MASGOUF

The fishes have high wings, but they can feel our deep pain like sisters. Yes, we are the fishes’  brothers and any halo you may see in the dark night is a birthday of this brotherhood. Come here and see the seeds of this earth in an ancient Sumerian tablet, which its recipes were shining as the sun. In that Iraqi mud, you can see the smoke of our Masgouf and you may smell its exciting flavor. It is residing in our dreams like the moon, and we delightedly disappear in its perfume with the butterflies. The face of our Masgouf is pure, and I will be so happy if you can see its chants dancing as fairies at their small riverbanks.



THE MAGIC DOLMA

The small girls in our gardens knew nothing about the flowers or their breathtaking colors, but they are so efficient in making of magic Dolma. In the morning they meet a green dove, and listen to her chants. They are soft and pure exactly as our Dolma’s smiles. She teaches our girls the art of Dolma and the secret of grape’s leaves with a smooth voice and gentle hands. This Dolma’s master is so soft and deep, and she can color the girls’ hearts with the wedding dresses.

THE KEBAB GLORY

The Iraqis can’t live without war or Kebab, and can’t smell the morning breeze without their deep voices. Our souls were kneaded with the sad Kebab’s Sumac and the tears of war. Our dreams had immersed in the Kebab’s perfume and straggled in the desert of sad Sumac. Yes, you need the Iraqi sad smiles to find the Kebab’s sublime glory.