tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68537031991320037192024-03-05T13:19:03.381-04:00pornographic poetryslammanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16612941519606299965noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853703199132003719.post-46563336643280621632009-01-28T16:15:00.000-04:002007-01-28T16:15:57.246-04:00slammanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16612941519606299965noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853703199132003719.post-11215639126010117512007-01-28T16:10:00.000-04:002007-01-28T16:11:32.660-04:00wiltshire blvdwhere golden images still exist<br />of a sunny, sandy, seaside precipice<br />as some things do not fade<br />like the Macy’s parade or the JFK cavalcade <br /><br />some new arrivals are attracted by glitter<br />some seek redress from birth in the wrong litter<br />the tide of invention is a test for newcomers<br />intolerant of a new life with unfamiliar drummers <br /><br />from the south, an exodus from despair <br />seeking a place at the table, in a generation or two<br />from the east, bored Americans everywhere<br />hoping to become someone new<br /><br />illegals, aliens and wetbacks<br />man woman and child<br />it is impossible to follow all their tracks<br />or see the future until votes are compiled<br /><br />here everyone marks their border <br />quickly learning the foresight of a hoarder<br />thankful for every day that they are closer<br />to a dream career or food from a grocer<br /><br />when night falls or power fails<br />the haves of Beverly hills stop to alleviate themselves<br />their reality held firmly as the day’s sales<br />like santa with a factory of elves <br />except the toys here are destined for shelves<br /><br />at the shore, the road greets the pacific<br />a beach graveyard with 2,455 crosses mark this day<br />while family fun belies any wiff of horrific<br />their duty unclear while being treated like a stray<br /><br />the road ends where it begins<br />at the intersection of awe and suspicion <br />no weight given to media spins or cheshire grins<br />or a legacy which demands too much transition <br /><br /><br />each day measured by what is, no more or less<br />not by what once was or even what could be<br />finding strength in spiritual success <br />and redemption in a big fee or the marquee <br /><br />yet each visitor seeks directions from the other <br />remaining separate, except to embrace<br />each son or daughter, mother or brother<br />and the trampled seeds of a new human raceslammanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16612941519606299965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853703199132003719.post-80311487074366748222007-01-23T11:15:00.003-04:002007-01-23T11:15:53.393-04:00pornographic virtueKiss, Kiss<br /> <br />Undress, Undress. Undress<br /> <br />Mount, He on She<br /> <br />Undress, Undress<br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Non-medicated desires for<br /> <br />Longings of life pulse my blood<br /> <br />With wonderlust<br /> <br />With willing wantoness<br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Lick, He on She<br /> <br />Panting, Faster and Louder<br /> <br />Foot on Balls,<br /> <br />Hand on Head, She wants him<br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Horny hormones<br /> <br />Command constant caresses<br /> <br />Impervious to aging or pleasure<br /> <br />When coupled with pornographic virtues<br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Moan, Hisses, Hisses<br /> <br />He spits into her vagina<br /> <br />And pushes two fingers deep<br /> <br />And his eyes flicker with passion<br /> <br /> <br /> <br />He dominates with his demands<br /> <br />She accepts with her desire<br /> <br />Contractual banality<br /> <br />In the obscenity of sex<br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Lick, Lick, Lick<br /> <br />Umm, Umm, Ummmm, Aah, Aah, Aaaah<br /> <br />Foot Stroking, Lips Lipting,<br /> <br />Panting the labour of love<br /> <br /> <br /> <br />It is not enough to have war, violence and greed<br /> <br />We must silent stand<br /> <br />While new generations are shaped<br /> <br />By the values that make our world less habitable<br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Music tells the lovers move<br /> <br />He stands erect the pushes her there<br /> <br />The butterfly tattoo in prominent view<br /> <br />As her ass is no longer featureless<br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Not to speak badly against all man or even all men<br /> <br />It is to state the hormone-free obvious<br /> <br />To those that have seen true pornography<br /> <br />The rape and pillage of animals, the pollution of our world<br /> <br /> <br /> <br />The fireplace embraces the music<br /> <br />As we see a close up of her smile<br /> <br />With his hand guiding her to his cock<br /> <br />And her destiny of desire<br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Against the background of the inhumanity <br /> <br />We must also smile when confronted<br /> <br />With something that we must kneel to worship<br /> <br />Because size matters, especially to supersized Americans<br /> <br /> <br /> <br />As the music no longer fits the demands of passion<br /> <br />Moaning takes up the rhythm<br /><br />His heated hand demands her sycophancy<br /> <br />Allowing us to imagine loveless sex as natural<br /> <br /> <br /> <br />And to find our role<br /> <br />In sex and love and life<br /> <br />And in matters of world importance<br /> <br />Yet fail to see what is given and what is taken<br /> <br /> <br /> <br />mmmmMMMM, mmmmMMMM, mmmmMMMMMMMMMM<br /> <br />Lick, Lick, Lick, StrokeStroke, CockinMouth,Cock,Cock<br /> <br />Words, Heated, Fast. Oh, Yeah, Come on, Give it To Me<br /> <br />Cum, Succumb, music off, story on. Cycle cycles. ComeOn.<br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Kiss, Kiss, He leans back<br /> <br />Like a lead dog<br /> <br />After it has eaten and<br /> <br />And his sperm has seeded<br /> <br /> <br /> <br />The pornography of our age<br /> <br />Is swallowed by all that submit<br /> <br />To an unkind hand or a loveless embrace<br /> <br />As we comply to the larger lie<br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Yet between youth and desire<br /> <br />What matters more than size<br /> <br />In the life we bequeath<br /> <br />With a wink and a smileslammanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16612941519606299965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853703199132003719.post-10413055416311682152007-01-19T13:51:00.001-04:002007-01-19T13:51:56.039-04:00NoClockIn the 'middle of nowhere' Nevada <br />Where the world extends to the horizon<br />There is an unspoken beauty<br />That nobody has yet marketed<br /><br />The secret value is not shared <br />With those that fail to value anything <br />That they can not exploit<br />Or carry away<br /><br />In this inhospitable garden<br />The delights, although remarkable <br />Are only available to those searching <br />For no reward<br /><br />If there are distractions <br />That remind you of <br />Another life, another time<br />Then looking further means looking away <br /><br />Nothing much happens here except <br />a rush of people going somewhere else<br />Not much has changed here except <br />Man has lost touch with its beauty<br /><br />Casinos and whore houses <br />Now lure gold diggers<br />As Borros claim the wilderness <br />Abandoned by miners and prospectors<br /><br />Here there is no outside news to fear <br />There is nothing to do that can't wait <br />Here the rhythms of each day <br />Shower an indifferent land<br /><br />Here time is not measured <br />By the clock or by appointments <br />A refreshing prospective, like the first time <br />I held my tongue out to catch snow<br /> <br />For some it is the rebirth of thinking <br />About your life outside the rhythm of your life<br />For others it is the rebirth of wonder <br />About the timeless cycles of life and death<br /> <br />For me, no clock can erase <br />The memory of these moments <br />Time has witnessed this land for too long <br />To allow my life significance <br /><br />The brief moments that I feel connected <br />To a world beyond my reach<br />Are these times that I connect to the ticking <br />That keeps time of eternityslammanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16612941519606299965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853703199132003719.post-26286920747653911162007-01-18T21:04:00.000-04:002007-01-18T21:05:33.192-04:00DeathcampsA trailer hookup <br />With conveniences <br />Brought the illusion of comfort<br /><br />But being on the road <br />Destroyed the warmth of escape<br />And the joy of being somewhere else<br /> <br />We set out on our journey thinking <br />That our life was important<br />And that we were important too<br /><br />After a lifetime of following the beaten path <br />To the waiting rooms of Arizona<br /> <br />When you reach a certain image<br />You begin to understand <br />That death is the next big thing in your life <br />Then it hits you, like an diseased lover <br /><br />A waiting room is the place you spend the time<br />That you have left before you die<br /><br />No more Doctors anymore <br />Death camps for 'snow birds'<br />Where Still Life is acclaimed as Life still<br /> <br />Every year the regiment becomes routine<br />A game of cards with the boys <br />Or some gossip with the girls <br />And a trip to Wal-Mart to break the monotony<br /><br />Keeping track of time is deceptively easy<br />Friday night is the dance (until 10pm) <br />And Monday is the Blood Pressure Clinic <br /><br />Everything else is free time <br />Paid for by a lifetime <br />Of sacrifice and servitude <br /> <br />The 'hot tub' rules are clearly posted<br />Rubber pants are encouraged <br /> <br />No one under 18 is allowed <br />No one with diapers<br />No one with open sores or infections <br /> <br />Uniformity without uniforms <br />Is the casual order of the day <br />One day bleeds into another <br />With one season and not much reason <br /><br />Each rig in a tiny spot <br />Crowded by Neighbours on all sides <br />Surrounded by brick walls <br />And a 24 hour sentry at the gate <br /> <br />No lawns or green space <br />Mostly concrete parking spaces <br />The size of cemetery plots<br /> <br />Fear is a great time filler <br />Fear of everything on the news <br />And fear of everything different <br />Becomes the conversation of the day<br /> <br />The men always talk about their rig <br />Or about the sunny warm weather <br />And how cold it is back home <br /><br />The women always talk about pets and children <br />or about the sunny warm weather <br />and how cold it is back home<br /><br />A lingering smile is sometimes an invitation <br />And sometimes a judgment <br />Of a sterile life without effort or result<br /><br />It doesn’t tell the lies<br />A life has taken to escape<br />Or to be rooted in a home with wheels<br /><br />When hope was a possibility<br />And death didn’t have a lineupslammanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16612941519606299965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853703199132003719.post-39244393163888882322007-01-18T21:02:00.000-04:002008-12-10T04:57:54.944-04:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjebbRXKpUFOlscp5NsiRQ4WsKQWRW7WNj7Cad8l99kuRvQ4aTUtE9ie3LAYJdjoEq3bfoxt1fGOdeVCNWNXU9KYkLJJs2Krl65MCNWLjPz-oE-PmePGBcWt7DdpUzr5-TXLC7Ulia0UxL8/s1600-h/IMG_4146.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjebbRXKpUFOlscp5NsiRQ4WsKQWRW7WNj7Cad8l99kuRvQ4aTUtE9ie3LAYJdjoEq3bfoxt1fGOdeVCNWNXU9KYkLJJs2Krl65MCNWLjPz-oE-PmePGBcWt7DdpUzr5-TXLC7Ulia0UxL8/s320/IMG_4146.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5021541008074702482" /></a>slammanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16612941519606299965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853703199132003719.post-3911499210509303002007-01-18T16:54:00.000-04:002007-01-18T16:58:32.373-04:00Sultry windsI fell in love with strangers<br />now they sleep within me <br /><br />As I walk alone <br />with the shifting balance of time <br />falling to one side<br /><br />Yet today I lie beside you <br />with confidence in tommorrow <br />As turning metal chafes the wind <br />into a sirens call <br /> <br />I sense a moment <br />that stetches beyond reach <br />into the despair <br />of dreamy comforters <br /><br />This is one of those pure days <br />too hot to fight, or play <br />as the sultry winds rise, <br />like elapsed loves <br /><br />carressing the still depths <br />of my aching bones. <br />And the love I feel <br />for my lover<br /><br />Everything is taken <br />but not for grantedslammanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16612941519606299965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853703199132003719.post-15529230074284333232007-01-18T16:52:00.000-04:002007-01-18T16:53:20.058-04:00nature rulesSitting on the floor of Death Valley, <br /><br />An oasis in an america that seldom sanctions silence <br /><br />Reminds me of the first time I visited Sable Island<br /><br />An oasis in the North Atlantic that still silently serves <br /><br />where the harsh winter equals the harsh summer here<br /><br /><br /><br />life can’t escape time and nature<br /><br />and death isn’t hidden or sanitized<br /><br />the remnants of the harsh seasons and past generations <br /><br />lie about like scattered treasure<br /><br />and humble reminders of impermanence and vanity <br /><br /><br /><br />The salamander, snake and scorpion here and the wild horse and seal there<br /><br />live and die by nature’s rules<br /><br />in a land unfrequented by people and exacting in it’s harshness <br /><br />where each plant and animal can survive better than man<br /><br />but only man can survive the rigors of both<br /><br /><br /><br />As marram grass anchor the sands <br /><br />the snake outgrows his skin<br /><br />and man returns to dirt<br /><br />the insatiable soil and sea stands silent <br /><br />set for the next unsuspecting visitor<br /><br /><br />man has always viewed each natural wonder for richness and resource<br /><br />the path of one thing often leading to the destruction of another<br /><br />when only remnants of man remain, it will be plain<br /><br />That places like these should serve no person <br /><br />and remain silent testaments to the art of the great spiritslammanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16612941519606299965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853703199132003719.post-28114596616773766092007-01-18T13:07:00.000-04:002008-12-10T04:57:55.137-04:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz4w5mF_5-lL340PfliaygO9pg6RNg0NhjZWwkHDP2G2e8lz40uLSp3JFXDmaRFhjbrkphyphenhyphenBOK9JG-IvIQ8czj6Cfzc9FRn5Oe8_fpRN5kdSxFUg55r1AZB8VhilDuzvVqKiWFrbNDa_X-/s1600-h/IMG_9669.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz4w5mF_5-lL340PfliaygO9pg6RNg0NhjZWwkHDP2G2e8lz40uLSp3JFXDmaRFhjbrkphyphenhyphenBOK9JG-IvIQ8czj6Cfzc9FRn5Oe8_fpRN5kdSxFUg55r1AZB8VhilDuzvVqKiWFrbNDa_X-/s320/IMG_9669.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5021418661636308610" /></a>slammanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16612941519606299965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853703199132003719.post-35739842548196085962007-01-18T13:04:00.000-04:002007-01-18T13:06:19.141-04:00work will set you freeAs my son and I walked through the gates of the Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp I noticed the sign ‘work will set you free’. It was a cruel joke for the millions that suffered great indignities and impossible working conditions only to die a horrible death. <br /><br />I’m married to a German who is deeply affected by the inhumanity of her countrymen. She was born in 1961 but feels the guilt of being a German. The truth will never set her free.<br /><br />Americans and Canadians believe that they are free but they are controlled and manipulated from their birth to their death. The de-mystification of advertisements is a way to gain insight into the process that is used corporations to make individuals into predictable consumers and workers. <br /><br />The advertising industry is working hard to sell and it doesn’t matter to them what they sell. It could be war or a refrigerator. Slogans like "Just do it", "You deserve a break today", "Breakfast of champions” and “Where's the beef?” sell ideals that also sell products. The slogans used by the military also sell ideals; “Were looking for a few good men!” “The few the proud!” “Get an edge on life!” and “Army of One”.<br /><br />The really dark side of this manipulation is that it creates a standing army of ‘freedom fighters’ ready to defend the propaganda and lies. Freedom is the battle cry used to rally the troops regardless of the circumstance. It is a cowardly simplification that tries to convince others of the need to fight for a principle when the truth is often less of a motivation. <br /><br />The American public is controlled through jingoisms that tell them how to feel, think and act as part of a proud community. It is not ‘work will set you free’ but something equally as cruel. It could be “Give me liberty or give me death’ or ‘Home of the Brave, Land of the Free or "Operation Iraqi Freedom". <br /><br />In Canada, we are a bit more circumspect but equally as vulnerable. The slogan, "Aboriginal Pride", is used to recruit native people into the military. It plays on the fact that most Aboriginals are proud but that they also are struggling to find the dignity that was taken from them by the same government now promising to return it.<br /><br />The sign was also a cruel joke for their captors who once believed their own propaganda and became a superpower that mindlessly followed their leader into hell. They were blinded by power and greed and inhumanity. They were mostly ordinary people that were afraid to think or act differently than the oppressors in their life.<br /><br />It is not hard to imagine how German people were manipulated but it is, therefore, difficult to understand why today we allow manipulation and propaganda and lies from our political leaders. <br /><br />The United States allows industry, especially the powerful oil and gas industry, to protect its special interests even if it is against the well being of it’s citizens. The War in Iraq is the obvious example but their self interest has also hindered the scientific evidence validating the threat of global warming. <br /><br />The fact that Germany used it’s military prowess with such dire consequences should make us all more aware of the threat of super power. This concentration camp is a stark reminder of a highly effective indoctrination and propaganda campaign. <br /><br />This American corporate self interest and power of manipulation has created ‘a perfect storm’ for the country with more military strength than any country in history. It is a time for truth to set us free. If we can learn to think and act without slogans or signs in time to stop another catastophe, then this will be a fitting epitaph to those that have died here.slammanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16612941519606299965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853703199132003719.post-20248493632947900782007-01-17T19:01:00.000-04:002008-12-10T04:57:55.320-04:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf6oiJuNf7msmAcvjrT6tN1Edj2nb5BWL3BU4cDNBZhDzMFLtLgAjR_45qX5YbAmm4lgdMh7BDFmUvnSKSqbtWgPZiz30DQn9V8AntRQSojcO5g2Qc8bEAOQiUq2fUMQUSGMsRUAdNHF7C/s1600-h/IMG_3866.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf6oiJuNf7msmAcvjrT6tN1Edj2nb5BWL3BU4cDNBZhDzMFLtLgAjR_45qX5YbAmm4lgdMh7BDFmUvnSKSqbtWgPZiz30DQn9V8AntRQSojcO5g2Qc8bEAOQiUq2fUMQUSGMsRUAdNHF7C/s320/IMG_3866.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5021138848811941490" /></a>slammanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16612941519606299965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853703199132003719.post-6891763320600646852007-01-17T18:57:00.000-04:002007-01-17T19:00:27.814-04:00ArtificialRealityIt is a stormy day on the californian coast and while we are prepared to break camp at dawn, our neighbour is video taping a fire in an outdoor pit. <br /><br />The fire is taunted by the swirling winds as the cameraman locks his frame and watches his creation unfold. Later, I learn that he has a successful business selling video to nature-loving trendsetters in lala land that want to experience nature in the comfort of their living room. <br /><br />It reminds me of New York stores that use (or once used) homey smells, like fresh bread, to put customers in a good mood as they entered the store. It is probably the same idea behind the ubiquitous elevator music. <br /><br />Although a faint smell is more subliminal, like the early days of movies when they used to insert a few frames of suggestive images to prompt the audience into believing they just had an urge to buy whatever was being suggested. <br /> <br />We are easily manipulated because we are so predictable. A little suggestion here or there is all we need. Most of us extract memories from associations with our life experience yet don’t see the bigger picture hidden by our actual reality.<br /><br />My childhood smells and sights and sounds are probably the same as other kids in my childhood neighbourhood. We all remember the nice smells or the nice images of idealized family, especially in greeting-card season. Some of us, however, also remember the abuse of childhood through similar cues.<br /> <br />The fire is being blown by high winds now. The fire has lost the coziness associated with a gentle flame. I look to the fire starter in alarm but realized that he takes the matter too seriously to be distracted. <br /><br />As an adult you will never get permission from the childhood imprinted memories of parental authority. You must take it. <br />It is the most demanding aspect of growing up and the thing that hold us closest to the bosom. The emotional outrage that challenges your childhood source of security, food, shelter and love.<br /><br />We are all abused as children as the nature of child rearing is abusive. This doesn’t mean that your parents were mean, just ignorant of their own abuse. <br /><br />The society that profits from this fact condemns the child to repeat the sins of the parents. The exploitation of this repressed individual continues the abuse, through extending the inability of the victim to see the pattern of their life in a rehabilitative manner. <br /><br />The video taping is over. The fire has died. His excited, quick movements reveals that he knows he has something useful, something valuable. He understands the needs of his clients and the power of comfort and rage.<br /><br />The artificially of our lives is that we cannot grow up until we see our selves clearly and fully. We can not see the present struggle within us until we recognize our selves as victims.<br /><br />It is difficult for the child of abuse to know any other way to express love that what the adult offers. It is also difficult for us to see a world beyond what our authoritarian leaders offer. This is why we are all victims, even the victimizers. <br /><br />We all know that there are rules to life and each person must follow the artificial guidelines or face rejection by society. We also know that life without reality is meaningless. It is the nature of all terrorist acts that they come from pain and sorrow, as well as defiance.slammanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16612941519606299965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853703199132003719.post-89332847428523109932007-01-17T18:56:00.000-04:002008-12-10T04:57:55.548-04:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgelQMOlLJP0hKwjk7rXZa4Gz8YRr4JC1j1N-MBr8guPagOvgMphBU75R-pbtnKRw68vfFeogyByvqtoStcqoOGzE52EJtKII_bqQSdyEaiUsL0WtcMFVyhp_sccrDZ7HLr3hUpbrEt8Uay/s1600-h/IMG_4114.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgelQMOlLJP0hKwjk7rXZa4Gz8YRr4JC1j1N-MBr8guPagOvgMphBU75R-pbtnKRw68vfFeogyByvqtoStcqoOGzE52EJtKII_bqQSdyEaiUsL0WtcMFVyhp_sccrDZ7HLr3hUpbrEt8Uay/s320/IMG_4114.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5021137311213649506" /></a>slammanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16612941519606299965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853703199132003719.post-24696289515140764822007-01-17T18:50:00.000-04:002007-01-17T18:55:38.862-04:00It Just HappenedIt wasn’t something that I had planned. It just happened. After 16 years of marriage I had lost my way, again. This time I was too afraid to leave the stability of my ‘successful’ life so I lied and cheated on my family, as well as myself. <br /><br />I had become a prisoner that had build his own prison. I knew that I had a lot to be grateful for – a rewarding career, five beautiful children from two marriages, a nice home in a nice neighbourhood and a wife who provided a six figure income – but I felt alone and and taken for granted. <br /><br />I had difficulty expressing myself and I would try to please others at the expense of my own needs. It was the second time that I felt I was wasting my life living someone elses life. This recognition that this was pattern woke me up. I realized that I was sleep-walking through my own life.<br /> <br />My crisis led to self reflection and an admission that my outwardly successful life didn’t provide me with fulfillment or happiness. My children were my true joy but even they couldn’t make me whole. <br /><br />At first, my fight to ignore my wake-up call led me to a dis-connected life. I pretented to be happy but I had given up on my search for my authentic self and was miserable. <br /><br />Then I met an angel, Corinna, who gave me the courage of my convictions. I knew that it was now or never and, so, within three months we started a new life together.<br /><br />We discovered each other late in life and with her support and love I’ve spent the last 5 years recovering from my ego-driven, priviledged life. She was the only one who heard my screams and understood that I needed time to discover my self.<br /><br />In March of 2006, my wife and I went to an Iraq War Protest in New York during the last week of our 7 month trip through america in an airstream trailer.<br /> <br />I went to the protest because I believed that the social and economic cost of the Iraq war will impact the quality my life and turn our society into a totalitarian state. I had hoped that the NY protest would be a powerful anti-war message that it would capture the despair and hopelessness that we had experienced in our travels. Instead, I found that the peace movement is asleep and our press is silent. <br /><br />The protest was a fun carnaval-like family event. There were some memorable signs and slogans, festive costumes and theatrical skits, music, food and sunshine.<br /><br />The main stream media didn’t cover the event even though with 350,000 protesters, it was the largest Iraq War protest to date. <br /><br />The festive atmosphere almost felt the same as when I last protested US foreign policy in New York. It was over twenty years ago on a sunny day in June, with a million others. <br /><br />But it didn’t because many things have changed in twenty years, especially in this city. <br /><br />The world has also changed, in a predictably self-destructive way that has created both a problem and a denial of the problem. I have also changed. I see the reality as a mature adult, not a wide-eyed young man.<br /><br />I had all the answers when I was 20 but forgot the questions my the time I was 30. Now, in my mid-fifties, it could see some perspective.<br /><br />The message of the March protest felt controlled to my seasoned cynicism. ‘Peace and justice’ stopped abruptly at the police barricates and video cameras. <br /><br />The mainstream media was not interested in the event – one picture with a short tag line covered the event for the NY Times. Some of the other papers, like the Post, had bigger pictures but not much more insight into the event.<br /><br />New Yorkers were annoyed by the inconvenience and the unnecessary reminder that NY is on the front lines of a new war with no front lines. <br /><br />I also felt that the organizers had to be creative to get such a large turnout and that they made a deal with unions to get a high membership turnout. <br /><br />It was discouraging to see a protest with so much energy and hopefulness yet with so little impact. <br /><br />It was dishearting to see that the participants and the organizers still couldn’t reach beyond the already converted masses at a time when we are sleepwalking. <br /><br />We have no control over our lives because we lack the maturity to confront our enslaved selves .<br /><br />The peace movement fails to convince others of the importance of Eisenhower’s words and find a way to challenge today’s wisdom and tommorow’s prognosis. <br /><br />It is like going to a funeral while the soon-to-be deceased is still alive and slowly moving towards their death in equal strides of enthusiasm and righteousness. It is an entralling image but the real metaphoric bouquet lies bury in the fact that we are all attending the funeral as paying customers, not mourners.<br /><br />It was this image that struck the despair deeply embedded within my consciousness. <br /><br />Although we had attended other protests and interviewed many disillusioned patriots, this was the first time during our travels that I realized how invested we all have become in the dreams of others and how much my past hasn’t reflected my dreams.slammanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16612941519606299965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853703199132003719.post-18613922000535603112007-01-17T18:44:00.000-04:002008-12-10T04:57:55.707-04:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmdyF_KMsY9mjSVsy2Kyz2ojitKtOAeePGKfc_RI7XegHswTDZVCLPqHOK6j8NjVb4ww1zL67AxWcQvOp0u-gEN6UoQXpWQiZ6EMj3uL7Z7uxZkFjCt8nW4WpZJaPW2XRWua145G0rHvZm/s1600-h/IMG_4152.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmdyF_KMsY9mjSVsy2Kyz2ojitKtOAeePGKfc_RI7XegHswTDZVCLPqHOK6j8NjVb4ww1zL67AxWcQvOp0u-gEN6UoQXpWQiZ6EMj3uL7Z7uxZkFjCt8nW4WpZJaPW2XRWua145G0rHvZm/s320/IMG_4152.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5021134867377258066" /></a>slammanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16612941519606299965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853703199132003719.post-27949545452954353422007-01-17T09:09:00.000-04:002007-01-17T09:11:41.616-04:00LostLagoonFoundMy first visit to her next new city, now a country apart <br />Only today do we have enough time to waste <br />On a serendipitious expedition to find the lost lagoon<br />Although I secretely wonder how anything lost could be on a map<br /><br />Florentine crepes and chocolate strawberries apetize our path<br />Through the week’s first sunshine on savory robson street <br />Flooding our senses with sensible senselessness<br />And renegotiating reminders of all matters, now trivial<br /><br />I self-suprisingly suggest roller skating <br />prompting my youthful relative to exaggerate my relative decrepitness <br />my dexterity long forgotten, like the distance once between us<br />we engage in a playful dance of the ages, the aged and the ageless <br /><br />Until we find ourselves Enroute to nowheres <br />in a quest for Sunday memories<br />Embracing each upright encountered, <br />we gleefully wobbled like newborn foals <br /><br />Then recovered enough bravado to not turn back or back down<br />Our stroll becomes a 12km test that finishes on uneven sidewalks<br />Although our newfound courage is clouded by disapproval and laughter<br />we are too consumed by our accomplishment to let others invade<br /><br />like all seditious travels the return is as foreign as the start<br />freedom that we never knew existed when we were unharnessed<br />somehow connected another memory of separation, not abandonment<br />the lost lagoon of our love found not wanting<br /><br />Even though I secretly wonder how anything lost can be found<br />Her life now evolves Less around my fatherhood, <br />As my life evolves less around her childhood<br />It is only normal I reason to myself<br /><br />On the map of my statistically anespectic uncle role<br />As we continue to walk with renewed respect for each other<br />And the comfort and safetly of shoes<br />That have been walked in for a long time<br /><br />With total disregard to their mission or purpose<br />Other than to be there when needed <br />Whenever called upon for a quick stroll <br />Or a journey across the country<br /><br />After veggie dogs and some photography at a war protest <br />we retrace our steps, soon joined by evacuees from still life<br />At the crowded turnstill, my daughter infiltrated the front<br />Knowing when the gates open that the race for dignity ended<br /><br />A prime seat saved for one, promised for another<br />Became the line crossed by each father<br />I wanted my child’s offering<br />He wanted to offer his child<br /><br />Words hurriedly measured frality and committment<br />While battering the seemingly uncaring passengers<br />As our daughters stood as somber sentinels <br />Witnessing male rage and their future modeled<br /><br />My peaceful self saw his true nature <br />And understood the protection-level male primate <br />His anger transparent and ridiculous <br />Yet released with abandon in an unstoppable procession <br /><br />My coolness inflamed his anger<br />His crudeness offended my sense of scale and theatre<br />Each position dismissed by righteousness<br />I watched his daughters illusions evaporate<br /><br />As stolen stares absorbed the exchange <br />Searching for signs of flosum <br />For some as yet unplanned dinner party<br />My daughter quickly, intelligently offer her seat <br /><br />As our sea bus paused waiting for strays<br />My passive/aggressive humour met his colourful assault<br />The primal scream held all captive<br />When a challenge to step outside was ridiculed<br /><br />As we competed for false pride and dignity<br />Long after the seat was given up<br />the cry for justice, as in all wars, was unjust<br />To those securely on safe shores of childhood<br /><br />What is right when it must be taken my might<br />What is fright if it brings no delight<br />It began with rage and indignation<br />And ended with an apology<br /><br />But no understanding or reflection<br />Just the futility of making a smiling man angry<br />Unable to dissolve habitual patterns<br />Or provide any path to peace <br /><br />An adult view of a childhood fear of an adult view<br />Resigned to the familiar<br />With the suspected truths of youth<br />Another memory not wired for civil realization<br /><br />I secretely wonder if the lagoon can be found on foot<br />My fatherly self swells with painful wisdom <br />With lifes design beyond by reach<br />I accept that I am without the words to teachslammanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16612941519606299965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853703199132003719.post-73677970599260939432007-01-16T23:11:00.000-04:002007-01-16T23:12:01.932-04:00InsideOutThe outside world enters <br />even after much abuse <br />It still turns me inside out <br /> <br />She reaches out to me <br />in a "I don't want to be hurt" manner <br />that easily reads as insincere <br /> <br />Like a fishermen trawling <br />prepared to throw away everything <br />but the exact fish they seek <br /><br />Am I the one <br />that got away <br />or the prize?<br /> <br />Now, after years of separation <br />she wants to reconcile <br />our differences <br /><br />She is more her Mother <br />now than ever <br />I am more me <br /><br />We’ve grown accustomed <br />to not trying<br />how can we find trust again<br /><br />Or is my age <br />and her rage <br />that keeps us apartslammanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16612941519606299965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853703199132003719.post-53574073854332772442007-01-16T22:09:00.000-04:002007-01-16T22:12:04.628-04:00beach blanket burialabove, seductive sounds insulate the hastened steps <br />below, childhood rainbows reek of old lovers <br />here nature lures the unsuspecting and the ill gotten<br />as all the important things are remembered for a day <br /><br /><br />nearly imperceptible processions takes form<br />a cacophony emerges from the unnatural inundation<br />as all claim their turf and begin to circle <br />like a zamboni before the big game<br /><br /><br />a festive day after a mindless week of toil<br />mostly suspicious and poor<br />not yet tempted to kill for the privileged life<br />anxiously waiting the stolen promises<br /><br /> <br />a fleeting cenotaph sprinkles the shifting sands <br />of flag-draped caskets and white crosses <br />each mourner carries their own terrorist thoughts<br />desperate to make sense of patriotism<br /><br /><br />the palpable smog and pollution idles<br />while the righteous hang onto hope<br />in order to breathe fresh air another sunny day<br />fearful that the escape is futile <br /><br />hollywood disneyfies californian beaches <br />with freshness and freedom for all<br />nature and youth are taken for granted<br />now they are measured by those pornographic images<br /><br /><br />many seek understanding for their plight<br />more simply want to forget<br />in a land dying for democracy <br />a day of rest is fought on many shores <br /><br /><br />the kingdom has reached it’s pinnacle<br />yet nobody noticed yet<br />like the body, ignoring the early signs <br />long enough for the brain to announce deathslammanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16612941519606299965noreply@blogger.com0