City of Legends / William F. DeVault

Have word from a few friends overseas (and a few hardy souls who stayed up late enough last night to make it into this morning) of their exploits for Guerrilla Poetry Day.  Bravo and Brava, all around.

I headed out this morning, having made some last minute changes to my itinerary and splitting it into two "waves".

Read "couplet/passion" to the order-taker at the McDonalds in Sterling, Virginia.  I think she was confused.

Did "goblins in my attic" and "My Electric Lady" in front of the American Psychological Association building in Washington, DC.  A street person yelled at me, something about Jesus.

Then, made a ride up to Embassy Row to do "Queen Protea" in front of the South African Embassy.

Later today, more madness.  Madness?  This is Poetry!

Note to long time readers:  There will be no poems from the Panther Cycles in loveaddict.

In at least a half dozen countries, and perhaps a dozen states, there will be Guerrilla Poetry attacks next Sunday, July 5, 2009.

Just call me Che.

I was struck to a large extent by the contrasts in the coverage of the deaths, yesterday, of Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett.

For Farrah, there was a sense of respect, owing to her battle with cancer and the way she had ridden it out.  There was a sense of mourning for and with her, for all intents and purposes, husband, Ryan O’Neal.  Even the subject of their son, Redmond, and his situation, not being able to be with her as she died because he was in jail on non-violent drug charges, was handled largely with taste and tact.

For Michael Jackson, there was a ghoulish, perverse sort of feeding frenzy.  Tabloid shows from TMZ to Nancy Grace (let’s face it, the woman is vile) as well as all major and minor networks played conduit for the scum of the earth as they crawled from the sewers to recount how they had once had dinner in the same city as Michael and were now writing a book which you can buy through their website.

I had a moment’s hope that North Korea would go ahead and launch, just to give us a break in the coverage.

Don’t get me wrong, I recognize Michael Jackson’s life had its tragic elements and that he was a very screwed up and screwed over individual.  Maybe not as screwed up and screwed over as any of the MILLIONS OF HOMELESS PEOPLE, DRUG ADDICTS, SEXUAL ABUSE VICTIMS AND POLITICAL PRISONERS around the world, but we’re Americans, and we love a freak show to take our mind off the fact that there are RIOTS IN IRAN, A WAR IN IRAQ AND AFGHANISTAN WHERE OUR SONS AND DAUGHTERS ARE FIGHTING AND DYING, AIDS IS SAVAGING THOSE PARTS OF AFRICA NOT BEING CONSUMED BY GENOCIDAL WARS THAT KILL HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS and, of course, Spencer Pratt is still on television.

We are a nation, a species, a planet, perhaps, that has sometimes strange needs to be edified by the notion that even multi-millionaires who can have anyone and anything they want still die.  It reinforces our sense of vindication when are houses are foreclosed on and we are laid off that even with all that fame and all that money, they still have heartaches, heartbreaks and eventually die.

Jesus said to let the dead bury the dead, that there was more important work to be done than dwelling in the past.  Most certainly He was right and perhaps the difference in the level of dignity with which these two pivotal celebrities will be mourned will teach us something.  Remember that neither of these individuals ruled a nation, quelled a war or cured a disease.  Those sort of people, the people who really accomplish the celebration-worthy stuff, are really deified as we do with pop icons.

Farrah, I will miss your smile and beauty (and I, for one, like Saturn 3, and not just for your fleeting nude scene).  Michael, man, I wish you’d gotten your head together.  You gave us some pretty indelible images and memorable music.  Thank you.  Both of you.

Now about the Sudan, North Korea, Iran, Iraq and impending Swine Flu pandemic…

I have been called to task by friends both within and without the faith of Islam for my recent work "more than five pillars".  I should like to address that criticism.

The poem is not an attack on Islam or those who hold to that Abrahamic faith.  It is a statement that there are those who use it as a facade for their own political and social agendae, just as there are people of the Jewish, Christian and other religious spheres who abuse their theological labels and hypocritically draw to points and purposes outside of or contrary to the faith they claim to adhere to.

It just so happens that, in light of the cruel and self-serving violence fomented by the rulers in Iran, in the name of Allah and the prophet, they have blasphemed mightily, turning their back of the principles of their faith in the name of political expediency to hold onto power.

Don’t worry, they aren’t the only ones who are getting taken to the woodshed out behind the Sapphire Palace.  A similar work involving the Ten Commandments is on the boards, as is a series of works built on almost every other major world religion.

Let’s be clear on this:  I am not anti-religion, an agnotic or an atheist.  I am Quaker, and as such feel a certain disdain for the onion layers of social courtesies and etiquettes that have often over-written the faiths people think they are following.  Christians are not supposed to take up arms to kill, for instance, even in the name of king and country. 

The point is that so many people are alienated from honest questing for truth because of all the hypocrisy they see, everyday, in people who trumpet their religions.  I have my failings, not half as bad as some people believe, but I am far from sainthood.  I do not pass lies as truth, I do not arm people and tell them to kill in the name of God and I do not think you can place a price of a person’s life, integrity or virtue.

In the next few days, and perhaps for the rest of my life and beyond, there will be people criticizing me for what I have written and will write.  I can live with that, as the alternatives are to accept the status quo or to give up, neither of which seems particularly tasty.

Besides, I am in no hurry to die.  I know at least 4 different women who have sworn they will be waiting for me on the other side, to be with me throughout eternity.  I don’t want to be in the room when those four cross paths.  And who says we’re following the same paths?  But that’s a different poetic zone, to be considered later.

Channeling the song…

Since there is an unwholesome fascination with my relationship life, let me just give my own tabloid bulletin.

Nothing to report.  There are days I question whether I am capable of having another relationship, but I know that is just self-pitying bullshit.  I have the feelings, feel the tug, know the euphoria, I am just keeping the Chariot of Apollo in check until I think I have found the right person and get a sense of mutual attraction and validity.

And yes, there is or are valid candidates already to that throne.

Let me start on an up note by wishing my Father, and all Fathers everywhere, a joyous and fulfilling Fathers’ Day.

Dad, for better or for worse, you had a great hand in steering me to what and where I am, and I am most grateful.

On a down note, by now you may have seen the video or pictures of "Neda", the young woman killed (just one of many) in the election protests in Iran.  I wrote a poem of and for her, which I posted to the Amomancer blog.  If you wish to share it with others, be my guest.  Her Father, no doubt, is in more pain than I hope to even imagine in my own life, but her sacrifice serves purpose and I hope he feels, in time, great pride in her.

elegy for Neda

Still bound to be some tweaking, but here it is, photo of and by Liza Lorraine.  Book due in August, 2009.

After many false starts and a little negotiating, I have finally settled on the cover shot for my next book, loveaddict.  It is a shot that regular visitors to this blog and the Amomancer blog know all too well, by and featuring Brazilian photographer, friend and occasional muse Liza Lorraine:

There will be some adjustments made to fit the cover, etc, but I have always been a bit fascinated by the photo (and the photographer) and am delighted she agreed to partner with me on this venture.  This takes a load off my shoulders and I can now focus on the other 9,999 details of the book.

I am sitting here, doing a breakdown on an RFP (Request for Proposal) for a contract bid with the Army (I will say no more) and flipping between frames of reference.  I keep getting crude and suggestive text messages from an old friend.  I tell her it’s foreplay, she tells me I wish it was.  I laugh.

I check the news.  Falsely indignant political figures and airbrushed movie starlets still get more press than the brave men and women fighting and dying overseas.  That’s something I can get indignant about.

A few more people have contacted me to get involved with Guerrilla Poetry Day (GPD).  Yay!  Hold it.

Just had to answer another crude, sexually suggestive text message.  Some people need to get a life.  Ideally their own.

When I get home in about an hour, after stopping by the local 7-11 to see if the new Rolling Stone with Adam Lambert on the cover is out (not for me, but my ex has been looking for a copy and I don’t believe in treating people as poorly as they treat you.  Some guy a while back said something about do good even to those who do evil to you.  An attitude in short supply in this world, but still something I try to embrace.)  The kid has pipes, although he needs to pick his projects better than that marginally atrocious musical of the Ten Commandments with Val Kilmer as Moses.  I want to meet the lyricist in a dark alley.

Looking at the label of my SoBe LifeWater, I have to admit I did not know there was a daily requirement for chromium.  Hmm.  Maybe I need more of that.  Can you get it from eating old cars?

Whn I get home I am going to mow the lawn with the boys.  It is getting pretty Amazonian jungle due to the massive amounts of rain we’ve been getting.  Then I will collapse and work on some new project material for the CD, the book and GPD.  I may try and call my friend Alan, whom I can never get on the phone and who never makes long distance calls himself so I haven’t actually spoken to him since…er…since December of 2007.  I kid you not.  Last time I lost touch with him I didn’t reconnect for 32 years.  I kid you not.  I actually thought he was dead.

I often use cues to manipulate my moods.  Usually to amp myself up or feel happier.  Music, movie scenes, etc.

But, when I want to cry?  Remember "Six Feet Under"?  Well, the finale slays me, every time.  Here’s the last ten minutes…