ModPo

If blood will flow when flesh and steel are one, drying in the colour of the evening sun - tomorrow's rain will wash the stains away, but something in our minds will always stay -- Perhaps this final act was meant to clinch a lifetime's argument, that nothing comes from violence and nothing ever could - for all those born beneath an angry star lest we forget how fragile we are -- On and on the rain will fall like tears from a star, On and on the rain will say how fragile we are.

Let those who are in favour with their stars  Of public honour and proud titles boast,  Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,  Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.  Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread  But as the marigold at the sun's eye,  And in themselves their pride lies buried, For at a frown they in their glory die.  The painful warrior famoused for fight,  After a thousand victories once foil'd,  Is from the book of honour razed quite,  And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:    Then happy I, that love and am beloved     Where I may not remove nor be removed.

I make my morning walk today, it is the summer solstice, after all – the first morning of summer, the longest day, the shortest night – But what good is that, I ask – a short night is not worth a plug nickel  (to use my father’s vernacular) – we love the night, we make love at night, sweet love we hope  will never end, an endless night of love – we dream pure dreams  at night, and pray  those dreams come true – we plot and strategize  our plan of attack  in the wee hours,  at the midnight hour,  at night.   Of what value, then, is a short night?  Crossing the bridge,  I shift my timepiece  from 88five to 103five, “traffic and weather  together, on the eights,” and the neurons start to fire in rapid succession… the tide is high –  portions of the shore  normally exposed are submerged.   I pause and watch as the crawling critters  flee the flood and seek  refuge on higher ground, inching closer and c...

the second infusion is always smoother -- can't do that with coffee, a one-trick pony that gallops quickly to your main vein. I was once in love with a poetry lady but her best poems got lost in a flood and I regret being so self-obsessed all those years -- all those trying years. 6/15/2013

I watched a squirrel and a sparrow play a friendly game of tag last Thursday in Washington Circle.  The squirrel ran a zig-zag pattern across the green, trying to evade the sparrow – but the sparrow compensated for the zig-zag by flying up on the zig and back down on the zag, lightly pecking the squirrel on each descent -- I looked at the lady next to me, waiting for the green light to cross. “Did you see that?"  She smiled. She laughed. “Yes! I saw it! They were having some fun.” We crossed on green and our paths diverged. She zigged.  I zagged.

they clipped my wings to ground me -- but i remembered (from my childhood) how to fly - winglessly --

  Baghdad nights   It was a long-assed day. We had dinner at the DFAC and returned to the office. Finally knocked off around 9pm.   The mandatory protective vest weighs heavy on my already tired shoulders – while the strap connecting the two sides cuts into my waist as I try to balance their weight on my already tired hips -   I lumber on to my tin-foil hootch in Embassy Estates on the the Republican Palace grounds…   It is late.   I shower and turn on Fox News, the only station that works. “In California today, Senator Clinton said President Johnson was more important than Dr. King to getting the Civil Rights Bill passed.”   Aw shyt.   White House better stay white.   I fall asleep reading “Certain to Win,” one of those Army War College texts from the Strategic Studies program I am falling further and further behind in with each passing Baghdad day.   2am.   The witching hour. Time for targe...