My nightmares quench their thirst in the bowels of misery,
To silence the pains of my color, my fears denounce death.
I will end in the shadowed silence of a dilapidated cemetery,
Yet I chase the glory of these fleeting vanities built on thrones of dust.
My wounds torment me before the flattery of these bloodthirsty scavengers,
I anesthetize my demons with the hard drugs of my ordeal,
It is suffering that grants me the clearest insight.
I hunt immortality in an ocean of transgressions.
I am a freedom-drunk guerrilla; to be a slave is a curse.
My scars tell the penitence of my blessings.
The devil swore me loyalty, yet he already bore the taste of betrayal.
Since then, I walk alone through the ruins of my hell, with desolation as my only home.
I adore the darkness; it whispers what light ignores.
In the sweetness of terror, I found a refuge the world demonizes.
I do not fear dying, but living in the cramped confines of a morbid existence.
I drag my coffin along the highway of dissent, pockets full of nails.
The angel of death lashes my traumatized soul with the cowardice of suicide.
Collapsed gingerbread house
arsonist gave it an ounce;
Four walls no emotion,
life without instruction;
Guerrilla ends a frosting douse.
Though her life span was less than a week,
The Pink Lady of Malibu was a glorious sight,
Never to be forgotten by anyone who was lucky enough to see her
The daring escapade spanned six months
Timing her final foray on the cliff to coincide with the full moon
On October 31st, 1966, seemingly overnight
there appeared on the sheer cliff wall
above the Malibu Canyon tunnel
a 60-foot-tall painting of a nude woman
gamboling freely with her black hair flowing behind her
and a fistful of yellow lilies
No one knew who had created this guerrilla artwork
but scandalized Los Angeles County officials
Fearing traffic congestion and looky-loo accidents
They had decided she couldn't stay
House paint and a giant stencil to accomplish the artwork
The paint had soaked into the porous rock
Finding it impossible to remove her
The county ended up covering the Pink Lady in beige paint
We heard of the ambush
And we remembered George Bush:
A Radio-Announced Ambush
And we made for some bush,
The man in my front continually push …
One hell of a Lazing Runner
While my heart was Bunsen Burner.
Quick was I to condemn his speed,
Ready to it with fuel feed,
Sure survival was The Rare,
Whenever it became Guerrilla Warfare,
Smart shooters picking off their targets
While The pursued chiefly his teeth grits,
Doing the thing like a Mad March Hare
And choosing to not a lot care.
The man in my front was A Lousy Escapee,
Running and you’d think An Amputee.
Hand, each one has its...
My hand has its way of being,
the hand of the world has its own way...
My hand shakes hands,
for the colloquy...
The opposing hand does not do it out of envy...
A hand caresses your beloved,
the other hand takes a gun
as a guerrilla...
my hand smoothes the cat,
the other hand stirs a wild wolf...
My hand gives spiritual passes,
the other hand does weirdness
in wiggles...
My hand writes freedom,
the other hand incapable of greatness
imprisonment doodle...
My hand dares to conceive paradise,
the other dreams hell...
My hand tries to swim
to save itself...
The other hand too...
In danger, two hands join each other
facing the possibility of death,
join hands in common... !
When you and I were young, darlin’,
We thought we knew the score,
Played politics and lovers’ games,
Our own guerrilla war.
Remember how it thrilled us, babe,
Remember how it stung.
We hurt each other tenderly
When you and I were young.
When you and I, when you and I,
When you and I were young.
When you and I made love, darlin',
We’d lick each other’s wounds.
On tangled sheets we’d offer up
Our faith among the ruins.
Your hand was always in my pocket,
My fingers in your glove.
We used each other shamelessly
When you and I made love.
When you and I, when you and I,
When you and I made love.
When you and I had time, darlin’,
The time was never right.
We’d put it off and put it off
And put it off all night
While you pursued your own demons
As I chased after mine,
Forgetting what we’d promised, babe,
When you and I had time.
When you and I, when you and I,
When you and I had time.
Priscilla - alone in her villa
Was visited by a guerrilla
Although she was frail
She fought tooth and nail
To protect her bean of vanilla*
* My daughter asked me to send
her some fresh Hawaiian vanilla
beans; talk about sticker shock!
My house is perpetually full of stuff I do not need.
Diapers? No.
Hair bands? No.
Pens that do not work. No.
Patterns? Who sews these days?
Material? No.
Stuff I have dragged in myself after dragging other stuff out.
Like stuff.
Stuff so similar, it was silly to exchange it.
I am looking at an Easter banner that I took down and put on
The TV set last April or March.
I did not even see it again until
This second, and it is November.
My piles of stuff is staring at me.
Glaring at me.
Laughing at me.
If I had to identify what was in the pile in the corner
Right now or a guerrilla would machine-gun me, I would be murdered.
I would be luck to guess two things in that pile.
Death might be preferable to
Cleaning out this stuff.
In The House Of Dengbej
Three sisters sit
Each in crimson velvet
And veiled hair.
Relate tales
Of interracial love.
Of Armenian Boys and Kurdish Gals.
This is a town of
Cobbled streets and redbrick houses of the ancient Lore.
Diyarbakir, Sur.
Fidus Achates: an Armenian gal and a Kurdish girl
Are no more. The ghosts of the Armenians; translucent
Still linger on the mud walls.
Poplar trees cast melancholy shadows
Over the last remaining residents
Mostly Kurdish
Soon to join the ghosts of the Armenians?
Still the guerrilla resistance continues.
Behind the soiled curtains of white lace.
Death is a banality. Blood spills on baked soil
Daily.
Freedom is a distant land to be conquered.
Wine making and relating tales of ancient lores
And the allure. Lured the youth to Sur.
The House of Dengbej in Sur.
Finest stories are spun like sugar
And spread from tongue to tongue.
* Sur was once a very cosmopolitan town with a harmonious community. It is now a town of bitter conflict between the Turks and Kurdish.
MANOGARY
Low is the road most traveled
Treachery and chicanery
There is no dirty pool in a back alley brawl
Or guerrilla warfare
Or war at all.
Or love for that matter.
Matter of fact.
We all suffer somehow
All pride must eventually fall.
You get for what you have asked.
We are the freedom fighters, fighting for survival
Hopefully the next generation follow the same road in their arrival
I wanna make a list of the real ones
Certified legends the true dons
Nelson Mandela led the struggle against apartheid and became president
Heritage of a small village, that’d part of our resident
Marcus Garvey, leader of the Pan-African movement
Wanted us to go back to Africa for improvement
Malcolm X was a warrior in the fight against racism
But people feel he was some type of convict because he went to prison
Martin Luther King brought equal and civil rights for his brothers and sisters
Walked 54 miles for freedom, must have had blisters
Che Guevara was part of the Cuban revolution
To sought out the madness Guerrilla warfare solution
Muhammad Ali, the greatest boxer to step in the ring
Was against war, that’s why I call him king
Fellow freedom fighters, fight for your freedom.
my noble efforts seem to be in vain
my sweat army fights a huge enemy
In every ugly battle we take strain
battle weary troops are my penalty
my weak will my only soft weaponry
defiant kilojoules taunt my sweat troops
they gather themselves in organized groups
their guerrilla warfare holds the war reign
a sneaky snack attack caused a big whoops
now I have to rethink my whole campaign
-19 July-
Lessons learned
by first the Chinese
then France
and the Unites States...
Never underestimate
unconventional units
or guerrilla warfare
supported by regular units...
Dien Bien Phu
Bernard B. Fall
called it
"Hell in a very small place"
soon after 1954
America walked the "Street without joy"
The Viet Minh
attacking satellite positions
seven in all
such names as
"Huguette"
"Claudine"
"Gabrielle"
"Beatrice"
General Giap
former school teacher
later besieged Khe Sanh
saved only by B-52 air strikes...
What men will die for
makes less sense
as time goes by...
Perhaps it is
the unspoken honor
among comrades
and brothers...
Still they soldiered on
60 years has passed
and around the world
the madness has grown...
~ ~ ~ ~
They prepared a squad to ambush
On hairy forests of a human head.
Things were well planned to push
The army on the murky skin-bed.
Army of Lice marched on warily
Towards the places assigned to all.
They had to peep everywhere slyly
Lest they are knocked by Fingernail.
The Larger ones are the commanders
Of this momentous Guerrilla attack.
Smalls will follow forgetting Slanders
And battle with guts, work in Pack.
They furrow the skin to make Trench
So that they can fight and stay secure.
Some would plunge in them to drench
Themselves in the blood for adventure.
These Lice have a Mission to fulfill.
They make slices of nice hair with
Their teeth of Vice like stinging Eel
Or Mice, with ruthless urge beneath.
They have attacked on the Two-footed,
Some would hide and ambush at once,
Some hang by hair until it’s uprooted.
All they do is sip, sting, cling, flounce.
Rag tag,
A filled mag,
Locked and loaded,
Completely not goaded.
We are the resistance,
Constantly here for assistance.
We hunt tyrants and their cronies,
To replace these phonies.
This is the shadow authority.
Behind the scenes, we hold superiority.
We are the majority.
Victory is our priority.
Rag tag, we are masked.
Until we finish our task.
Before then, our identities are secrets,
Communicate only through leaflets.
But the day will soon be here,
Once our victory is made clear,
We will remove the rags,
And raise the flags.
For now, we are faceless.
We are everyone,
We are no one.
And once the enemy is baseless,
Our identity will be made clear:
We are you
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