Tubal Uriah "Buzz" Butler fought for workers labored in the oil
to highlight the right of safety while in the night they quietly toil
Trinidad and Tobago celebrates his legacy with a public holiday
for his bravery and patriotic journey having paved the way
Every year the labor movements unite and march the street
that the ruling party will understand what demands they must meet
For the brave workers who lost their lives to have them recognized
the day is celebrated with everyone whom are all unionized
A pebble is a mountain.
A snowflake is a blizzard.
To an ant.
A small branch, a perch.
A single tubal flower a burst
Of energy to a hummingbird.
A blade of grass, a shelter to hide,
For a grasshopper
A mattress on the floor, a lovely place to rest
For a homeless child who huddled in a box
Knees to chest.
A puddle is an ocean to a bee,
Pollinating the earth, from sea to sea.
Perspective is ours; we can own that word
Define it as good, define it as bad
Either way, gratitude is a feeling
We all have
CONTENTS (…may have settled during shipping and handling.)
Preface by C. Günter Marrow
Prologue by Zoltan Goliath
Cycle I. FAITH HEALERS & HEARSAY MIRACLES
Ghosts from the Well
Hard Lessons
Chest of Drawers
Cycle II. RAW PERFUME
Social Insecurity
Rogues’ Gallery
Business as Usual
Cycle III. ORDINARY FAIRY TALES
Dry Stone Wall
A House with No Servants
Let’s Put this Night to Sleep
Cycle IV. FLOTSAM & JETSAM
Sausage, Head Cheese & Scrapple
The Institution
Should the Levee Ever Break
Cycle V. SCARS OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE
Light at the End of Tunnel Hill
Light Keeper’s Testament
Light in a Quiet Room
Epilogue by Otis Trench
Premiered at The Break Horse Inn, Imperial Beach, CA – 12/9/1996
ACT 1
Tubal Cain’s Bedtime Chant
Haircut
Ballad of an Honest Man
Ingratitudes
Loaves and Fishes
Glory of the Word
ACT 2
It Was I
The Consequence of WE
Rachel’s Kitchen
Bedouin Eyes
Buthaynah Adara
Egyptian Cotton
ACT 3
Baby Blues
Play Date
Herself
Sky Full of Rain
Pretty Little Engine
Forest Lullaby
Wee Small Hours
When I’m Just a Memory
We are all but dreams of God,
Composed of flesh and bone,
Illuminating darkness with our senses.
Dimensionless infinity
Gets cold when you’re alone,
So the Muse of our existence
Pulls the blanket to Her chin.
And She dreams of little puppies.
And She dreams of falling down.
And She dreams about Her Mommy baking cookies.
And She’s frightened by the bogeyman
That hides beneath Her bed,
But comforted by teddy bears and dollies.
We are all but dreams of God,
Together and apart,
Confined within this bubble of perception,
For time and space are finite things
Through which The Sleeper’s art
Confides the inspiration
For the shimmer and the spin.
And it shimmers on the playground.
And it spins around the sun.
And it’s chased about by scientists and schoolboys
And it lights upon a blade of grass
And bursts upon a touch
While children chalk equations on the pavement.
We are all but dreams of God,
A range of subtle hues
That paint our waking world
With clear distinctions.
Yet we ourselves sketch Godly dreams,
Becoming then the Muse,
Imagining a purpose more profound
Than one within.
We are all but dreams of God.
Good night.
On the planet of crispy green celery in the tubal atmosphere
There was a cocky little celery Sam who thought himself rather dear.
I very easily may be the cutest stalk in the whole southern hemisphere,
He said to a colleague, Fred Turnip, with no laugh, smile, twinkle or sneer.
“My friend Sammy Celery is rather conceited, I do fear,”
Fred told his pretty radish wife, Ruthy Bee, who was standing quite near.
“We should set him up with Miss Too Wonderful Tomato,” She said. “Okay, dear?”
And, yes, she said this without a semblance of a joke, a jest, or jeer.
So they set up the two who loved to brag about themselves with no fear.
That they might offend anyone or everyone with their haughty atmosphere.
Only one date, as they both bragged incessantly, and there was no one to hear.
“That date was the worst I ever had,” they each said to everyone who got near.
Which was not actually many people in this educated stratosphere.
Idol makers,
apprentices of Tubal-cain
Cruel instrument inventors
of the bitter aftertaste pleasure,
and sweet deceit pain
Children of Jubal
delighting in the music of suffering
Instruments of oppression
they have mastered well
From the mouth of dragons
breathing metal fire ...
sends more and more to the watery grave of hell
Instruments of idolatry
be evil, deified works of the hands of man
The unlearned ones
worship the gun ...
the jet plane
Bow on their knees to give thanks
to the tank ...
the submarine
Every war machine has their devoted blessing
Instruments of cruelty,
whose promise of use
will give the builder and the buyer
power, riches and land —
Slave shareholders of chained souls
to body bag claim
Idol makers,
apprentices of the bittersweet Tubal-cain
Evil reprobate roots
rising from the spoiled sour Magog ground,
at the harvest time of the second rain
Abominable Armageddon souls made to drink
the brimstone blood of their shame
Born in the dead of winter,
under a pale Siberian moon
Thrust from the womb
by the throes of his mother’s death,
he took his first premature breath
Cursed carnivorous seed
from the Cossack line of Tubal-cain
Rusher
was his Magog given name
Raised to believe
that democracy was a disease
A western swine flu,
which made people delusional
Everyone believing they’re equal to the czar,
crazy thinking that challenged
the rule of the Cossack warrior clan
Only one man had the right to rule the land —
he who severed the bejeweled hand
that held the royal scepter
Rusher ...
the blood snow pentagram picked him
Now he patiently plots the fall of the broken kingdoms
of the west
Subversively making cyber calls
to create more civic unrest
Then sitting back to watch
the thread of democracy unravel
Become a tangled mess
Rusher ...
born to die a beastly death,
Got innocent blood dripping from the tongue
of his premature bruin’s breath
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