Sleeping Colossus! Da Stuff Heart is made of!

"Seabiscuit floated along in a state of contented bovine torpor. Sleeping was his favorite pastime. He could keel over ( most horses sleep standing up) and snooze for hours on end. While other race horses at the track raised hell demanding breakfast, he slept long and late, stretching out over the floor of his stall in such deep sedation that the grooms had to use every means in their power to get him to stand up."

"He may have been a amiable little horse, but his career prospects looked dim. He was as slow as growing grass, he barely kept up with training partners, lagging along behind in happy ineptitude. "

Seabiscuit went on to become da winninist horse is history. His story is one of great heart overcoming mental and physical handicaps and patient trainers who took time to understand the sleeping colossus of a horse, bringing out the champ that lay waiting inside da Biscuit.

Maybe there is a "champ" in all of us really, maybe allot of us were knocked down by mean trainers or keepers, parents, institutions, jobs, systems or just bad luck. Certainly for those who have charge of or take care of others, a little tolerance, love and understanding can go a long way to pave a future.

The stuff of Seabicuit is the stuff of big hearts and cruelty! Man on the moon size hearts and cruelty. If you look at the day to day dynamic of the human and animal world it is gut wrenching. The cruelty and insensitivity, people to people, people to animal, it is enough to fill Niagara Falls with tears. And on the other hand, you have all of the nurturing and caring that goes on in this world, maybe in the future kindness will replace cruetly. This is the stuff that heart is made of!

The quotes were taken from "Seabiscuit, A American Legend" by Laura Hillenbrand

Carl Sandburg, dated, but at the door of new stars!

Washerwomen

The washerwomen is a member of the Salvation Army.
And over the tub of suds rubbing underwear clean
She sings that Jesus will wash her sins away
And the red wrongs she has done God and man
Shall be white as the driven snow.
Rubbing underwear she sings of the Last Great Washday.

Grieg Being Dead

Grieg being dead we may speak of him and his art.

Grieg being dead we can talk about whether he was any good
or not.

Grieg being with Ibsen, Bjornson, Lief Ericson and the rest,

Grieg being dead does not care a hell's hoot what we say.

Morning, Spring, Antira's Dance,

He dreams them at the doors of new stars.


If I was Oprah when reading ole Carl Sandburg I might say " go boy go"!
Help route this burdensome journey of mine, with all of its aches and pains to the door of new stars supreme!

Lying in Media, Industry, Church and on your own!

Today I wrote a comment at E Online in reference to a story about the Rolling Stones switching music labels. I basically said I have been a fan of their music since the 60s. But as far as Rock Bands in general, fuck em (self censored using fu*k), Aerosmith, The Bloody Beatles, any of em, who cares! a bunch of androgynous minstrels performing for your benefit when you tune in, little puppets on stage. And from my end, without much pay going their way. Since I have bought bootlegged DVDs for the last ten years living in Asia.

I then went on to say what pleasure I get out of pimping Rock Bands and the Record Executive pussies (using pu*sies to self censor) out of their royalties by buying bootlegs. E Online took the comment off the page as they censor most of my post. E Online is hardly a forum to pimp the Recording Industry and brag about buying bootlegs!

Another thought on censorship is in reference to a story told by Peter wolf about Keith Richards, how he pulled a Bowie Knife on a DJ playing mostly Disco and not much Rock n Roll at a party in the 80s. He was right to do that, but he is Keith Richards and I am not, so he can go uncensored through life (I know I have done more time than him). Bands like the Stones fought against censorship and look at em now, pandering to superficial social rags like E Online.

Sometimes it feels like history leads us nowhere, it just doubles down! So cut down the mother fucken Cherry Tree Abe and do yourself a favor, lie about it, cause if you can't lie you will never make it in America or the World for that matter. Even the Pope is a good liar, he bends Biblical Truth to benefit the Church right? And the bloody tent preachers in America, Billy Graham, Jerry Farwell and that lot, total bullshit, total grap, turning good people into Ugly Americans to make a buck. Predators praying on fear. The Liturgy of Lies goes on and trust me it's endless.

Just a personal note here* Even though I haven't lied too much that I can think of, oh maybe I bend the truth once in awhile. I do buy bootleg, so that makes me just as bad as any of the bad guys who lie (I know what the truth is, it frees me). I am worse than the liars and like it, I am shameless and without guilt or remorse, I can screw my brains out all night long on crack with a crack ho, and wake up and go to Mass (just kidding there, just a "Bad Lieutenant" movie fantasy/dream) . Screwing your wife or long time girl friend involves much more lying than screwing a crack ho. And it sure as hell cost more! There is allot of lying incurrent in traditional button down screwing, screwing is all about lying on every level, and is a bootleg proof industry.

Watching Jim Cramer last night on CNBC railing on the CEOs of City Bank and Merrill Lynch for being a bunch of fucking liars. Saying that he could car less if he loses his job over it, and that he was sick and tired of watching these people lie. Cramer went totally off the edge, falling off his chair (I loved it because that kind of behavior is so rare with the button down geek set).

Jimmy Cramer, GOD BLESS you son , you are a true American Hero! The Rodeo Clown of Wall Street!

Bumble Bees and Baseball Glove Romney

,, Bumble Bee Days


The bumble bees clammer on the saw edges
of gladiolas.

Lemon-rusty honey bees drone in the ears
of hollyhocks.

Two leaves of a poplar drift among the
watching asters.

Carl Sandburg


I gotta tell ya folks about the empty feeling I get when one of the "league of clowns" running for President of the United States, Mitt (baseball glove) Romney prostitutes himself to his own constituents, lies to the jobless to better his own lot " we will bring back the jobs in Michigan if I am elected!" Both "Mitt" and the jobless who believe his lies deserve their fate. Mitt will be blown out of the race by next week, and the jobless will stay on Welfare watching their wives get fat on handouts amd bio genetic food substitutes.

Dear jobless in Michigan, don't believe the hype, just wait for the spring and focus on the stuff of life that will calm you aching heart; bumble bees, gladiolas, aster and hollyhocks!

Maybe thinking about Bee Keepers and field Hippies in clover and poppy!


Look to the truth of Woody Guthrie, Paul Robeson and Carl Sandburg!

Touching the Sky

Visiting a Cha'n Master Among
Mountains and Lakes

Like Hui-yuan fostering Ling-yun,
you open the gates of Ch'an for me;

here beneth rock and pine, serene,
it's no different than Glacier Peak.

Blossoms pure, no dye of illusion,
mind and water both pure idleness,

I sit once and plumb whole kalpas,
see through heaven and earth empty.

Li Po

Ole Li Po, saintly wino, breathing mountain air and touching the sky.
A bit of Gary Snyder up in Big Sur bathing in a hot tub fired by spruce,
Or Dylan Thomas falling down drunk in snow through pine needles.
Maybe Mick Jagger reciting Browning in Chelsie Park, singing Mary Jane.
And Allan Ginsburg reading Howl for the first time in a basement on Grant St.
As well as Jack Kerouac with his head twisted into a bulb radio, speeding through the universe, criss cross yogi, listening to Sun Ra!

How in the hell can I get back to kalpas, blossoms pure, Mary
Jane, pine needles, Big Sur hot tubs, Spruce, Sun Ra?

Even I can remember sipping Stoli in Central Park, on a mountain top, infinite, tasting cool air, sheltered, rich, broke, touching the sky!

I bet Iris Murdoch had fun!

My lot of favorite folks are heretics, lunatics, pagans and the poor. The rich have too many crosses to bear to have much fun.

Last night I watched the film, "Iris" about Iris Murdoch.

Iris's fiction doesn't appeal to me, but, her philosophy of life is marvelous. She and her husband, John Bailey, were a couple of Loons frolicking in fields of Poppy and Lavender Clover.

Iris like, Tolstoy and Orwell, was a visionary who loved words and lived in a world of her own invention, not unlike heretics, lunatics and pagans. She refused to be contained by institutions of church or state, because her vision was the food that sustained her. A true Bohemian ahead of her time, a non monogamous lover, loving, who ever she wanted.

Irish borrowed from Plato's "forms". She gave the "absolutes" a most marvelous twist, which I know to be true. Perhaps we all are exposed to collective memories of "goodness" before we are born. My own twist on these collective memories is " flying with Angels" in "goodness", heroic, Celtic, incorrigible, only to be thoroughly corrupted by the material world from birth onwards . Emily Dickinson also touches on this in her belief that babies come into the world with perfectly clean consciousness that is corrupted as time goes on.

Iris believed we could focus on pure " form" memory as we aspire and become whole, living in " goodness form" as much as possible.

Cheers Iris, you got it kid! I bet you and that loony husband of yours, John Bailey, had allot of fun!

The Anti-Christ Mass

Religion for me is personal and subjective, it does not need to be hung from a crucifix, memorialized in Rome, participate in unholy wars or wear payot.

Modern day religion; anochronic, out of touch, restraining Mother Earth and human kind from breath taking spirituality and transcendence. If Jesus, Mohammad or Mose came back to earth they would be appalled! You could liken this to Norman Mailer's metaphor on NASA Rockets blowing spent jet fuel into space, disturbing the Angels highly tuned sensitivities.

My best Christmas memories are unconventional and have nothing to do with garlands, cozy fires and egg nog.

In December,1968,I went to Mexico with my parents. We were staying at the Las Hamacas Hotel on Acapulco Bay. In front of the hotel, on the bay, there was a small taco cafe that had a juke box with a few Gringo hits of the time. Psychedelic music; Doors, Jefferson Airplane, Grateful Dead, Rolling Stones.

One Christmas Day, I met a Californian surfer dude and his younger sister, both my age, at the cafe. We shared a common interest, scoring some refer. We were told to look for a Beaner by the name of "Maestro Magico". The process of scoring was like a pagan ritual. When we found the Maestro, we scored a few fingers of "Gold".

We Three Kings went back to the Las Hamacas, hid in the toilet and turned on. It was my first time; we sat at the pool and threw small stones in, watching the water ripple outwards in a circular motion, each ripple a Sacred Madalla of life.

When we got bored with the pool we decided to go body surfing. We were 15, but the Beaners on the beach sold us all the Corona and Tequila we wanted. Corona was great in those days, comparable to German Beer in thickness. We were smashed in a seconds.

After the sunset, we went back to the Los Hamacus to crash. I passed out with my surfer friend’s sister in their room. We fumbled and managed to get it on somehow. I didn't know where her vagina was. Back then, tongue swallowing kissing, was the best thing happening.

Through the haze latter that night, I realized I missed Christmas dinner with my parents. When my mother got hold of me, she hammered out the "riot act" in triplets. She even smacked me a few times.

But I am going to tell you, that was the best Christmas on record for me. No church or crucifix, no cozy fire, no fat dinner, could make me as happy as the partying and virgin sacrifice I enjoyed that night.

Poetry and Great Faces

Great faces, Lincoln, Sitting Bull, Carl Sandburg.

They don't make em like that anymore!
Not a Tom Cruise, or a Jason Timberlake, or any
of the Clowns running for President of the United States,
can compare to the kind of character that these great faces have.

Surely a sign of the times, great faces, carbon in the sands, buried in the Western Plains with White Buffaloes, Indian Blankets and Arrow Heads.


Some definitions of Poetry by Carl Sandburg

1 Poetry is a echo asking a shadow dancer to be partner.

2 Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into
horizons, too swift for explanations.

3 Poetry is the Phantom script that is telling how a rainbow is
made and why they go away.

4 Poetry is a sliver of the moon lost in the belly of a golden frog.

5 Poetry is the tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the
infinite points of its echoes.

I think C.S. was the Fatboy Slim of the 20Th Century, he could trip the light
fantastic in a single bound. Reading his stuff puts me in a transcendental, mystic place, say, a full moon evening on a hidden lake in a deep green forest, surrounded by golden frogs and fire flies glowing like moon beans!

This is something that going to Church on Sunday could never do for me! That Carl Sandburg does!

The woods, are lovely dark and deep

STOPPING BY THE WOODS
ON A SNOWY EVENING

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though:
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To Stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

ioqeurvnoiqwueboituewoinu2pouv ndajcnaolldkjfalkjlka
Muse of nature disappearing before our eyes,
Replaced by cement and carbon for fast gain.
Try to enjoy that Porsche ride without any trees.
It will come back on itself, Man is a big fool.
God help our Poor Children.


The Amercian Indians believe Spirit will " reset by default" the Earth's Surface by turning it over on itself and burying all the concrete and re bar. Hence, we would have to start over and try to do it again, maybe without greed this time! This could be a metaphor for allot of potential cataclysmic happenings. If Crow Dog is wrong God Spirit help us All!

The New Holocaust is the Black Tar Earth we will leave our children to choke and die on. Al Gore is a thick, preppy nerd, but " An Inconvenient Truth" is on the point. And he has balls to come out and say it!

Horseshit and coal smoke mixed with diesel

"When I was growing up there was a feeling in the air that things were really changing....before the 60s you grew up in the middle of all the bomb sites and rubble left over by the war. London had enormous buildings, but then you could turn the corner and suddenly there'd be three acres of nothing--and the streets were full of horseshit because there were hardly any cars then. I really miss that about London: horseshit and coal smoke, mixed with a bit of diesel here and there. A deadly mixture--it's probably what turned me on to drugs!"

Said with his asshole, nose, ears and eyes firmly rooted to all Earthly, Heavenly and Sensual Muse.

The King of the Opium Charioteers, Keith Richards !

Porno King of Marietta Ave

I had this Town House on Marietta Ave. I worked my ass off on the place and only made Twenty Grand when I sold it. My Stock Portfolio use to go up and 20k a day, but not since 2007.

One time in Milwaukee I was though about renting a room with Tom Mule and realized it would be impossible. He was very meticulous about putting soap back in the soap dish.

In my Milwaukee days I was using coca and herio in the end, shooting speedballs. The Hood was my second home, I use to go into it at all hours. Jimmy Glynn and I had a friend who was a Jazz Trumpeter, Neal the pawnbroker, maybe you knew him. He knew every smack and coca house in the Milwaukee hood. I would travel around like I owned  the black hood, whitebread, with my chest puffed out, going to black clubs and soul food restaurants. Black people can make sweet potato pie, white people don't try!



One day in the hoot at a blues concert in the park, a colored gang(bloods)came over to me and I figured I was dead. I opened my mouth and said, "Hey dudes got weed"? And the black killer blood says to me "Jerry Lewis, how you doin brother?"

I had this black girl I was paying for sex from time to time, she had long legs like a Giraffe. I used to bend her over at the window and poke her from behind, while she was saying hello and waving to my white neighbors outside. I would take pictures of naked women with in front of curtain-less windows too, the white neighbors called me the porno king of Marietta Ave. I am sure they are happy I am not living there anymore. For awhile, we were the biggest thing happening for them white folks, me and my black girl



They might have done worse things than me in their closets or on their computers. At least I didn't hide it.

I broke them up like merinques

A Study of Reading Habits

When getting my nose in a book
Cured most things short of school,
It was worth ruining my eyes
To know I could still keep cool,
And deal out the old right hook
To dirty dogs twice my size.

Later with inch thick specs,
Evil was just my lark:
Me and my cloak and fangs
Had ripping times in the dark
The woman I clubbed with sex!
I broke them up like meringues.

Don't read much now: the dude
Who lets the girl down before
The hero arrives, the chap
Who's yellow and keeps the store,
Seem far too familiar. Get stewed:
Books are a load of crap.


Told like only the Irish can tell it, poet Phillip Larkin. The Irish, way more human than the rest! They were dropped on the planet by God for relief and humor, as His personal Jesters. They have set the mark for humanness and affability!

This poem sums it up for me, laugh!...hahahah! Books...crap!!!!!!

Hell out West

Our Hells

Milton unlocked hell for us
and let us have a look.
Dante did the same.
Each of these hells is special.
One is Milton's, one Dante's.
Milton put in all that for him
was hell on earth.
Dante put in all that for him
was hell on earth.
If you unlock your hell for me

They will be two special hells,
Each of us showing what for us
is hell on earth.
Yours is one hell, mine another.



Carl Sandburg, the most just, enlightened and connected person to live on earth in the 20Th Century. Often when reading his stuff my mind leaves the world, lapsing into long train rides in the Wild Wild West looking at Buffaloes, smelling Pine Trees, sleeping on Indian Blankets.

He like his heroes, Whitman and Lincoln had something that seems to have dried up today!

There might be some who call Lincoln, a poetic and soulful version of George Bush ( I like G.B., he has potential, I think he needs to go back to his ranch in Texas and do some serious reflection and screwing around ).

Where are Vision, Heart and Soul today? How has Sandburg, Lincoln and Whitman evolved into Jason Timberlake, Michael Jackson and Paris Hilton? ( I like her though, she has potential!). Are we living in Elliot's Wasteland, are we having fun yet out there?

I am only having fun in my head, riding a "opium chariot" somewhere in a holding pattern.

Chariots

Mr Blake's Chariots


Mr. Blake saw invisible chariots on the sky
driven by unseen charioteers.

Himself he saw as a slim wisp of a ashen
mortality

And nevertheless took himself for a charioteer
riding high, grand and lonely.


A poem by Carl Sandburg written, I think, on his impressions of the Poet William Blake.
There are some new Bios on the life of another "charioteer", slash " opium charioteer", "riding high, grand and lonely". The one and only Hunter S. Thompson.

Riding my own "opium chariot" of sorts in the 60s and 70s, I ran into allot of these characters in the Wild Wild West; Allen Ginsburg, Gary Synder, William Burroughs, Allan Watts, Richard Brautigan.

My path never crossed Hunter S. Thompsons, Old Thom, was surely "riding high, grand and lonely". Maybe, unknown as a person, really, to even his wife and friends. It is that way for me anyways.

To all my Friends!

"To all my friends", (quote from the film, "Barfly" screen play by Sir Charles Bukowski). This said, with his ughly head half cocked, peeking through a hole in the Universal Haze, wondering if there is anything out there?

My name is Miles Pepper. I once went to a poetry reading by the great Buk on the the North Side of Chicago. It was like a Beat Church Service of sort. When it was time to pass the basket some poor slob offered Buk a Pint, Buk of course took a big draw ( this is the stuff that image is built on right?)

At the end of the reading I took Buk aside and asked him how he made it through life? " One Candy Bar a Day!" Ain't it the truth now boys and girls?