Sapphire writes:
“…What’s happening to the world?
Why are people being so
mean and ungrateful?”
Perhaps Sapphire, they
have a hole in their hearts
where God is suppose to be.
Or possibly the world was
always like this, and we were
too blind to see (that I don’t
want to believe). Whatever,
when we were young, or at
least me, the world you
talk about, seemed more
pleasant, less surreal;
now all I can say,
Sapphire is, welcome,
to the reptile
family).
#2305 3-3-2008 Sapphire, was is a person whom asked
me a questionBy writing a comment to me in July, 2007,
I believe the date is correct, and this is my response.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Friday, February 29, 2008
Jerks and Flows (a poem)
Jerks and Flows
Jerks and flows, jerks and flows
That’s how it goes, that’s how it goes
Slowly sometimes, other times fast,
Jerks and flows, jerks and flows
That's how life goes, for us folks
Men by the jerks in life, and
Women with the constant flow
That’s just how it goes….
And a then we get old, old, old,
Less jerks, but for the women,
Still they go with the flow
That’s how it is you know;
Jerks and flows, and getting old
And then it starts all over again,
With our children…!
#2298 (2-29-2008)
Jerks and flows, jerks and flows
That’s how it goes, that’s how it goes
Slowly sometimes, other times fast,
Jerks and flows, jerks and flows
That's how life goes, for us folks
Men by the jerks in life, and
Women with the constant flow
That’s just how it goes….
And a then we get old, old, old,
Less jerks, but for the women,
Still they go with the flow
That’s how it is you know;
Jerks and flows, and getting old
And then it starts all over again,
With our children…!
#2298 (2-29-2008)
While the Knig Hides (Phnom Penh Cambodia; 2/2000)
While the King Hides
(Phnom Penh Cambodia; 2/2000)
When I came out of the palace grounds
At Phnom Penh (Cambodia)
They stood leaning against the stone wall
(Back in February of 2000)
A dozen lame, and missing limbed citizens,
Waiting, hoping, begging, for a handout
While the king hid in his palace, hideout!
#2302 (2-29-2008)
(Phnom Penh Cambodia; 2/2000)
When I came out of the palace grounds
At Phnom Penh (Cambodia)
They stood leaning against the stone wall
(Back in February of 2000)
A dozen lame, and missing limbed citizens,
Waiting, hoping, begging, for a handout
While the king hid in his palace, hideout!
#2302 (2-29-2008)
“O, Brethren…” ((they cry)(Where's Harry?"))
“O, Brethren…” ((they cry)
(Where’s Harry?))
“O’ brethrens, of monotheism,”
They cry, looking for, Prince Harry
(whom I doubt they will find);
He done slipped through thier Islamist Web,
And hence, Allah did not answer your drooling prays--
But instead, He done sent Harry back home again,
And for a good reason, He’s tired of
Your blasphemous sins!
#2301 (2-29-2008)
(Where’s Harry?))
“O’ brethrens, of monotheism,”
They cry, looking for, Prince Harry
(whom I doubt they will find);
He done slipped through thier Islamist Web,
And hence, Allah did not answer your drooling prays--
But instead, He done sent Harry back home again,
And for a good reason, He’s tired of
Your blasphemous sins!
#2301 (2-29-2008)
India Jaipur: The Sleepers (a poem)
India Jaipur: The Sleepers
(April, 1998)
It was a still night, in Jaipur. No clocks ticking,
it is close to two in the morning. The sound of crickets,
dogs guarding, sleepers snoring, sleeping on cots
by the streets outside the hotel: half naked
light blankets over their lower bodies and heads;
dogs nearby, itching, lightly barking, no one wakes,
a hundred people under the boiling moon,
they have no sense of time, just bull snorts,
and dogs barking, of course. I’m the only one
babbling to myself in this empty night, watching
tranquil sleepers—breath in and breath out.
—I walk by them, three dogs corner me,
they look hungry, stained somehow,
with bitter mouths, saliva dribbling, their eyes
starving to attack, yet they hold back.
I’m sweating, my teeth grinding, and my belly’s tight;
the old Hindu by the hotel, the guard, he hears
the excitement in the dark, he’s coming, running
I have rocks in my hands, and so does he.
Crash! Crash! I throw, and he throws, its
sufficient to scare the dogs off. ((I have pain in my
kidney.) We, we finish up, at a Hindu shrine,
I’m thanking God, for his immortality
(had it not been, that he was on hand,
I’m not sure what then.)(I’m thankful for
The old Hindu Guard…! That he was alarmed.))
I’m not sure what the old Hindu man was saying,
but was doing what was doing, bowing, praying
and praising…!
#2287 ((1:59 AM)(2-27-2008)) Mark Twain once said in so many words: India was a most beautiful place, it is like a circus. I agree it is most beautiful, during the day, try the late hours of night 2:30 AM (or is it the wee hours of the morning), in any case, it is a different world then. In Agra, in the late night, cows and folks sleep on the streets, as they do in Jaipur, as in Delhi, women and children eat out of garbage piles by the hotels. Thus, things are not so beautiful, unless you hide inside the hotel, or go with the flow, on the tourist bus.
Under the boiling moon, are memories of India in general, a trip the author took in 1998, and would leave the hotels in the middle of the night to walk among the city, hire a bodyguard, that was more scared then he, and walked the streets at 2:30 AM. Talk to the people, drink some black tea, get sick, and go on and do it the next day again.
(April, 1998)
It was a still night, in Jaipur. No clocks ticking,
it is close to two in the morning. The sound of crickets,
dogs guarding, sleepers snoring, sleeping on cots
by the streets outside the hotel: half naked
light blankets over their lower bodies and heads;
dogs nearby, itching, lightly barking, no one wakes,
a hundred people under the boiling moon,
they have no sense of time, just bull snorts,
and dogs barking, of course. I’m the only one
babbling to myself in this empty night, watching
tranquil sleepers—breath in and breath out.
—I walk by them, three dogs corner me,
they look hungry, stained somehow,
with bitter mouths, saliva dribbling, their eyes
starving to attack, yet they hold back.
I’m sweating, my teeth grinding, and my belly’s tight;
the old Hindu by the hotel, the guard, he hears
the excitement in the dark, he’s coming, running
I have rocks in my hands, and so does he.
Crash! Crash! I throw, and he throws, its
sufficient to scare the dogs off. ((I have pain in my
kidney.) We, we finish up, at a Hindu shrine,
I’m thanking God, for his immortality
(had it not been, that he was on hand,
I’m not sure what then.)(I’m thankful for
The old Hindu Guard…! That he was alarmed.))
I’m not sure what the old Hindu man was saying,
but was doing what was doing, bowing, praying
and praising…!
#2287 ((1:59 AM)(2-27-2008)) Mark Twain once said in so many words: India was a most beautiful place, it is like a circus. I agree it is most beautiful, during the day, try the late hours of night 2:30 AM (or is it the wee hours of the morning), in any case, it is a different world then. In Agra, in the late night, cows and folks sleep on the streets, as they do in Jaipur, as in Delhi, women and children eat out of garbage piles by the hotels. Thus, things are not so beautiful, unless you hide inside the hotel, or go with the flow, on the tourist bus.
Under the boiling moon, are memories of India in general, a trip the author took in 1998, and would leave the hotels in the middle of the night to walk among the city, hire a bodyguard, that was more scared then he, and walked the streets at 2:30 AM. Talk to the people, drink some black tea, get sick, and go on and do it the next day again.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
"The Hornet's Vanity" (and three other poems)
11
The Hornet’s Vanity
Ev’
poet,
ev’
writer,
ev’
singer,
ev’
artist,
has an immortality box—,
one as big as their coffin.
Here is where they lay-way
their past, present, for the
future…;
after they’re gone.
After the aspiration bird
has flew the cope, and they died,
(left them to rot as maggots
in there sarcophagus).
Even after death the:
poet,
writer,
singer,
and artist,
want to fly into the hands
of the mortal living
(dive like an eagle).
He dreams he is painted
on the walls of caves
(not yet discovered);
painted on canvas,
written in a book,
detailed in a poem,
made into a statue,
itched on street signs,
when in essence,
he’ll never know;
oh, yes, he wants to be
on coins also, and stamps
(like kings and presidents)—;
and he hopes to change
the world before he dies,
he wants to be known
that he came, he was,
once alive.
Where in the world
did he get such a notion?
Perhaps the bird is not
a bird…but a hornet
with big wings,
and a big silent sting!
#2294 (2-28-2008)
Written today at Starbucks, in Circle
In Lima, Peru (300 PM)
12
Lazy Boy
A lazy boy is like a hand full of dung,
the longer you hold on it, the more it
smells; the more it smells, the more
people end up looking at you, as if its
yours.
#2296 (2-28-2008)
13
Madness
My madness is under my scalp—;
if I had a wig, I’d have no trouble
getting rid of it….
I thought about laying in the snow
and freezing my madness:
and my wife said that was, “Insane…!”
O, I am empty for any more ideas,
witless, clueless!
Meanwhile, I simply endure, —
and point my finger, middle finger,
every which way.
#2295 (2-28-2008)
14
When I’m Dead
When I’m dead I’ll ask the Lord
if I can come back for a spell,
to make sure my wife, Rosa
is well…and I’m sure
He’ll say yes; and
to let her know,
she can go
on with
life…
I’ll see her later
beyond the tunnel's light.
#2297 ((11:30 PM)(2-28-2008))
Written at home, in Lima Peru, 11:30 PM
Part of the: "The Drooled and Slobbering Poems"
The Hornet’s Vanity
Ev’
poet,
ev’
writer,
ev’
singer,
ev’
artist,
has an immortality box—,
one as big as their coffin.
Here is where they lay-way
their past, present, for the
future…;
after they’re gone.
After the aspiration bird
has flew the cope, and they died,
(left them to rot as maggots
in there sarcophagus).
Even after death the:
poet,
writer,
singer,
and artist,
want to fly into the hands
of the mortal living
(dive like an eagle).
He dreams he is painted
on the walls of caves
(not yet discovered);
painted on canvas,
written in a book,
detailed in a poem,
made into a statue,
itched on street signs,
when in essence,
he’ll never know;
oh, yes, he wants to be
on coins also, and stamps
(like kings and presidents)—;
and he hopes to change
the world before he dies,
he wants to be known
that he came, he was,
once alive.
Where in the world
did he get such a notion?
Perhaps the bird is not
a bird…but a hornet
with big wings,
and a big silent sting!
#2294 (2-28-2008)
Written today at Starbucks, in Circle
In Lima, Peru (300 PM)
12
Lazy Boy
A lazy boy is like a hand full of dung,
the longer you hold on it, the more it
smells; the more it smells, the more
people end up looking at you, as if its
yours.
#2296 (2-28-2008)
13
Madness
My madness is under my scalp—;
if I had a wig, I’d have no trouble
getting rid of it….
I thought about laying in the snow
and freezing my madness:
and my wife said that was, “Insane…!”
O, I am empty for any more ideas,
witless, clueless!
Meanwhile, I simply endure, —
and point my finger, middle finger,
every which way.
#2295 (2-28-2008)
14
When I’m Dead
When I’m dead I’ll ask the Lord
if I can come back for a spell,
to make sure my wife, Rosa
is well…and I’m sure
He’ll say yes; and
to let her know,
she can go
on with
life…
I’ll see her later
beyond the tunnel's light.
#2297 ((11:30 PM)(2-28-2008))
Written at home, in Lima Peru, 11:30 PM
Part of the: "The Drooled and Slobbering Poems"
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
The Compete Ten-Poems "Drooled & Slobbering"
Ten- The Drooled and Slobbering
Poems of: Dennis L. Siluk
1
The Siluk’s Lament
(for: Hemingway)
I know E. Hemingway masturbated
in the mornings…;
that his pet cat screwed the dog
that some bulls kick and fart
and yet
what can I do…
it all seems so crappy normal?
#2287 ((2-27-2008)(written at Starbucks, in Circle, Lima, Peru))
2
Hemingway’s Best
He tried to spit out the truth,
from a salivating mouth—;
in the end, he drooled
and slobbered,
lies: from feet to chin.
#2288 (2-27-27)
3
In My Times
In my times, it demanded we protest, cut away sin.
In my times, it demanded we go with the flow, it was
hammered into us!
In my times, we invented free sex, with no regrets.
And in the end, my era, that demanded all this,
got shitty, and nasty kids.
#2289 (2-17-2008)
4
Last words
(Of the imprisoned Islamic Terrorists)
Islamic Terrorists never die well, they twitch
and cough, roar red and black words,
about everyone but themselves, going to hell;
even to the last breathe, before being thrown
into a ditch, they choke out those last words
saying, “Death to you all, by Allah!”
#2292 (2-27-2008)
5
Man-ship
Man is like a ship, on the sea—
throbbing with envy of it
(undulated envy),
for its long time existence…!
#2295 (2-27-2008)
6
In Haiti
(1986)
In Haiti—they serve one master in the day, and
another one in the night,
in-between, at twilight, they stand still, waiting
for the sounds of the voodoo drums.
#2296 (2-27-2008)(the author spent two weeks in Haiti, ten-days in the
mountains and four days in the city of Port de Prince, in the winter of 1986,
and recalls the voodoo drums in the small villages, and in the forests..
7
Augsburg’s Pig Alley
In Augsburg, West Germany, in 1970—
I went to Pig Alley, to visit the whorehouse
(more like a four story building, with a fence
at the end of the alley, to a dead-end).
Bristly faces, and youthful naked bodies
all about… on the second floor me and
my Army friends, scored…dirty hides, raw:
gray, cold, ready to ride, or be ridden.
#2293/ 2-27-2008
8
Arabs: in Cuba’s Prison
Many came in chains, unrepentant for their sins.
Too arrogant to stumble; thinking the Americans
will give them TV’s, radios, and chicken
dinners, while they wait, in jails and prisons.
Now they want their human rights, it’s been a long
ordeal, a fight, in Afghanistan and Iraq, killing
Americans, filling their bodies with bullet holes
from day to night (where human rights groups
dare not enter)?
#2291 (2-27-2008)
9
No Stomachs (Suicides)
Hemingway, Sexton, Plath, George Sterling,
dead very dead, all successful suicides, wild eyed.
They lived in a dead world, and went back to one,
one where they needed no stomachs…; one
where there was no rescue; but they do have
a special rock, they can sit on and talk—ponder,
(and they do) on how it might have been?
#2294 (2-27-2008)
10
The Bulls of Hemingway
Roses are not always red, especially, if you have someone
else paint them blue. And sometimes it is better left un-
said: who is the hero of the bullring!
O yes my friend, bulls and bullfighters, are not always art-
less, especially when you celebrate them, with brass bands
and balloons.
Bulls and balloons, bulls and balloons, and Hemingway,
whom is for the bull or the matador, how much bull can he
feed us? I’m for the hero, whoever it may be, who puts
on the best show, man or beast, or neither.
The bull stands ready to charge, and the matador is saying:
go, go go, I’m ready. Hence, the bull gives him his horn in
his rib, and he flies in the air, falls on his butt, and the matador
goes: shit, shit, shit…I missed. And then someone comes and
takes his place, the bull is now tired, thought he had a chance,
and the bull goes: shit, shit, shit, and gets stuck with the sword
several times through his hump (between his neck and spine)
and whose the hero?
In such cases like this, there are no heroes, and thus, I’d prefer
the painted blue rose, instead—why waste my time.
#2289 (2-27-2008)
Poems of: Dennis L. Siluk
1
The Siluk’s Lament
(for: Hemingway)
I know E. Hemingway masturbated
in the mornings…;
that his pet cat screwed the dog
that some bulls kick and fart
and yet
what can I do…
it all seems so crappy normal?
#2287 ((2-27-2008)(written at Starbucks, in Circle, Lima, Peru))
2
Hemingway’s Best
He tried to spit out the truth,
from a salivating mouth—;
in the end, he drooled
and slobbered,
lies: from feet to chin.
#2288 (2-27-27)
3
In My Times
In my times, it demanded we protest, cut away sin.
In my times, it demanded we go with the flow, it was
hammered into us!
In my times, we invented free sex, with no regrets.
And in the end, my era, that demanded all this,
got shitty, and nasty kids.
#2289 (2-17-2008)
4
Last words
(Of the imprisoned Islamic Terrorists)
Islamic Terrorists never die well, they twitch
and cough, roar red and black words,
about everyone but themselves, going to hell;
even to the last breathe, before being thrown
into a ditch, they choke out those last words
saying, “Death to you all, by Allah!”
#2292 (2-27-2008)
5
Man-ship
Man is like a ship, on the sea—
throbbing with envy of it
(undulated envy),
for its long time existence…!
#2295 (2-27-2008)
6
In Haiti
(1986)
In Haiti—they serve one master in the day, and
another one in the night,
in-between, at twilight, they stand still, waiting
for the sounds of the voodoo drums.
#2296 (2-27-2008)(the author spent two weeks in Haiti, ten-days in the
mountains and four days in the city of Port de Prince, in the winter of 1986,
and recalls the voodoo drums in the small villages, and in the forests..
7
Augsburg’s Pig Alley
In Augsburg, West Germany, in 1970—
I went to Pig Alley, to visit the whorehouse
(more like a four story building, with a fence
at the end of the alley, to a dead-end).
Bristly faces, and youthful naked bodies
all about… on the second floor me and
my Army friends, scored…dirty hides, raw:
gray, cold, ready to ride, or be ridden.
#2293/ 2-27-2008
8
Arabs: in Cuba’s Prison
Many came in chains, unrepentant for their sins.
Too arrogant to stumble; thinking the Americans
will give them TV’s, radios, and chicken
dinners, while they wait, in jails and prisons.
Now they want their human rights, it’s been a long
ordeal, a fight, in Afghanistan and Iraq, killing
Americans, filling their bodies with bullet holes
from day to night (where human rights groups
dare not enter)?
#2291 (2-27-2008)
9
No Stomachs (Suicides)
Hemingway, Sexton, Plath, George Sterling,
dead very dead, all successful suicides, wild eyed.
They lived in a dead world, and went back to one,
one where they needed no stomachs…; one
where there was no rescue; but they do have
a special rock, they can sit on and talk—ponder,
(and they do) on how it might have been?
#2294 (2-27-2008)
10
The Bulls of Hemingway
Roses are not always red, especially, if you have someone
else paint them blue. And sometimes it is better left un-
said: who is the hero of the bullring!
O yes my friend, bulls and bullfighters, are not always art-
less, especially when you celebrate them, with brass bands
and balloons.
Bulls and balloons, bulls and balloons, and Hemingway,
whom is for the bull or the matador, how much bull can he
feed us? I’m for the hero, whoever it may be, who puts
on the best show, man or beast, or neither.
The bull stands ready to charge, and the matador is saying:
go, go go, I’m ready. Hence, the bull gives him his horn in
his rib, and he flies in the air, falls on his butt, and the matador
goes: shit, shit, shit…I missed. And then someone comes and
takes his place, the bull is now tired, thought he had a chance,
and the bull goes: shit, shit, shit, and gets stuck with the sword
several times through his hump (between his neck and spine)
and whose the hero?
In such cases like this, there are no heroes, and thus, I’d prefer
the painted blue rose, instead—why waste my time.
#2289 (2-27-2008)
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