Litany Against Fear

I will not fear.

Fear is the mind-killer.

Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration.

I will face my fear.

I will permit it to pass over and through me.

And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path.

Where the fear has gone, there will be nothing.

Only I will remain.

……………from “Dune”  by Frank Herbert


Lord Saturday

I tread on uncertain ground with this one.  It is based on an encounter over coffee.  Lord Saturday is my hesitant take on Baron Samedi, the loa of death in Haitian Voodoo.  He has many avatars.  Lord Saturday


We all know them.  I wrote this rant today.  Not really poetry, reflection.Two Psycho

Noman’s footgear

As Noman walked a long and dusty road, his right sandal strap broke.  He looked back the way he had come.  Then ahead.   Nothing.  No sign of human habitation, and most certainly, no sign of either a sandal-seller, or a cobbler.  Noman squatted by the side of the road, and tried to tie the broken ends together, but, it just wouldn’t do.

So Noman threw aside his sandal, and continued on his way.

As the day wore on, Noman found himself becoming more tired than usual, for the time of day.  He guessed it was because he was wearing only one sandal.  So, he took off his left sandal and threw it aside.  Pointless carrying it.  Again, there was no sign of a cobbler.

Noman strode on, rejoicing that he had divested himself  of yet another encumbrance.

An hour or so passed, and Noman stopped, mopped his brow, and looked at the side of the road..

He saw a sandal.   Someone had cast it aside, perhaps because the other sandal had broken, and he had no further use for this one.  Noman looked again.

It was a right sandal.

Noman was certain there was something to be learned from this.  Or not.

Cafe of Lost Causes…1

Conception:  people talking at a counter.

She taking an order;  she giving.

They discuss politics;  she is a communist,

Old school:  The People’s flag is deepest red,

And she is not, and disagrees, athletically,

Enthusiastically.  Gesticulations abound.

With one wishing a conversion;  the other

In envy of such certitude.  Eventually,

The one leaves with a coffee and a muffin,

Pumpkin spice, this being October.

A toothy blonde steps to the counter;

She has a broken nose, but laughs it off.

She is a Marxist-Leninist, and she broke her nose,

Or rather, had it broken,

In a baseball game with anarchists  (a fall tradition)

Who, of course, recognized no rules.  However,

They lost the game when they abandoned the field in the eighth.

(The broken nose made it a Pyrrhic victory)

She waves Quotations from the Writings of Chairman Mao Tse-tung,

And leaves with a large latte.

The barista shouts “Proletarians of the world, unite!”

The next customer is a bozo in a baseball cap,

Emblazoned with “Obamanation!”

He says, “What the fuck is a proletarian?”

The barista smiles sweetly.

“You are.”

He says, “Far out.”

She says “$1.96”