The Un-naming of the “You-know-what”

The Un-naming of Faust”

As was said in Shakespeare’s works:
“It’s Greek to me,” like Ξ
but nomenclature is
a Blessing Strange ( 福奇 )

For Sino-name-dropping it is a
Blessing – Strange virus
funded by 福奇

Indeed for Sino-hegemony
it’s been a strange blessing for
the weakening of the West

The overlords of Wuhan
were a nest of vipers élan
happy for a blessing strange.

And like improvised explosive rhetorical devices
hidden on the road and belt commerce sites
they were happy to bite

Rafiq va Jannat (Uzbek Poetry)(Rafiq ismli maxfiy do’stim)

Rafiq va Jannat
    (Rafiq ismli maxfiy do’stim)

Rafiq ismli do’stim,
yuragimda ha kuylagan sevgim
o’yinlar taqiqlangan, lekin
bu kamtar qizni yozmoqchisiz
yonoqlarda yashirin qizarish uchun so’zlar.

Musiqa taqiqlangan
lekin siz men bilan raqsga tushasiz
uyat bug’langandek
shirin ter
motam shudring.

Refiq, quyoshim, kaptarim:
tong keladi
sevgi kerak bo’lganda.

Ha, albatta bilaman! Savol:
Nega tumanlash orasida raqsga tushasiz?

Bu arxaik yo’llardan voz keching,
nuansli ritorik nitslardan voz keching;
ha, sirli javoblarni kutaman.
Men turib oldim

Siz kunga kirib borasiz, chunki
qush kuylaydi va bu sizsiz;
qush taqiqlangan, shuning uchun u uchadi

Osmondan quvonch nafas olaman
Bu esa sensan, ko‘k Rafiq

Jim bo’ling, lekin hamma narsaga e’tibor bering,
men imlo o’rganyapman,
ey Rafiq

ismimni chaqiring, Jannat va
siz mening jannatimni baham ko’rasiz

Nega?
Chunki men yuvyapman
haq evaziga tarvuz urug’lari,
lekin men ularni yeya olmayman.

Men anorning urug‘laridek unumdorman
lekin mening sharbatim taqiqlangan bo’lsa ham
u siz kabi shirin va o’tkir.

Anjir bargiga mening ismimni yozing va
tez orada men uni o’pish uchun kelaman.

Ammo yomg’ir bulutlarga xosdir,
tuz ko’z yoshlariga xosdir

Cast va keyin meni tashla. Meni o’ynang.

meni spektaklga qo’ying
sehr kabi.

Tezroq qiling: xolangizni meni tekshirishga yuboring.
Men yuzimni yashira olaman,
Men o’zimni xunuk va itoatkor qilaman.
Xolangiz men hurmatliman, deyishi mumkin.

Men siz uchun yulduz bo’lishni xohlayman.
Qiziq, Bollivud juda uzoqdami?
Ertalab soat 4 da men fizika kitobimni o’rganyapman
va men drama haqida bilaman …

Bizga yulduzlarga raketa uchir
va menga “Twilight Zone” ni toping
video

Ammo yomg’ir bulutlarga xosdir
va qayg’u tuzlari ko’z yoshlarini tozalaydi,
dalalarda bombalar portladi.

Bizni noziklik kabi yashiring
yoshligimning ilohiy gulidan.

Lekin gul aranjirovkasi
qiz uchun yolg’on hidi;
ayollar uchun majburiyatlar,

Shunga qaramay, tabiat, bulutlar
namlikni yo’qotadi, bulutli ko’zlar
yomg’ir sho’r qayg’u, va urushdan
dalalarda bombalar shunday portladi
askarlar bola kelin olishlari mumkin

Men siz uchun yulduz bo’lishni xohlayman.
Qiziq, Bollivud juda uzoqdami?
yoki Shimoliy Yulduz juda aziz.

Rafiq, menga afsun qil.
Otam ishdan ayrilgan.

U iymon bilan zaharlangan
va men qo’rqaman

Dalada bombalar bor va
bo’ronlar bizga yaqinlashmoqda
baland loy devor.

Dadam aqldan ozgan va
u meni sotadi.

Do’stim, siz haqiqiy odammisiz?

Chunki siz oxirgi kunsiz
qush qo’shiq aytadi va u sizsiz uchadi;
Men tunda halokatli tumandan nafas olaman.
Qo’shiq o’lik.

Shahid lotereya mashinasini asrab olish

Shahid lotereya mashinasini asrab olish.
    from “Adopt A Martyr Lottery Machine”

Lotereya mashinasi supermarketda
muzlatilgan sabzavotlardan keyin
va baliq sotuvchisidan oldin
kim ruxsat etilgan joy.

Mashina kredit kartalari yoki hisob-kitoblarni oladi.
Unda ayollar va bolalarning ko’plab fotosuratlari bor.

Maftunkor fotosurat bor
mening lotereya kartamda:
men qabul qilgan oila

Mening asrab olingan oilam yangiliklarda:
pulemyot tomonidan o’ldirilgan; anglatadi
Men sovrin yutib oldim: million dollar. Hozir
Men ko’p miqdorda yangi baliq sotib olaman.

Men ketdim
sabzavotlardan
baliq sotib olish va

Men yutuq kartamni ko’rsatdim
baliq fartugidagi odamga,
va u suratni tanidi.

U yerga yiqilib, aylanib ketdi.
U havoga xo’rsinib pichirladi:
“Qizim, qizim…
Qizimga inqilobga qo‘shilmang, dedim. ”

Men aytdim,
“Mening buyurtmam necha kilogramm baliq?”

U javob bermadi, shuning uchun men uni otib tashladim.
Bir necha kishida uning surati tushirilgan lotereya kartasi bor edi.
Ularning barchasi sovrinni qo’lga kiritganidan xursand edi.
Ba’zi kunlar omadli.

Tell Me Why She Dies

Tell Me Why She Dies

What does a non-believer do
when his love is sick and dying?

I do as best I can
what prayers she wants me to do.
I don’t want to disagree with her at all.

Yes, I say to her,
it is God’s will for her to die

But I don’t believe it
don’t want it,
won’t let it, because

she is perfect,
she is kind, and
she can not die.

I tell her:

Just tell me
what to believe
and I will do that for you

Just tell me
you will not die

And I will come with you
to any church where they love you,
where they’ll save you for me.

Don’t die for me
just because I don’t believe.

You know
I’d let you go
anywhere at all you’d love to be.
Kisses, and let me

make my tears into
rivers of love, but you say

there is another river where

I can not
swim upstream with you.

Go with love and belief
and take my paddle to
canoe yourself into the hands of your God, and

say hello for me.

A Random Love

A Random Love

I don’t know anything about coping,
I’m just hoping you’re hopping to
cop a plea for me in a vague space
just because I have randomly
found you wanting,
maybe wanting me
with my random wisdom
that says I could love you
with a silly quip
that would make you smile, and
I so much want to laugh, as if
I could be your comedian of sorrow
who would grasp the
preposterousness of the rhinoceros
whose horniness for love we share.

All the Metaphors Are Dead (Draft 1)

This is a wild random start. I don’t know how far this can go, if at all. Actually it’s had a lot of quick on the spot editing and rearranging done too fast to record as drafts. So this I suppose isn’t really draft 1 but many 5 minor drafts. Adding the name was a last minute addition — the all “you” ‘s was a little vague and impersonal.

All the Metaphors Are Dead

What’s to be done, Emily Luna
if all the metaphors are dead?

You are the prettiest scientist I know.

I dare not compare thee-you
to a flower or say thee-you
are a star or pull the tides of love
like the moon or
shine like my sun, because

The twentieth century
and before has
taken the flowers,
the trees, the moon
the tunes and the stars

Shakespeare and their
ilk and elk have
horned out
all the dilemma horns.

Only the ancients
in their ignorance of science
could have thought heaven had
a location among the stars, but
there’s only other planets
with their own
Hollywood studios
and lots

Maybe, a guy
on a primitive planet
somewhere
thinks Heaven is
located near
our star that
we call the Sun
(I wonder what
he calls his star)

Anyway,
fly me to your heart
so I will circulate
to reach your soul
though it could be
beyond
your pretty brain I’m told
(saw it in a cat scan photo
and I know you like the cats,
know you like your dog star)

So, Emily Luna
you light me up
when I am
a dark matter

You are my
light energy
that drives me
searching for
my heaven, but
contrariwise

I have found
my heaven
in you.

When Leaves Are Afloat (2)

This version has a different ending instead of a cliff hanger.

The chirping of sorrow in the shadows of broken wings
let’s too many birds of loneliness
fall prey to predators
who pounce on despair.

She is uncertain in the forest
if she should
sing or hide

Newly grown camouflage
seems to blossom and branch;
winds on tree tops tear off
a few deciduous victims
still green but detached
before the fall approaching

Against the breezes, she’s
taped plastic sheeting
taped cardboard onto her
broken window, not letting
green leaves of happiness
fall in through her window,
not letting the fog drift in
that looks out onto the ocean
where his boat struggles
to land on her beach, but
is adrift in the fog, and
his horn seems
to not carry beyond
where she left her
beach blanket long ago.

Melancholy is the cry of the shipwrecked,
not knowing where the treasure lies,
mast lowered. Exquisite is

the flutter of pretty lashes
when he sails onto land
beyond the seagull’s cry
tacking into her breezes.

Guided only by a random leaf,
he sees her broken window
and tears apart the plastic hearing:
“My Love, come in!” and thus
then in hidden nest’s renewal
they sing a healing song so true

Nightmares

    A funny thing happened in a search for old poems maybe worth saving for a new book. I found an old barren poem (Nightmares) that’s in one of my books and I wondered if it was worth repeating. There was a short blog discussion about it which brought up an interesting subject. But before that here is the little trivial thing:
Nightmares

Dearest precious child with nightmares,
I have a white-light love to envelop you.

Let me reach you nocturnally,
so you can feel my dreams for you
to fly your joy across the heavens
eternally my lovely cherub, because
this night I am here at your bed and blanket.

I tell you: you are strong against monsters,
just because I know you’ll hold onto my love,
and blue eyes, my sacred child,
take my sword of love and
fight every dragon, please, dearest.

    Well, so, that was nothing. As I was saying…
    I remember a long time ago, reading about the Senoi tribe in Malaysia and how the whole tribe discussed their dreams and it was considered very important. It was a fad for awhile and then seemed to disappear. I never quite got into it, but I remember remarking that it’s a shame that when children in our culture have nightmares we just dismiss it by saying, “it’s only a a dream; don’t worry about etc.” And we have no solutions to offer them.
    So anyway, I decided to do a search for the Senoi and dreams and found an interesting article by G. William Domhoff:
Senoi Dream Theory: Myth, Scientific Method, and the Dreamwork Movement
G. William Domhoff
March, 2003

Domhoff, G. W. (2003). Senoi Dream Theory: Myth, Scientific Method, and the Dreamwork Movement. Retrieved November 11, 2021 from the World Wide Web: http://dreamresearch.net/Library/senoi.html

[Revision: Stewart’s version is mythology — The Senoi didn’t actually do any of this dream work. Whether the dream techniques work or not is a different question. But the Senoi didn’t actually do any of this. Wow, a whole movement based on false anthropological data. Well I suppose you can have wrong data right theory. I suppose it’s like calling something “animal magnetism” even though it has nothing to do with “magnetism.” But the actual attraction does exist.]

“For the Senoi, life is a veritable dream clinic. The concern with dreams begins at the break of day. ‘The Senoi parent inquires of his child’s dream at breakfast, praises the child for having the dream, and discusses the significance of it,’ reports Stewart. ‘He asks about past incidences and tells the child how to change his behavior and attitude in future dreams. He also recommends certain social activities or gestures which the dream makes necessary or advisable.'[8]”
[8. Stewart, “Mental Hygiene and World Peace,” p. 396: K. R. Stewart, “Mental Hygiene and World Peace,” Mental Hygiene 38 (1954):387-407]
P.S. Ut oh, there is a dark side: a difficult life with fear, thunderstorms,hookworms, tigers, bogeymen, and spirits… (see chapter two)

Froth in the cup of ocean foam

Foamy Dream

There is an ocean at dawn
that skirts the night tides
crashing swirls and sea birds

There is a froth to morning dreams.

I’ve been staring at foam in my coffee
remembering the ocean starring in ending rain
a conjured dream of frothy us, stars
beneath an oceanic drink of dawn

It was
coffee boiling hot for
the exigency of a dream, and

when from the freezer I plunged
an ice berg scoop of ice cream in it
the titanic foam made giggle bubbles
that speak of the dream when
you laughed your dainty blessing,
so pretty your voice, your smile in
the swirl of your skirt like a current
or maybe I just imagine such formality
like the majestic blue of the ocean at sunrise
because you know I don’t mind your bikini too,
love the virtues of shallow laughter-water,
know that the splash and the play
do pull tides from the deep imagination

I can be hot
to be cool

and we sat on the white sand
under the silly white umbrella we had borrowed
not imagining rain on our white beach, where we thought
if only sunshine would be in the heart then joy rises

for sunrise at the beach is
a glistening foam
silver crests
deep blues
an orange glow
and ice cream foam

and I dream of you
with fireworks in the sky
because…

maybe I imagine love
blue and foamy
silvery crested

A Stenographer Records a Child to Make a Card

My Poem For Mommy Steno
(Fiction)

Mommy, a Lady’s writing
big hand for me with commas.
Did you write me down, and
everything? Ok. Here goes:
No wait a second. Ok, umm

Mommy don’t let me cry too much.

I didn’t mean to be mean
to Daddy when he yelled

Didn’t want to make you
go to jail

Mommy, I’ll let him
touch my breast again
if they’ll let you out
from jail

Has he gone to Heaven?

Foster people say
you’re trash

Mommy, forgive me.
Didn’t want you to kill Dad.

Mommy, don’t let me cry too much.

My poem. Is it good, Mommy?

Lady don’t cry. Make it good? Ok?
Make it pretty on good paper.