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audio verson – set volume before clicking: Sun


Sun –by everyman jack

I shine for you
I am a sun
I vaunt not
I boast not
I am one of many suns
But I shine for you

I shine for your mercurial whirl
your effulgence, your brilliance
your quotidian butterfly rush through existence
here today, gone tomorrow
ball of energy
your desire to transmit, emit, remit, and flit
from one space to another but always
communicating and innovating
absorbing and reflecting
and you think I light up your life
but I do it just to see you shine

You are my venus
You are love and beauty
orbiting clockwise
not anticlockwise as others do
because beauty brings its own direction
I don’t ask if love is contextual
I don’t ask if beauty would be so beautiful
in some other solar system
I just shine
I shine for you
That’s what I do

You are my earthy
scratch an itchy back
in a hot sand
zephyr sniffing
hair blowing
water dripping
surf riding
snow angel
You are my optimally heeled
catamaran in a wild wind
You are my texturally consummate
I will never let you go
When you shake off the fleas of humanity
and rejuvenate yourself into the next eon
harmonizing to Joan Baez singing
Bob Dylan’s “Forever Young”
I will still shine for you
That’s what I do

When your martian bellicosity is seen
for what it is, a resentment of the hurt inflicted
by past civilizations that didn’t care about
the hurt they did to you – to their own detriment
I understand and send warm rays to help
you heal and feel again the warmth of your own
rejuvenating heart until your red anger
turns agains to green and blue
because I shine for you
that’s what I do

Your jovian magnanimity
Your saturnine tenacity
Your tipsy Uranus
Your brooding Neptune
Your mysterious Pluto
shroud yet complement the more obvious
All those things even I don’t know about
inspire me to marvel
And yes, the unknown,
the X factor bring the whole of you
into an integral completeness

and me?
I am part of you
You are part of me
We are just holons
holding on and whirling through the
on a joyride

We are a planetary system
to be precise and
I am your sun
I vaunt not that fact
I do not boast
I am one of many suns
But I shine for you

If all the grains of sand
on all the beaches
of the planet earth
were counted
that number of grains
is approximately the number of
suns in our universe
so I am one of many
but you
you are my one out of many
you are my “e pluribus unum”
all my planets comprise one you
I shine for you
That’s what I do

[from all righs reserved]

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Here is jack’s one paragraph or so guide to creating poetry. 

Beware authorities. If you find yourself in that setting try to stick around a bit for comedy’s sake. 

Don’t try to rhyme if you haven’t a gift for it. Robert Frost (most widely known US poet) though, said, “poetry without rhyme is like tennis without a net.” I suppose a dozen kinds of rhyme exist. I think my favorite is found in Emily Dickinson. She will have a stanza (say four lines) She will have a solid clear pure rhyme in every line but one. Say the last line. It may be a half rhyme: a different consonant, a short vowel,something that makes the line a little different from the rest. So one must ask, “why is that line different?” It is different e.g. to accent meaning. Perhaps like an exclamation point in punctuation. 

I love the hiphop technique of repeating a rhyme sound until it is about to scorch into monotony.

Robert Pinsky, was US poet laureate about a decade ago. He said, “there are no rules.” Some assume that removes responsibility. Rather it increases it. He is saying you can do anything you want with poetry. But, you must make it work. 

For me poetry is best thought of as jazz. That is one of the reasons I think poetry is best when performed aloud. It IS performance. Some really great poets fail in delivery. Not loud enough, poor pitch, poor enunciation, poor timing, well read, flat. The current poet laureate of San Luis Obispo, Jerry Douglas Smith, is notable for his ability to capture dialect. In one of his poems you hear the poet dialing through the radio driving along a road. Different dialects, language accents, attitude. Each voice connects to the overall poem in a vital way. 

Whatever language techniques, poetic devices, word coinage, meanings twists, ah hahs, paintings drawn, are fair game. Here is how you know a poem is good. As you deliver, check the faces of the audience members. When they are smiling, nodding, on the edge of their seats, crying, laughing, laughing and crying, ole, bravo: that is a good poem. No feeling is as great to a poet as clearly discernable audience reaction. That is true sometimes even when they are throwing tomatoes or eggs. Love every smatter, kid. You have the experience of a life time. Twist of thought will come into a vibrant poetry creation session. When you get a good one and perform it, try to play it as a kayaker plays the rapids in swift moving water. Have no fear. You may drown. No problem. You are a poet. Eternally.

In the next node of my stream I will put up a poem called BLUE HAIRED POETRY. I don’t often let this one go out running around. Some myopic people might think it is stereotypical. They may be correct. And they may be right, as it were.

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Iconoclast – AUDIO

Christ Cleaning the Temple


i am still yearning, i am still learning
to choose free of conditioning
to select out of silent consideration
to expectorate sugar coated propaganda
to regurgitate traditional victuals
to make this life my own
no pawn in their game
no name that they name
no same that is their same
my life is my own web site
no templates please
no dreamweaver, no web fusion
let me write the raw code
let me create my own icons
let me compose my own style sheet
let me become my own layout
i am an ancient youth
still yearning, still learning to be free

i am not the sheep
i am not the bellwhether
i am not the shepherd
i am not the wolf who steals the lamb
i am not the eagle who feeds from its carcass
i am not form
i am the infinitely inchoate
i am the always becoming
i am not the “I AM THAT I AM”
i am the “becoming that which i am becoming”
still yearning, still learning to be free

credit card numbers cannot contain me
computer programs will not process me, confess me
big brother will not discover
the secrets of my soul
how i become whole
that spymaster mole
will not unroll
this secret code
because it is not
it is becoming
it is the humming
of the summing
of the me
still yearning, still learning to be free

i am not your nielsen rating
i am not your prophet prating
i am not your flag waver
i am not your citizen
i am not your patriot
i am not your passport bearer
i am not your ballistic
i am not your statistic
for you cannot see this sample
you cannot fathom this six feet under
becoming asunder
the root of the shoot of a tree with no name
the story with absolutely no history
still yearning, still learning to be free

i am not your altar boy to fondle
i am not your poster child for a god fearing upbringing
i am not the blood stained proof of virginity on your white wedding night sheet
i am not the contents of your skinner box
i am not the pavlov’s dog for your ringing bell
i am the becoming of originality
still yearning, still learning to be free



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shebrushed = AUDIO VERSION                MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA

she brushed a wavy arc
it soon became a bay
a line a road along the park
and it went that a way

it ended on the edge of town
and then became a trail
she brushed it ’til it went around
the bay, a boat, a sail

crested rise and disappeared
into an evening sun
a flick just there a figure reared
a figure of someone

a silhouette on a crest
that one just could not say
was headed toward the west
or coming this a way

it hung on many different walls
each time a different name
when asked what it was really called
she said to me it’s all the same

it is not to take someone somewhere
nor bring somebody back
it speaks of no concern nor care
it is art not artifact

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Audio for Nonconnah Yards (set volume before clicking) NonconnahYards

One railroad came from Chicago, bound for New Orleans
Or vice versa
One railroad came from Little Rock headed for Charleston
Or the other way around
In Nonconnah Yards south of Memphis
The rails crossed

My father knew that
My father rode those rails
Long before the Great Depression
Made it a requirement for many

Too restless for regular school
My father educated himself
From a faggot of belt bound books
He studied in the school of empty boxcars
While scenes rolled by on
The screens of those open doors
Like high definition television
Before its time

My father went home to his father’s farm
In Sardis, Mississippi
Where to his Faulknerian family’s dismay
He harvested a beautiful Cherokee sharecropper
Who became my mother

He learned from his father
The art of building houses
He built good ones before he went blind
Going blind he blamed on
Zane Grey, Bret Harte, Mark Twain, and Rabelais
Years later I would drive him through Memphis and he would say
Stop here or there so I could admire a house he had built
Back when he could see
When I was born, he was already blind
He would run his hands over my face to see what I looked like
He couldn’t feel my color

My father returned to Nonconnah Yards
Where he had jumped so many freights
Just south of those railroad yards in Memphis
That blind man built his last house
With a store attached to the side
Then he bade those trains from Chicago
Bring him boxcars of used shoes and clothes
Some he sold for cash
Most went on credit
That is, he gave them away
But people remembered and
By and by they made him money

My older brother and I were the
Only white kids for five miles around
It never occurred to me that
My family was strange – half blind and color deficient

Decades later
As I sit here in this Copenhagen bar where
People have no concept of racial discrimination
I am riding cosmopolitan rails
Looking out the door of my boxcar
At that boxcar door television screen
In my mind

I see that strange color deficient kid playing
With his friends
Totally unaware that five miles north
A great leader would be assassinated
Totally unaware that five miles to the east
An uneducated white man would own a grand estate
Paid for with money from singing black people’s songs
Ignore-ant white people would come to pay homage
At Graceland
In a white town named White Haven
Totally unaware of Nonconnah Yards
Where the railroads cross

I sit here in this Copenhagen bar
Drink my Tuborg
Amidst the clacking of the wheels
Of my daddy’s boxcars
I hear Peter Gabriel singing
I grieve

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Gem In I-ambic Diameter


gemini with hum audio version, before clicking adjust your volume

He slid the glass door open,

stepped out onto the darkened deck
Down below
a hundred decibel surf
pounded the Pacific shore
trying to exchange vibrations
with the Atlantic
He could not see the surf
He could feel it and hear it

He turned his attention to the sky
knowing where his eyes would come to rest
knowing what w


ould be there
at one a m on oh one oh eight oh six
at one eight oh degrees south
at sixty degrees from midheaven

The Pacific went sile


Vibrations ceased
He heard only his constellation
his trapezoid
comprising four stars
wonderfully unsquare
such simple astounding asymmetry
such Janused dissimilar duality
such unbounded agility

such readiness
to be anything
just anything the cosmos needed

His reflection, his Gemini, his doppelgaenger, his twin

Some elsewhere in the universe
Some other perspective
Someone was standing
on a darken

ed deck
enthralled with the same four stars
as a perfect parallelogram
so perfectly equiangular
such simple astounding symmetry
such focussed unity
such rigid permanence
eternally its same self
Poor bastard!

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(adjust sound before clicking)

grounddown  a ditty inspired by Margaret Atwood’s novel, HANDMAID’S TALE


keep on grinding up

don’t let the grind down grinders grind you down
don’t be ground down
don’t be ground round
keep on grinding up
keep on grinding up
keep on grinding up

margaret atwood wrote it down
for those ground down
in the handmaid’s tale
when the ground down frail
read the secret wall
said down ground don’t frown above all
no lite te bastardes carborumdorum

the first rung to riding a rail
when they call you frail
reply to the grind
upward bound in mind
writing’s on the wall don’t erase that call
no lite te bastardes carborumdorum

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Safe Sax

saxophonejones  Click there for the audio mp3 file. Adjust sound before clicking.

Yes, I know I should be finishing that book on Maya ‘prophecy’ with surmises as to its direst possible content and ramifications. But, the tenor sax got in the way. So, I took it for a walk. When we arrived at the boulevard bus stop, the sax was tired of walking and wanted to sit where the boulevard sound drowns out the blow job. Today the sax and I agreed on a medium of Clapton blues from the Chronicles album. I got to toss in my favorite Bob Seger tune, In Your Time, in exchange for the sax’s choice of Sultans of Swing from Dire Straits.

Then we picked up the mail from PO and walked on back thinking about a novel born of the thoughts that run through the heads of people leaving the PO who are wondering why the old man and sax choose that bus stop bench to perform. And then some neighbor says, “you must play us a song sometime.” And I think, “Yeah, that’s just what my neighbors need, me blowing their pacemakers off frequency with 150 decibels of vintage Mark Knopfler guitar as blown through a single shot tenor sax barrel.”

Then I put on Take Five and listening to Brubeck’s piano, Desmond’s alto, and Joe Morello’s drums I reverently revered the time Tobola said, “What if we got some Poly Space, a jazz band like SLO Mambo to play behind Ray Clark Dickson reading his stuff, you know his birthday is coming up? We could sell raffle tickets, The winner could ride to the gig in the limo that picks up Dickson. It could be an art council fund raiser to beat all arts council fund raisers.”

And Kate of Stuhlberg fame said yeah and everybody said yeah including Dickson and SLO Mambo. And I held out for an OK to play alto sax from the back of the room while Dickson did a jazz poem from the front.

I came out of my revery feeling good about my bank reserves. Not the financial bank, but those stored in The Bank of Reminiscences.

And that is how blog articles get written. On this keyboard, at least.

The media memories of that fund raiser are stored away. So I will put this online with an mp3 copy of my own sax poem with some simple back up from my that same tenor sax that enchanted the POed boulevardiers a little while ago.

And then I am definitely going to finish that book that no one will buy. Well, pluck’em if they can’t stand a poke.

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The Latter Day Saints of Maya Prophecy or Last Flight for Mercury

So, what about Maya prophecies whose time of fulfillment coincides with our date of 20/21 December of 2012? If asked, any hip Maya individual will smile knowingly and say, “those crazy gringos! What Maya prophecies?” Because no such related Maya prophecies really exist? Only conjecture? Granted, good money making conjecture? We will see!

And … without a knowledge of 21st century science when the ‘prophecies’ would have been made in the year, say, 700CE, what would, minus exact scientific terms would be the worst imaginable catastrophe could a prophecy fulfill that would occur in the week preceding the celebrating of the anniversary of the birth of Christ a la 2012?

So, two important questions: will the Maya prophecy, real or not, come true? and what is the worst possible disaster that could be foretold for 2012’s close out sale?

A short and pithy book will appear in a couple days on Kindle by CanDo Jack ( ). The title of the book is The Latter Day Saints of Maya Prophecy. And, hey, if you have One Click Kindle Delivery you can get it fast and read it in time to light out for Mars should fear take control.

I will tweet when the book goes up.

The book considers: one, the idea that such a prophecy exists has a very interesting source story. And, two, the fact that a prophecy does NOT exist has never prevented greedy “prophecy experts” from making a buck off it and three, the fact that a prophecy does not exist has never prevented terrorists from using it as a date to schedule an incredible catastrophe. And, four, such a catastrophe could be the most devastating catastrophe ever experienced by humanity. And the most novel, and the most feared for the last fifty years by threat knowledgeable US Defense experts. And is more threatening now than ever before.

More on that beginning with a little background.

More than a year ago, I began researching Maya history for a fact filled novel entitled Nine Elevens. The term ‘MayaN’, capital N for emphasis, is reserved as an adjective for the language of the Maya people who exist, by the way, primarily in Guatemala. They have been there for certainly three and probably five thousand years. They are the reason you can have bananas on your cereal.

Not to get lost in word misuse and Maya abuse but here is a quote from a review of a review of Mel Gibson’s “Apocalypto.” The review of the review is at

One is a Maya, two or more are Mayans?

Well, no. Here’s the convention used by Mesoamerican archaeologists. Always choose “Maya” unless referring to a language, in which case the word is “Mayan” (there are at least two dozen living Mayan languages.)

The people are Maya, not Mayans. Our reviewer writes of “a Mayan urban center.” Those in the know would say “a Maya urban center.” He speaks of “Mayan culture.” Nope. Say “Maya culture.”

That entire gotcha may seem to be more archeological language detail than is required. But, keep it in mind for the next week or so because that detailed knowledge may be handy for making some judgments about the credentials of Maya Prophecy ‘scholars.’

My novel, Nine Elevens, began with my discovery that the Mountain Meadows Massacre occurred on a 9/11 date, 1857 specifically. The location, specifically, was about thirty miles west of Cedar City, Utah. Personally, until that point the only thing famous to me about Cedar City, Utah was that in 1993 I arrived in Utah from my home near Munich with two goals: one, sharing Utah’s weightless white wonderful ski slopes with my wife; and, two, renting a plane in Cedar City to fly her around the entire Grand Canyon.

Years later my interest in the Cedar City area was resurrected with the story of The Mountain Meadows Massacre and a trail of 9/11s which took me eventually back to the land of the Maya on the date 9/11/911.

I was hooked. My brain, joined by my heart early on, spent the next three months with the Maya. I was with them in the first great civilization, then through the classic civilization and six hundred years later to meet the Spanish Conquistadors.

By then my Classic Maya twin brother heroes Pacall and Exall had created themselves and gotten ship wrecked on a small island in the Caribbean. The island’s chief cannibal was explaining to the tree bound twins how he would prepare them for supper. Writer’s responsibility to ensure the story continued demanded that the twins be rescued. But, by whom?

Fortunately, the writer’s background brain delivered, under threat of an inaugural case of writer’s block, the character, Phoenix, the first Phoenician Jew. At least the first Phoenician Jew, sailor, explorer, cosmopolitan, dilettante, inventor, scientist whom the writer had ever encountered. And the first to reach Maya.

And neither Maya nor the Caribbean were ever the same again. And the etymology of Caribbean, cannibal, was restored if for no other reason than to honor James Michener, whose 672 page novel, CARIBBEAN, introduced those cannibals to the readers of the world in 1989. That tome sits next to its German cognate cousin, KARIBBEAN. They stare at me from my bookshelf to ensure I give them proper recognition. They stand shoulder to shoulder with an older sister, Iberia, whose Michener knowledge base and influence provides some help on the al Andalus chapters of my NINE ELEVENS. Remind me sometime to tell you the tale of how I happened to have in hand a half read copy of IBERIA when I arrived in Spain from Denmark in 1980 to work with Iberia Airlines. And forgive my typing a final sentence to this paragraph as my heart takes a brief leap back to Messick High School in Memphis where I first read Michener’s Bridges at Toko Ri instead of reading Chemistry, the only course I ever failed. Even then Michener wrote long books.

BREAKING THE MAYA CODE by Michael D. Coe introduced me to the cast of characters who did the breaking. The documentary by the same name is primarily favored by David Coe. Linda Shele’s extensive contribution and her taking a teenaged vacationer in tow. That charmingly brilliant kid became Dr. David Stuart who wrote the amazing book, THE ORDER OF DAYS: THE MAYA WORLD AND THE TRUTH ABOUT 2012. David’s knowledge and his tenacity in getting and securing that knowledge thrilled me and rescued me from a multitude of gotchas about the ‘Maya prophecy’ with the same vigor and analytical thinking that allowed my hero, Phoenix, to rescue Pacall and Exall, two of my Maya heroes from NINE ELEVENS.

At this point you may see growing in the knowledge that I have categorized the world of Maya ‘researchers’ into those looking for the long story of the real Maya and the short story of those looking for what can be boxed and sold in 2012 in time to be ready for the first social sensation of 2013.

But let me let Dr. David Stuart say what I want to say about that better than I can. I choose to let him say that in the book that will appear as mentioned on Kindle in a very few days.

And let me leave the laying out of potential events to that book as well.

For now, let this article be a prophetic announcement that lo, a Kindle book will shortly appear that might make you want to get on your space motorcycle and blast away to a different and prophetically safer planet.


[Be advised that reading a Kindle book does not require a Kindle device. Free apps are available for reading Kindle books from a number of devices including smart phones. One’s Kindle library storage may comprise devices (say laptop or PC peripheral storage) as well as the ‘Cloud’. Also, Kindle readers may find a book and in less than a minute have purchased it via One Click and be reading it from their own Kindle library.]

Follow me on twitter at NineElevens.

If you would like this article in mp3 audio, leave a comment saying so below.






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I Am Thankful for Texas and Abhor It.

I have always been a slow bloomer. Thus I take comfort in my being more than one flower and bold enough to tackle the writing of a book on how to switch immediately to any one of Jung’s sixteen personality types. I long for the day when all sixteen will bloom.

Until then I have be grateful for what Texas has meant to my life.

I left home, Memphis, when I was 13. I was going to Texas to be a cowboy. I know. At 13 I not only did not know how to choose places but, my ability to choose professions had not blossomed either.

But because I struck out for Texas I got a ride with a kind gentleman headed for Texas. We stopped in Little Rock, speaking of loser places, and he took me to a movie. The Caine Mutiny. I became forever a Bogie fan. (OK, I can’t choose actors either, you are probably saying.)

Because of Texas I knew what battle BM’s bloggle was referring to. Because of Texas I read my favorite story of the Alamo (Poplar tree). It was actually about Jim Bowie (bowie knife) who died at the Alamo. I forget the author but, the title was The Iron Mistress.

But most of all, Texas was the cause of my writing one of my favorite songs (by me or anyone else). It is called Long Way Across Texas.

But, the other side of the coin is that I hate Texas most of all because it started the chain of states that Mexico lost to the US in The Mexican American War. What is bad about that? Well, I am now a Californian (the NINTH largest GNP in the world). California is also referred to as Califia, and Nueva Espana (New Spain). I cannot help but conclude that had California remained part of Mexico, it would eventually have, by sheer weight, (or earthquake) have broken away from Mexico with no hard feelings, and as such would have become a great country, probably the greatest on this continent. And probably the only country to have two official languages, and the common sense to appreciate its heritage.

And heritage makes me think of a previous girlfriend, Palma Ortiz, whose family came from Spain to California with the explorers and settled. Palma never heard her parents speak Spanish. They did not want her to know a language that would cause her discrimination. Palma, requerdos! And that’s the funniest part of this bloggerel. I, the non-hispanic know Spanish because I had to learn it to remain in Spain and be able to communicate. But, Palma does not know Spanish.

Arriba Califia! Jodete, Texas!