pounce & mock

A sickness is taking this country by storm, a banal and petty and worn-out old form, the habit of empty and vacuous speech, the tendency to merely drone on and preach. Worse though is when people make fun of words, with much condescension and fat verbal turds, as soon as another gets her thoughts mixed up, they lash at her honor and shit in her cup. These assholes they sit there and patiently wait, until a close confidant should hesitate, make use of poor idiom or hapless phrase, whereupon these assholes then hound her for days. While quick to add insult they rarely assist, preferring instead to ridicule and hiss, and laugh while their victim just sits there ashamed, her pride much deflated, her competence lamed. So next time one close to you makes a error, please smile politely and then wait for her to finish her sentence before you let fly, with verbiage hateful, abrasive, or sly, for she's not the one standing there like a dunce, her self-esteem battered and shoddy for months, the wounded one is he who has geared his days, toward mocking his fellows and their verbal ways.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on time left

There are just three weekends, until my reprieve, until I can pack up and get out and leave. Then I'm off to Bali, for surfing and sun, for making new friendships and having some fun, for finding how deeply my root-ball has grown, for life without worry or snowfall or phone. I shall be returning but for just a spell, to make sure my business is holding up well, then into the wild blue yonder I'll go, with songs in my heartstrings and volumes to show for all of my wanderings, travels, and deeds – point me to the action and I'll find the weeds.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on time off

I took a few days off, to stuff up my head, to hand out some dollars and sleep in a bed, I'm back now and things that I chose to ignore, are lying in piles and heaps on the floor. Aho.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on the super-sprint

The coldness has hampered, my bicycle's gears, in truth things are worse than I have seen in years. To counter this error, of worn-out old grease, of wires that freeze and dérailleurs that seize, I've sampled and tinkered and finally found, the configuration that gets me around. I call it the super-sprint, because it's fast, allowing me quickly to mount every pass, allowing me also to rush across town, both neighbors and strangers think that I'm a clown. To enter the super-sprint I with care place, the rear-most dérailleur three gears up from low, then adjust the forward gears to climb or race, and scamper and hurry through ice, wind, and snow. The back gears keep skipping, far less than before, at least now I'm not being thrown to the floor, or vexed by a jumping chain while oscar mike, while braving the season of snows on my bike, while riding through blizzard and lasting darkness, feet going like crazy with sweat on my chest. If you pass a bicyclist pedaling hard, then give her some breathing room – more than a yard – then wave to her briefly or give her a nod, for she is a champion chosen by god, to prove to us others that sacrifice counts, that each of us by any means should renounce, the slavery that automobiles demand, the titles and payments that slip from our hands.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

sunshine rainbow thunder

Without stress or strain, time waxes and wanes, in pieces and sometimes complete; a vast Nameless Power, makes drought and rain-shower, sunshine, rainbow, thunder, and sleet. The ride can get bumpy, it goes fast and slow, give in to the chaos and go with the flow, have done now with yearning and foul discontent, if it hasn't happened yet it wasn't meant. A net spans the cosmos, it lets nothing through, we are all ensnared it in – him, me, and you; for us there is nothing, but silence and smiles, we stare like the infant, our gaze goes for miles. The Form it is formless, the Image is null, its edges are rounded, its surface is dull, its boundaries shifting, expanding, and vast, its anchor within us we each find at last.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on icy mornings

Icy mornings, frigid nights, filled with bright and warming lights, these we cherish, these we seek, wish that they could last for weeks. Gone too quickly, and too soon, now the dishes, pots, and spoons, pile up high and must be cleaned, soon they'll sparkle, glisten, gleam, fetch my apron and the soap, sweep the rug and coil the rope. I'd be overjoyed to host, friends and lovelies, all or most, now and later, any time, I'll bring trees and you bring wine. Come as singles, groups, or pairs, take it slowly up the stairs, then sit down and stay a while, rest your bones and crack a smile. Make it cozy, grab a throw, let your cares and worries go, leave behind your troubled past, love each moment, make it last.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

send more snow

The powder was falling, through the last few nights, we shoveled our driveways and canceled our flights. Today is a fest-day, send down from above, to ridicule singles but celebrate love. Our coffers are empty, our hearts they do soar, so finsih your sweeping then mop up the floor.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on winter champions

Their eyes wide with wonder, their hearts set to boil, the best of us humans invade Russian soil. To Sochi they wander, to that sunny place, where they shall contend and break records and race. To heights they aspire, to summits they reach, surrounded by coaches and well-wishers each. The only true winners, are they who compete, who sacrifice childhood and friendship and love, who stand up and go forth and perform great feats, who lace up the footwear and helmet and glove. They're maniacs, winners, and champions all, we watch them white-knuckled, excited, enthralled, we cheer and clap for them as much as we can, they are our magnificent Olympians.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

fields often plowed

The plowshares are running, the seed gets put in, it's not up to humans to determine when, the efforts repeated in warm darkened rooms, should finally start bearing fruit in the wombs. The people are trying, they're giving their best, they're swallowing boosters and waiting for crests, they've squabbled and argued and shouted out blame, they've made up and tried it again and again. They stick to the standard, the one we all know: Quick to spit and raw of hide, cut the shit and come inside.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

discing on codorus lake, 8FEB2014

shalk of wame

Her outfit is shabby her coiffure is lame, by golly this might be her first shalk of wame. Come here to the window the view is just fine, her gait might be sloppy but she's making time. Rush hither my girlies and look at this whore, who foully dishonors our late father's door. Let's rush her and pull out her sex-knotted hair, we'll pounce when she reaches the harbor-side stair. Be quiet, you monster, and come back to play, it's not ours to punish that young girl today, the gods say we dare not to hinder her way. Return to the circle or I'll make you lame, you leave her alone on her grand shalk of wame.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on choosing names

Call it Pahá Sápa and not Mt. Rushmore, one's rooted in treason the other in lore. Lakota face challenges, they are kept poor, by agent, bartender, casino, and whore. The Black Hills lie battered and bruised and attacked, by well-heads and toxins and roughnecks who frack. Another example – to some it is new – is the reddish monolith called Uluru; its boundaries ruptured, its children turned out, by criminal, rapist, backstabber, and lout; its treasure-troves plundered, its forests torn down, where once were found healing herbs now grows a town. These places are magic, we must keep them so, their import and mystery constantly grow, their outlines and boundaries more maps must show, their wonder and majesty mankind should know. So next time a liar spins yarns without shame, repeat and remember these true ancient names. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on trashing seats

First the big one, then its mate, passed on through the iron gate and – poof – was merely litter. Now the broken, now the weak, the lame and worn-out, dusty thing, chucked, discarded, thrown away, its worth not real but token. Over railing, down it goes, through the trodden, spoiled snows, there to lie for two more weeks, the house is spacious, wide, and open. Dad he said to do this deed: Let us toss this worthless crap; solemnly we bid adieu, have a beer and take a nap.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥