tanka

.

si
lence
rattled 60s
songs off the
granitesque smooth shelf
in my mind’s echo chamber
.
and
the invisible guy there, my witness
decides to blog it all
under a new
name
&
he
says
oh my,no:no
debonair today,
no petit-burgeoise again
{coz
this time baby
he – no I – mean business}
&
soon
the scene
swells with
regret’s shadows
all too familiar again
recalling crisp green spring’s
lettuce-like opening to the young
rascals’ “Groovin”
regaling in this
one little echo
we all agreed
to call this, a
moment,now
how real
o, my-
o
.

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poem for mulla nasruddin: investigative reporters died their hard death

investigative reporters died their hard death
by
bgflanagan

*

Dedicated to Mulla Nasruddin

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Borneo’s Warriors liked talking heads

Well, prickheads wi’ bitcheads on a stick –

How that news went – NOW hear their crap flow?
An’
Howse your blue eyed boy (6) there, now, lil Mick?

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.

Investigative reporters died their hard death
A battle won without a single lil arrow,(1)
But
The greatest ability is to see through apprearances: (2)
Iranian C802s outfly our lil Sparrows. (3)

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O
Call me just a fool, some ole patriot
Waltz me around the world a lil while
Gie me a taste of the way it was
Once
Whilst the sunshine still finds his smile…

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So
Remember the lesson from ole’ Borneo
Talkin’ heads had a thing or two comin’ –
An’
Remember Kipling’s wariness,too, of the Pashtu an’ shamans-
Like Greeks bearing gifts a-singin’ an hummin’…

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Notes

1. Sun Tzu Bing Fa  (Shandong Poet Sun Tzu, The Art Of War living in the Spring and Autumn Period of China  approx 650 bce)
2. Dhammapada Buddhist Pali Canon
3. Trento, Secret History, http://dcbureau.org/20100310340/National-Security-News-Service/the-secret-history-part-ii-the-c-802-cruise-missile-how-the-cia-left-the-navy-defenseless-against-an-iranian-missile.html; et al.;especially http://www.globalsecurity.org/military/world/china/c-802.htm
and
http://www.fas.org/man/dod-101/sys/missile/row/c-802.htm
4. Hopefully no intro necessary for the legendary Mulla Nasruddin
5. Kipling, Rudyard  (1865-1936) Poet, much time in Afpak areas who said among other things it was better to save one last round to kill yourself (I think he said into the ear) if the hordes of Afghani (women) are coming for you. http://www.online-literature.com/kipling/

6. blue eyed boy  – from e e cummings   “Buffalo Bill’s Defunct” poem, (“blueeyed boy”) http://www.boppin.com/cummings.html

XB

All Rights Reserved
Copyright 2010

Author
bgflanagan

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bullets from wonderland

bombers over Baghdad
bullets from wonderland
life is just a bowl of cherries
aint democracy grande
.
kalyishnikovs in Kabul
50 cals in opium’s hand
we’ll train’m to fight their cousins
oops
more bullets from wonderland
.
[talley-ban’s under ever’ pillow
was’nt osama tali-o-iban?
all them furneneers is terrist fellers-
boom
go the bullets from wonderland]
.
some may say
life is strange
hell bound in lil handbaskets
but wonderland dont need no investigatin’
reports ’round Dover’s caskets:
.
that oil is we-the-empire’s
gotta let the pipelines flow
whilst talking heads spew the good news
– it’s a fair and balanced show
.
so
uniformed
and uninformed we’ll go
the world just ain’t enough
open the gates of hell marines
wonderland’s done got real tough
.

copyright 2010

all rights reserved

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Apotheosis

Apotheosis
.
.
.
beyond the tracks of tickless time:
once I’d found the way;
where the coils of magic wound
the skirts of night to day
.
and
once there, ’twas that place I trod
more far than stars above
where
ONCE I caress’d the crystal crown
of beauty’s truth: her Love.
.
.
.
@2005
PRC, Azerbaijan, USA

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our watercolours fade cruelly today

акварель

our watercolours fade cruelly today
not from the huffing spring mists
with their green taunting
moist licks

nor with startled tears which
almost flap our sweet little linen folio
into the strings of memory’s winds:

from
that day
spring was our fire,
ours so firm, only ours fanning the
defiant Azeri flames out of the blind sands
when we gleefully splashed across the boulevard
back into the retreat
of our blankets

now our colours, once a tight flock of starlight
coalesce to dull gouache here and there
and alone I caress the edges thanking
the darkness for its mercy, of
returning to candle-pitch
its black flows

now I hold in my mind’s hands this masterpiece
which we did craft so very insanely
knowing that we made it through

without
discovering if anything
sprouts on the other side
of love

for
I
know
we don’t care

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e s p r e s s o

e s p r e s s o
.
.
.

by
.
BG Flanagan©2009 USA, Azerbaijan, PRC

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I.

 

 

O
the
pain
today

here with my not expensivest not cheapest
expresso machine spitting out
my second cup:

this morning, early riser me
in possession of the big picture, me

I
steal
the tender
rosy moments
of lil dawn away
into my dirty jeans
pockets stuffed with
promises I have
eagerly made
omigod how
many

they brim
these pockets.

II.

an’
I do
wonder:
did they take it,
did they utter the hippocratic oath

“Do No Harm First Physician”
did they, who bombed
they who attacked/packed/stacked/sacked Iraq
stilletto staccatto
humpin thumpin
M60 weapon of choice over stone throwing youths
Did they remember they were
the physicians
rendering
surgical strikes
enacting regime change?

‘n
I do
wonder
were they
proud to be uniformed
and uninformed search
and destroy agents of wannabe neocon armageddon
‘n all I wanna know is for who for what
did they go over there in the first place ‘n
most of all the biggie question is well blood, WHY?

III.

Some
one amongst
the goodole ‘merikan
ultraviolence
said
on
one
puce day
’bout ‘2004
somewhere in bugaloo Baghdad perhaps
he
or she
said, beholding the sacking of the museums
the torture of the innocents
the return to life before the 1800s
oh
the
humanity
o

the
agony:
yes an all this n more:

he
/she said:
the apprentice has left; behold
the master is here
amongst the spent uranium tank shells
death skull teeth glowing radium in
the pale puce twittering twilight
desert noon
Yes all this n more

IV.

an’
how
convenient
here in ‘Merica
to sip my easy second cup
of expresso highnote thinking
how nice it would be to have bought
the most expensive expresso machine
the one with 5 gizmos
with built in steel sharp grinders
the one with steam pressure
you never ever touch:
the one at Bloomie’s
the one which makes
my coffee before
I get my bigfat
‘Merican ass
outta bed
03:30

.

yes

all this

‘n more.

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unspeakable

unspeakable
by
bg flanagan
copyright 2009 USA, Azerbaijan
I.
by
now
the snappy
agrarians had left them,
sprawling puce acid rain cities
the echoing skeleton-ribs of economy on life support:
the empty promises of madison ave brands fizzling like
a dud birthday candle spitting in the torrid mists
:
o,
by
then
the isms and their ists
disappeared down a drainpipe
sucked in with a Katrina hurricane like
thaaaawooooop:
post
modernist faded
new deal went down
20th century flopped too
faded
failed
flopped
thwooooop:
all of’ ’em
there was no name for it except one
no one dared speak it because it had failed again
capitalism
an’
no one dared mention the failure it was unspeakable
failure failure failure and war was the only-est answer, sir
.
.
.
II.
an’
like the indians left their maples and pines thatched back a century-so before
startled
fighting to the last axe and adze  for land and
begging their cousins to make
no marks on paper, no
never never ever
do it:
now
there are no more straw-hatted chainsmokers waiting in the station
the gutted downtown buildings
now
like greying pumpkins
sit silent
windows flapping open to howl occasionally
as if with alzheimer’s
with the 18wheelers 12 floors below zooming in the winds
a cat licks his paws preening on the sill
o,
once
the American
savannahs and
cedar forests
and birch groves
throbbed a thick rich sap blood
with quivering hunters
and sumptuous sonsie squaws
now
alas
soon cities were  born
propped up
held together
less than an inch away from stillborn:
spit-an’-bailing-wire
contraptions:
the CITY
the tangled
wire and closet heaps
of
promises
bank bonds
and
stubby fingered ladies’ savings accounts
protected in nice little gold embossed booklets
smelling and looking like baby passports
.
.
.
III.
an’
now
of recent
all was sent in lil evil lawyers’ boxes
to the giraffe throated city incenerator
burned unceremoniously there along
with the carcasses of unwanted pets
my god the smell
now
dry
all ash
all
dry as
a
stick
of deo
in the sun
my my what 200 years hath wrought
.
.
.
IV.
so today the bright eyed daughters
and the shaved weightlifting sons
wonder what the morass
called urban downtown
really is and was about:
all they know is from
fading kodak b&w
prints once rolled
over by a wick
of alcohol:
conjured
images;
funny, it
must’ve
been
now.
V.
oh
how
easy
maybe
an espresso
before I catch
my surly bondless
flight somewhere?
all
the same.
but
if you
do get old
lucky you learn
it is tragedy everywhere
and you cannot travel anywhere
without taking it along:
whoever said you can’t
take it with
you
?

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