Thursday, April 16th, 2015...6:35 pm

another note from the editor…

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Cattails, Bill Domonkos, 2015 (Photo: Mug Shot from the 1930’s, Tyne & Wear Archives & Museums)

Cattails by Bill Domonkos, 2015 (Photo: Mug Shot from the 1930’s, Tyne & Wear Archives & Museums)

…Outlaw Poetry is back!

Click here… for the new web page!

54 Comments

  • klaus,
    are you okay? is Outlaw back for submissions?

    best,
    rich q

  • yes, and the new page is here: http://www.outlawpoetry.com/

    Please subscribe as well!

    k

  • LOVE SONG FOR A QUEER NATION

    Memories are pressing up to thickening light
    floating when the moon sees our worlds end.
    They bring back unfinished symphonies and at
    Lands End a sea change under risen consciousness.

    Get washed I beseech/ tell my blind handsome city.
    Today I write my autograph on your red blood cells.
    Your skies are plum-colored, your boats oar-less,
    bobbing in the marmalade waves. Your Bayside harbor

    has a stone in its mouth. Winds tear, disarrange clouds; rain sings
    at noon in a pacific grove, a rainbow seeming both
    truth and art. Wingless buzzing rises in grey fusion.
    Spring winds sing a holocaust song, red love hymns for a

    queer nation, yellow roses for so many dying becoming blue as
    slowly the wingless rises, oyster-hued—old linoleum (littered, torn).
    At night yourstrange heart is music learned in love, moon milk of
    silence. America, ,San Francisco, where are your rites?

    There is no incantation that can bring the moment back into patterns
    we have seen too late. The time is short but some days never end.
    Tomorrow never comes from waiting and there is no joyous lake.
    There is no incantation to bend moments back we saw too late.

    At your feet a deep-pile garnet rug are our children: they’re broken
    bisque porcelain. I write my autograph on your red blood cells.
    Once calf-white, your promise is memory tongued eggshell-thin, a
    doomed diadem; our need desperate geography and a healing

    love song for a queer nation. © (c) Edward Mycue 16 April 2015

  • Lands End

    Curtains riding
    victims living
    sledding along
    a floating longing drifting twilight
    cruiseship busses
    ferrying upperpaid elite workers
    down back wharfside corridors
    feud in San Francisco
    at land’s end now
    brings back unfinished symphonies
    sea change under consciousness
    rotting memory
    pressing upward
    thickening light
    scaring awareness
    letting go
    flowing
    when the moon sees world end.

    © Edward Mycue 20 February 2015

  • Hi Edward and thanks for your poems. Will add them soon on the new Outlaw Poetry page and will send you the link. k

  • Welcome back brother! looking forward to checking the poetry again!!

  • Great to see you rebels back.

  • Hi Jake, please do not forget to subscribe to the new page: http://www.outlawpoetry.com/

  • Hi Grant, please do not forget to subscribe to the new page: http://www.outlawpoetry.com/

  • PARABLE OF 2 FISH & 2 BIRDS (FROM A DREAM BY RICHARD STEGER, AN ARTIST)
    In the dream, on the banks lay 2 fish with human teeth and 2 brown birds with rough feathers and long beaks. The fish were alive. Richard thinking the fish were safe because they were as large as the birds and with such teeth his vision wandered, but when he looked back there was only a single fish and it was pierced by the long beak of one of the birds. He said he didn’t even know if it was killed, so he just beat it out of there.
    It makes him wonder why and me to question why it was a parable and not an allegory. Richard said it was spiritual.
    © EDWARD MYCUE 2 MAY 2015

  • “But his many failures read less as mischance than as apprenticeship.”
    Josephine Miles, from “For Magistrates”, Collected Poems 1930-1983

    (cf. Confucius: Do not inflate an error into a crime.)

    © Gathered together by Edward Mycue

  • PERIGINATION COMMENTS ON MY POEM SEAWALLS’
    (MADE TO HIRAM LAREW in Washington, D.C. 14/IV/2016)

    Here is a peregrination (as Jack Foley dubbed it) that issued from a progress of poems (and how did i get a ‘progress of poems’? from my staircase afterthoughts catching the ideas as they float, drift, and buzz under cloudy conditions and a cool breeze — the way some points of view carry a bit of bite in their “ramparts and battlements and portcullises of words”. (That quote is from Ann Wroe’s BEING SHELLY, P.41, publd 2007 by Jonathan Cape an imprint in London of Random House, and publd in USA by Pantheon, Random House’s imprint here. Wroe subtitled the study “search for himself” and I have struggled with Shelly for into 7 decades and in the mid 50’s –when i was smarter or more ’smarts-assed’ linking Shelly and freedom with an historian my older brother David and I read in his articles and then his books RICHARD HOFSTADTER whose seminal approach much preceded in the 1950’s and was full-blown in Nov 1963 with his Herbert Spencer Oxford lecture in 1963 Nov same month JFK was killed “The Paranoid Style in American Politics” that has long attached its talons to left and right politics including some good causes including the antislavery movement while mostly in causes that were ‘bad’ in more right wing radical social movements, as we may be able to see nowadays flooding rhetoric with many more shouts than whispers — and as a side note, David was working on his dissertation topic on McCarthyism, which never got out, a side store there): now back to the ‘peregrination’ piece of mine:
    SEAWALLS’
    CRUMBLINGS’ WITH MY “SELFIE” LYRIC POEMS
    Awaiting NEARING MY END THE LACK OF MEMORY COHESION
    FOR THE MIND TSUNAMI
    CHRONICLING WHAT’S
    BROUGHT TO ATTENTION
    ALBEIT NOT EXAMINED BUT ENGAGED
    AGAIN ATTEMPTING RE-PLOWING AND RE-TILLING
    BUMPING TOWARDS 80 AS I RE-CUSTOMIZE
    MY MIND MAP WITH THESE WINGNUT-NOTES CATCHING
    ON THE WING
    (AS IF RENEWING MY SUBSCRIPTIONS)
    DRIFTING, FLOATING, BUZZING IDEAS, BREEZES
    CLOUDY COOL CONDITIONS
    (“INTO ONE EAR & OUT THE OTHER”
    AS MY MOTHER RUTH COMMENTED ON ATTEMPTING
    TO HAVE AN OPEN MIND, ME THE BABY PHENOMENOLOGIST)
    Hello, Just another hello I’m Mister Ed and I grew from William Faulkner’s and Alan Sillitoe’s stories With joy and amazement and headed to William Butler Yeats, Gertrude Stein When you stir a poet you walk the stick in super-funny, totally awesome words.
    (& Mrs.McEvoy and Miss Turner, my writing teachers, Mr Stubblefield for HomeRoom, Mr Butler for wood shop, and the great Rex Stultz for math – and Stubblefield, also an English teacher, was backfield coach while Mr Stultz was the head coach–at N R Crozier Technical H.S., Dallas, TX 1951-1955: and Bob Wilson and I, cheer leaders in our senior year along with Bobby Williams who got the ‘bob’ name first so Robert was Bob Wilson’s name then: because you can’t have 2 ‘bob’ guy yell leaders (and it was the vi-brant and bi-brant we both loved Bobby Williams several years a ski instructor later died in Colorado, paralyzed from an accident his sweet mother told me)
    I lost the thread (Maybe my mind was wearing loud trousers and the mental cohesion of memories failed in the context and background —- confusion.Confusion/ Cohesion….bUT STILL Curious.)
    SQUIRT CHUCKLE CHORTLE TOE JAM BLOOD BOUND ALZHEIMER MEMORY
    THIS IS APART FROM TOXIC TALKING, RANTS, MUSSOLINI-RODOMONTADES
    JUST AS A SWALLOW DIFFERS FROM A GULP NOT JUST IN AMOUNT in the throat’s action
    OR HOW EARLS AND CHURLS ARE ISOLATE IN DIFFERENT STATES high streets, shit alleys
    WHAT IS EXPELLED FROM THE CLUTCH OF CLOACA’S HATES+LIES: polifeces and politics
    AFTER THE SNOW WARMED BY SUNSHINE COMES THE AIMLESS SLUSH
    PHOSPHERESCENT DREAMS FLOATING OVER STILL SAPPHIRES SEAS SEEING
    MY LITTLE BODY WITH socks on but naked, blank, just a breathing jelly
    Passages, phrases, clauses, lines will drift in to placement in themes usually but also in sound patterns almost ‘remembered rhymes’ matching current sound groupings that may not be related at all to the specific content. I continue REWEAVING as i have done from my beginning, a tapestry approach oftentimes; as it is a developed aesthetic of the long road. I write and then also at times I think “oh I just quoted myself” and at others find the new pieces drift in a reverie crossing time barriers. I have written so very much in the last 5 decades that my information storage and retrieval systems are soaked and sporadic, ESPECIALLY the retrieval parts. And since I have always moved-on just a-truckin’ up or downhill, looking back would have seemed a drag and so I hurtle on so as not to lose the moment. And of course for the several years past my piles of papers/archives/published magazines w/my poems are in the Yale Beinecke Rare Bk&MSS library that in anycase is closed until renovations are completed in 2016. (The piles of 119+ boxes and cartons, some quite oversized even, may not have been cataloged to any extent by Yale library workers; I know I never did that spadework, and couldn’t have borne to try living at the end of my tethers.) So even if I would have the ability and inclination and was not still writing my life maunderings, I couldn’t and wouldn’t.

    For my ways of thinking about writing and those who’s ideas that have excited me– and there are included even writers who I reject but in that response taught me much, too –I include George Oppen, Lawrence Fixel, Josephine Miles, Ann Stanford, Ruth Fainlight, Elizabeth Jennings (previous 2 are in England, and still alive), Laura Riding, Gertrude Stein, Ezra Pound, Paul Valery, William Butler Yeats, Oscar Wilde, TS Eliot, Gertrude Stein, and more that aren’t punching my roof now.

    Enough for now as time to ready for lunch at the RACS sr center (Russian American Community Services at Anza and Collins 10 blks east of here–$2.00, and they make their own food there) as I go up with our 93 yr old neighbor Bob Hanamura. He’s blind 95% it seems. Very independent guy. Born in SF 1923 in April and his mom & dad had an American cafe at Geary and Fillmore before the Japan Center and they were interned 1942 via the old Tan Foran racecourse to Topaz in Utah that held ten thousand ‘enemy aliens’). I and Richard (we met Mem day may 1971 at the old spagetti factory in north beach, just off Grant)have honorable friends and we also are somehow survivors and don’t have time to be more than we are — a poet and a painter– and lucky to be alive period.

    P.S. Here’s something I copied out of Jo Miles’ 1970’s book:

    “the power of literature was the power to point, denote, evoke the thing itself….But it was very hard to tell what was the thing itself. How to get at it? By naming it? by describing? by relating to responses–then no longer ‘in itself’? The urgencies of Hemingway, Santayana, Stevens, Williams, different as they now seem to us, all shared at that time the feeling of rediscovery of new values in objectivity, though ways toward it were not always clear.” page 119, POETRY AND CHANGE, U of C Press, 1974

    © Edward Mycue WEDNESDAY 13 April 2016 10:14AM

  • Edward Mycue : Word Kittens Are Echoing

    By now so many movements and -isms
    Have blown through my word kitchen
    That the kitten in my mind’s corner,
    In the basket under the old gas stove,

    Is bouncing from surreal- to symbolism
    Now the post avant garde is a canker
    Maybe I mean a cantankerous jungle-
    Jingler with yens for villanelles and rime

    Or maybe rondos with deep koans inside.
    Once I had a dream that I’d memorized
    A lot of sacred books from the Koran,
    Bible, old & new, the Book of the Dead,

    Kalevala, I Ching (if it is a sacred book).
    It all came to seem like hitting speed-bumps
    That smelled of another pheromone breakdown.
    Life is a riddle leaving paw-prints on parchment

    Edward Mycue lives in San Francisco and is the author of many books – most recently: Mindwalking, New and Selected Poems (2008) and Song of San Francisco (2012) published in the U.K. by Spectacular Diseases Press

  • LIVING IN THE MOMENT IN THE WRONG DIRECTIONS CAFE.

    Call it ‘my life’ in a letter from time that didn’t run-out
    as it changed directions (without ever going too far away
    so that its past is still there becoming some other present).

    “Smoke gets in your eyes” wrote Jerome Kern
    And the same “Green Town”
    I am a “delicatessen religionist” added Ray Bradbury

    “Get a job,” you hear in your sugar ear squirted out in glee acidly.
    My heart lives in Naples singing its heart-out in the days’ operas.
    Today’s ours in the moment of 45 years of first ever encounters.

    © Edward Mycue 19 April 2016 Tuesday rev/2:05pm For Richard Steger

  • LIFE ON THE OUTREACH

    If this life is a comedy
    (in The Divine Comedy sense)
    –not heavy (well how could it not be in
    the DIVINE COMEDY sense “heavy”
    I mean) and not saying it’s
    “WHO’S AFRAID OF…(like “Virgin” something) territory
    (because you know that can just go on too far way out there).
    More probably crazy brain nausea
    (without a spell check for prognosis)
    that’s what our lives are.
    You are pulling your punches?
    Don’t you see how you have to?
    Or be simply bemused, used.
    Or not?
    “Dollars for donuts,” I hear said, and even as this empty
    idiom, you know what is being said; and you agree with it
    but not in some religious ritual sense.
    You, too, feel lucky to escape
    for awhile
    and don’t try to remove the bandages too soon.

    © Edward Mycue May 6 2016 for Nancy Mifflin Keane

  • DIS document: DISHEADED
    You well and toasty warm?
    Life not dissing you?

    (dis for disrespect, disturbed, disregarded, etc.)
    When you spell it dys as in dyslexic,
    dysfunctional, dyscalcularic, it sounds maybe
    like “diced” as in chopped and diced.
    Better we should think distinguished and such more
    positive add-ons. though some days you kinda
    feel dismembered by all that went on.

    (funny isn’t it that you get dis-membered, but
    that you are be-headed, can you be
    bemembered and disheaded?)
    Remember to forget?

    © Edward Mycue (from Prakalpana Liberature’s “Sarbangin”, Bengali, Kolkata)

  • SISTERS

    Everyday is my sisters’ fresh borne heroic task
    To set straight and smile and surge forward

    Everyday some people get fired, terminated,
    Let-go, sent-away and everyday sisters press on

    Everyday for each one of our flower sisters
    Is a picture of music dancing with her sisters

    Equal sisters modestly managing instructing
    Standards-keeping and innovating the tribe.

    Sisters maturing solid prudence, perspective
    Along with moderation, fortitude strongest

    Sisters overall unswervingly planting the future.

    © Edward Mycue 30 November 2013

  • HAPPY HAPPY
    (For Alice Toklas & Gertrude Stein, in their 2 spouse/one spice womanist domestic recipe, Alice holding a spoon, Gertrude a pencil &, Alice typing, cooking, entertaining, loving)*
    Ok cool No sweat
    Hot stuff
    Warm it up
    So yesterday
    Slick vintage
    So low-rider
    To use words
    As computer
    Honey now
    Happy Unhappy
    Patients as
    Commodities
    Right ratio
    Food swaps
    Precise combine
    Pumpkin seeds
    Little girl
    Master equality
    Stimulation
    Remediation
    Enchantment
    Subvention
    Baskets of
    Happy Happy

    © Edward Mycue 30 April 2016
    ______________________________________________________________________
    *Note: When I was 18 and19 at the then Arlington State Junior College between Dallas and Fort Worth, TX 1955-7 (A.S. Assoc in Sciences ) my English teacher was a young PhD just down from the East where her dissertation was on Laura Riding(-Jackson) and she taught me about the perfect group of three, a trifecta in the professional relationship of Stein, Riding, and Yeats. An unusual combo I know, but it led me these many years, that troika of wild horses charging in all directions. I’ve forgotten that gazelle-like professor’s name now and wonder if somewhere in Arlington’s files (now called U of Texas at Arlington!) her name might be found. I just loved her slender height, long brown hair, her happy way teaching.

  • Bronzed Pair of Booties
    by Edward Mycue
    — bronzed pair of booties holding down a sagging telephone line,
    — picture from a gone time but one that is still just out my window
    here on fulton and octavia streets next to olive trees with plastic bags caught in
    them
    —“witches cowls”—filled with passing breezes
    amid caws of crows & occasions when sea birds escape east from ocean storms &
    west
    to California from the Sierras when calmer,
    settling in our parking lots deciding maybe east or west again, birds moving,
    passing,
    pausing; only flitting hummingbirds silent so far
    — & my mind’s bronzed booties imaged there from pairs of tennis shoes often caught
    on lines where drug runners marked territories;
    my San Francisco mind-marked with long densely-textured decades written, cared-for,
    polished, discarded, & somehow are written again
    because the mind wasn’t finished with them & i was unable to find a step-down
    programme
    to get free from voices, visions. where when i’m
    dead will those booties go? will there be telephone lines & poles?
    will it all sink as sediment under risen shores scraped, lathered by
    empowered tides with only birds on their ways in their days that alone continue
    while
    below fish swim above our yesterday silt
    in fog, rain, wind & sun without anyone until “time” arrives as
    earth itself fractures into “space” that collides beyond my deeming.
    © Copyright Edward Mycue

  • NOT EVERYTHING IS EQUAL GETTING IT OFF THE GRASS
    In High School in our senior yearbook 1955, N.R.Crozier Technical H.S., Dallas, Texas
    (– we 9 Mycues, mom Ruth and dad Jack and we 7– Dave, Ed, Pete,Margo, Cookie, Janey, and Arda– having moved to Texas in 1948 when I was eleven)
    there is a photo of me as “Runner- up, Most Likely To Succeed” and this reminding me in the 6th grade of Our Lady of Perpetual Help grade school in north Dallas of Sister Nolaska’s telling me firmly to remember that my name was “Mycue, not I.Q.!”, following some smartypants comment (meant to amuse my buddies I think back remembering).

    It’s Monday as I write this post starting my week. Not everything is equal to anything else.
    As I almost never locate the shirt I want, I’ll end up grabbing another — yet each I take is also mine.
    I could explain this as process being a hand-me-down younger sibling and remember hearing my Great grandmother Jane Kennedy Delehant with her “Thee’s” & “Thou’s” in her rocking chair on our porch on 8th St behind the City Hall in Niagara Falls, NY saying among other admonitions “You don’t get it off the grass” and “Everybody’s odd but thee and me, dearie…”(pausing/ smiling over at me) “and sometimes i wonder about thee.” She died by the time I was 10 but she helped form me.

    © EDWARD MYCUE 14 May 2016

  • ECPHRASIS THE GRAPHIC SPEAK-OUT

    (On March 28, 2010 at 9:55 pm Edward Mycue wrote in the “HARRIET” of Poetry Magazine:
    hey, wait up, you guys. if ecphrasis is the “speak out” that is graphic and as wikipedia says is an “often dramatic description of a visual or other work of art” being “a rhetorical device where one medium of art tries to relate to another”

    then the review (and i guess any ‘review”)
    of CHLOE
    (w/julianne moore and liam neeson and amanda siegfried) in the current PACIFIC SUN (marin, california weekley by Kelly Cherry”) fits the bill here more simply by referring to the character that liam neeson plays as a tart-magnet horn-dog albeit an innocent one.
    movie review.
    please explain further if this doesn’t.

    © Edward Mycue 14 May 2016

  • A MYSTERY ILLNESS’S SWARMING COLORED ODORS
    IS almost impossible to describe the way you would an action movie with sequence, reason, cause, consequence.

    So far off a grey scale there’s no contrast; colors blend, mix, swirl the outlines.

    Each cell this illness occupies is enemy and the sick building specter has become so widespread there’s no escape.

    Our things have begun to turn, on us, their users: newer life had begun to inhabit the inanimate – not in the way as in old days nymphs emerged from the trees.

    Trees were not then angry; so the Irish Abbess will not sleep and says goodbye to night as it is inscribed painfully on sleep,
    as sleep is quilted from its wonky eye, and as that eye is a thing behind a thing that is the ultimate wrongness, and it is wrong because freedom dies in sleep, and what freedom dies to in sleep is surrender
    – and that surrender is the loss of reason surfacing in pink bile and lavender phlegm: and therefore the Irish Abbess decides to sleep no more.
    She detects a whiff that transcends the red fan.

    When it is midnight she’ll seek the prick of the golden needle, say goodbye at midnight to colored odors, fugitive achings, to become canny as trees.
    © Edward Mycue

  • A SICK CAT’S FLATULENCE MAKES A LIVING SPACE UNINHABITABLE

    it’s a bumpy road/you’ve got a bad back/the ride infinity/no meds/throat dryingup/hiphop being blasted zillion splinter- decibels/’gift of life’ won’t end/hope a dream/bad dream if it is/some enchanced interrogation technique/you captured leader/tethered hinged to your reason/progeny of your past/your toes suckedup into your ass/burning with empty chagrin you rejected the senior housing with the concierge who could be instructed to keep all out. except for the content the elbows are where the elbows should be and the nose is straight, knees not scabby, with the waspwaist halving the shoulder width.
    it’s an arrow shirt with a caustic collar. whatever this refers to is lost because the smell has drained my mind.

    i have been ripped away from my meek phenomenology of the kind hawthorne sketched in the character of miles coverdale (the observer who seemed emotionally more wallpaper than wallflower) in the blythedale romance abt the american 19th cent transcendentalists, and dropping the ‘phen’ am ending in these endtimes as more an omenologist who sees the present now limned in an adumbrating fog of corrosive vomit– something not to be ameliorated by a tums after-suppermint nor obliterated by a litre of an uncle’s ulcerous homemade andorran absinthe in my niagara falls youth where i might see myself as a vast ugly squattting troll (painted in the febrile imagination of gulley jimpson the artist created by novelist joyce carey in the horses mouth trilogy 50 years ago) poised over humanity squitting poisonous vapors over the whole epocal mistake while laughing and chattering merrily.
    this is how the human race becomes a lost colony. the planet was found barren with all the towers and alleys windblown with
    trash. by then there was no smell, no people, no cats, nothing but rustling of trash. © Edward Mycue

  • THE CLEAN & BEAUTIFUL “L” WORD
    (“I AM A LIBERAL”)
    Oh, I am a Liberal
    From the earliest recall
    Oh, I love that L word
    For me it tells it all:
    It stands for Love & Liberty
    For light, for Love or Labor,
    For Labor of Love
    It stands for Laughter
    Sweet song to my ears
    Sweet song of the Lark:
    Oh, I love the letter L
    I shall wear it proudly
    Emblazed bright upon my breast.
    Patrick Henry we salute you
    You said it all back then
    “Give me liberty or give me death”
    Oh, I love you letter L
    You stand for logic
    You stand for Liberation
    You stand for Love.
    The L word, it is Lovely
    It is Lively
    And it has a hopeful ring.
    © Ruth Taylor (Delehant Mycue) 1980 (Note: Ruth Taylor was my mother Ruth Taylor Delehant Mycue born in 1915 and died in 1997, the mother of seven children and wife of John Powers Mycue. I am named for her father Edward Vincent Delehant. “Taylor” was entered at the hospital for her birth certificate, but “Agnes” her mother’s name was on the baptismal certificate that in past days was all that was needed, but when in her 30’s she and my dad “Jack” Mycue
    applied for a visa to go to Mexico City and had to use the ‘birth certificate’ she learned to her delight that her middle name there was “Taylor” not “Agnes”

  • DISSEMBLING’S “FINE ITALIAN HAND” CRAFTING TESTIMONIES TO SKEW AND MISSHAPE STORIES
    ONE
    Testimonies are structured from questions fine hands pose.
    Narratives congregate to determine what allows wielding hatchets.
    Some may hope a golden angel of sun, ex machina, will show the real story in linking the sad with the trivial.
    Intention, invention, innovation, carbon-date to distort and combine through dissembling, lies, manipulation.
    TWO
    What happens to the victims gets lost in such history’s clown-faces. A Returned Peace Corps Volunteer who became his country’s ambassador in Libya and his fellow Public Servants died and in the U.S. House of Representatives’ hearing an investigation has reduced them to objects in focusing on besmirching another Public Servant seeking to become her country’s President.
    THREE Childhood desires turn life’s wheels. Mischances shape apprenticeships. Young, you don’t know what’s coming. Life is a riverbed all pass through. Some may realize losses, grasp failure within inner sanctums, recognizing the far shore before reaching it. Others do not have the privilege. Shall we honor them?

    © copyright Edward Mycue

  • LOOKING OVER BELLIGERENCE ALL IN THE BICKERSON’S FAMILIARS
    Donne: Do not ask for whom the bell tolls
    Kant: What is my duty
    Bernard Williams: How shall we live?
    … ………………… …….James Madison: “The means of defense against foreign danger have always been the instruments of tyranny at home”

    Past/ future now. Summer over – bird seen from the eye corner.
    Adam Smith’s ‘invisible hand’ is up to now good in your pocket.
    Blue washed-from sky. Ever present past dead. Poor impulse control.
    You forget all about joy. Contaminated events beggars description.

    Country-coming-together is not plural-coitus. Adopt no tigers. Islands.
    Ulysses went to war, returned much later, went away, jaded, jazzed?
    Here at our home we have witness, chronicle, testimony, evidence,
    nearness, contingency, possession, observation, cheerios, milk, music,

    painting, drawings, poems, frozen blueberries, coffee: just as when the
    world was just as bad but better camouflaged. We the lucky so far. /
    Disheaded/November/Lands’ End/Furthest Shore/Boatman Waiting./
    Between nows & thens. flushing it all down: trusting? in space capsules.

    © Copyright Edward Mycue 25 June 2016 Saturday 10:30PM

  • PEACE IS A PLACE IN EVERY BREATH
    GREAT MATTERS THAT RE-ARC THE BRIDGE HOPE AND RE-MAKE THE RAINBOW
    I believed in progress, in the basic goodness of persons.
    There was a stranger within me, an intruder who was not
    me, yet part of me, who swallowed as I drank.
    I’ve lived as if it will die when I die.
    I now begin to see that my ’stranger’
    inside me is the sharpie fine-pointed pen
    “I” wrote with, but really is a life force who led,
    encouraged, lifted me through my nights.
    This is not mythic: it is here now. I pass
    out of history: this continues. While I live
    I am steward, mechanic, actor, helper.
    I matter; my actions matter; my thoughts matter.
    In my ending my beginning is organized into this
    great matter. Peace is a place in every breath.
    We need to utter it ‘now’ while we can.
    We didn’t invent ourselves nor get it off the grass
    way back down that long winding longing line.
    We have been seeking to be a people from the
    beginning of our supposed origins. Will we end
    before we have exploded and regrouping merged?
    Staying home doesn’t mean some kind of surrender.
    New definitions for older versions are visions bound in blood .
    Toil can re-make the rainbow to re-arc the bridge hope.

    © copyright Edward Mycue 17 June 2016

  • TORN STAR
    “Fall into freedom with me” is extremely resonant to anyone familiar with Mycue’s work. The Torn Star: A Vision (a book almost impossible to locate) repeats the phrase “To begin with / we fell into freedom” in more than one poem; it also has “The human clue contains / the fall, and no one says goodbye.” “Falling” in almost all its senses—including the Fall of Man and something reminiscent of Heidegger’s state of “thrownness”—is relevant here. Indeed, the title, The Torn Star: A Vision, plays upon Keats’ Hyperion: A Vision and the book opens by quoting the passage in Hyperion to which Mycue refers in “A Rebus is a Short History of the World”:Fanatics have their dreams wherewith they weave A paradise for a sect; the savage, too, >From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleep Guesses at heaven; pity these have not Traced upon vellum….The excitement of reading Edward Mycue’s poetry is the excitement of reading a poet who trusts in “language” as a force of revelation. “Methodology as a Theory of Sequence” quotes Goethe: “That is true symbolism where the particular stands for the general, not as a dream and shadow, but as a living, instantaneous revelation of the unfathomable.” Mycue tells me that he sometimes rewrites poems so extensively that he ends up with a new poem—with no one except the poet the wiser. A phrase in one of the poems in Because We Speak the Same Language betrays the poem’s origin in one of the poems in The Torn Star: A Vision. “A Harvest of Destinations” has “Crosswinds / sing the whiter world’s a / cavity of graspable night.” “Arcs of Arms” in The Torn Star: A Vision has “the darker world’s a cavity / of graspable night.” “Darker world” plays against “whiter world,” but both “worlds” move toward that “unfathomable,” paradoxical thing Mycue calls “a cavity / of graspable night”—whatever that may be. Indeed, both poems are excursions into “a darker night,” a “mystery” which exists “because we speak / the same language we do not speak.” There are areas of experience which can be spoken and there are areas which cannot—which can only be approached by the transformation of language (the “same” language we all use) into “a living, instantaneous revelation of the unfathomable.”(note: The above is from a review by Jack Foley) : Edward Mycue, Because We Speak The Same Language (Spectacular Diseases Press)One wishes that an enterprising, well-distributed publisher would print a substantial volume of Edward Mycue’s work. In the meantime, we will have to find it wherever we can. Mycue’s work is always worth the effort. The Torn Star: A Vision has this short, untitled poem, slightly reminiscent of Mallarme:
    Almost nothing
    perhaps
    occurs
    on a blank
    page

    The words “almost” and “perhaps” are indications of the complexities—and the humor—of this wonderful poet’s “vision.”

    Jack Foley

  • THINGS CHANGE HERE AND IT’S A MATTER OF TIME

    Flattening gusting
    The sea is blueblack deep.
    Waves break
    As the earth curves westward.
    Suns rise up, go down,
    Clouds burst.
    Winds swing the hands
    Sweeping around the dial.
    There’s no returning
    To yesterday’s landmarks.
    Listen just a puff away
    Even here things change.

    © Edward Mycue 16 January 2013

  • WHEN I TALK ABOUT POETRY by Edward Mycue

    1. lawrence fixel used to joke about distinctions between writers of poetry and drama & prose: one difference being the imaginary carrot & stick vs the real carrot & stick with payoff of mucho moola perhaps coming for the successful playwright or storyteller (though then only if very lucky) while the poet has this fantasy carrot dangling from a fantasy stick often held by and in front of himself, poor donkey, whose illusions marry delusions in a fog of self-valorized agile progressions/ depressions/ devolutions. it often seems a concussive life for those needing a idea to enjoy/enjoin thinking about these phantoms every so often. as if only to come out of a troubled sleep. or reverie.
    2. Perspectivo–Moderation–Prudencia: these you get from the fellini films. what the wide world requires/how you must proceed/ how guarded you must be: PMP, ‘don’t push the river’. a poet drinks from the tragic eyes of the clown woman of NIGHTS OF CABIRIA: her eyes the seed of the universe. gaston bachelard’s books include THE POETICS OF REVERIE and THE POETICS OF SPACE. poetry isn’t fantasy nor is it commerce. it is more beautiful than a thing because it is experience dreamed into being, payoff or at least a give&take in a jungian sense.
    3. there’s an interesting take on this in the book THE GIFT IMAGINATIONS AND THE EROTIC LIFE OF POETRY by lewis hyde and the idea of gift he connects with the n.w.american haida peoples and the potlatch ceremony. it’s a good BEING dreamed into life. the image of fragrance. an opening blossom and nothing less. soft spreading nipples breasting an afternoon’s dream. let the rain be hard and the snow be wet. the breath is tender behind the slanted shutters. there is nothing more important for me than poetry. everything is poetry and nothing matters and the value amounts to much more than a vending machine of a life, which is no venue–and the poet no vendor. the whole race is a poet is true. we have been shortchanged. and we will die for want of it if our dreams are only vacuums lacking fire. bachelard spoke of psychoanalyzing that fire. that is why those writing/ writers’ conferences are so empty a dry mouth. the negative space between living beings is charged. that is where poetry abides pressing the pillows.

    © COPYRIGHT Edward Mycue 28 June 2016

  • JOSEPH DUERMER COMMENTING ADDING EDWARD MYCUE’S COMMENTS:
    Dear Readers, if you have not clicked through already to read Ed’s comment to my Chicken Shawarma post, click here. You owe it to yourself to do so. In reading Ed’s comment you will be introduced to a fine poet, a great soul & a man old not only in years but in wisdom. I only know Ed by way of correspondence–we met when I was Poetry Editor of the Wallace Stevens Journal & Ed submitted envelopes stuffed & over-stuffed with his poetry & cover letters as poetic as the poems themselves. Here are a couple more Mycue resources–a video & selection of Ed’s poems. I continue to be astonished by the poet’s hard-edged realism expressed in the humane language of one perpetually love-struck by the world. I Am a Fact Not a Fiction: Selected Poetry by Edward Mycue. Posted on May 30, 2016 Categories Poetry, ReadingTags

    38 Mill Street
    South Colton NY 13687
    Edward Mycue says:
    May 29, 2016 at 2:41 pm
    i LOVE toast. When Richard and I were in Dublin 1985 our only time staying in this cheap place downtown in a b&b over un-connected stores below (and the halls so trampoline-uneven) (it being for the Irish from the provinces) the bread racks were LOADED with all sorts of breads THAT you could toast if you wanted and BUTTER and cream and those almost hardboided eggs and other stuff. That was TOAST. And you know that bread is the staple of life, at least i learned then. An no ‘bubble’ breads.
    As to your swarama chicken sandwich this morning we had tamales brought up from McAllen, TX by my sister in law Elena De Los Santos Mycue (late bro Dave’s wife). She hauled those frozen from the Valley to Austin (for nephew Alfredo Mycuye’s 2nd masters at ut and then up here for niece Victoria Mycue PhD from CIIS in clinical psychology.
    We had some last night and more just an hour or so. These were chicken tamales. Usually we get nonmeat tamales from the Seventh Day Adventists, which are smaller but OH SO WUNDERbar wonderFUL. These were good too.
    I agree that food is “is” just by itself and that to commune with your food –food not fodder–is soaring into the Sequoias.
    Yr lucky with yr Carole. Richard and I 45 years ago met in the Sunday classical afternoon music that Donald Pippin presented in the Old Spaghetti Factory right off Grant Ave and Green, 45 years ago TODAY on Memorial Day the Sunday that year was 1971 and i have it written down as May 30 that year. So I am a day early in this date reckoning. AND AND WE GOT MARRIED in San Francisco City Hall on May 3, Monday, of this year 2016 at noon. We have been thinking of it for so long and just put it off, but he’s in his 73rd year now (1943) and i in my 80th (1937) and we are not tottery or such but there are issues galore. ISSUES GALORE. GLOROSKI. wE HAVE not told about it (we didn’t want to dim Toya’s (Victoria) and Alfredo’s achievements. Toya lives with her wife Diane Alcala (she’s from Del Rio up river from McAllen half way to Laredo where the De Los Santos’ come from) and is 2 blocks away from us.) Diana is a mft & social wkr across the Bay in Richmond. Yesterday in Berkeley at Moe’s I whispered (mouthy me) it to Owen Hill, poet, novelist, and bookclerk there for maybe 30 years now and in his 50’s. You are the next. (What’s after ‘next’? the old answer is ‘next’ and that after that is ‘next’.) I am having all sorts of aging ills including spinal (at the bottom tip) stenosis. Need to have sleep apnia machine. My skin is funky. And there is a narrowing closing uretha that has to be poked with a nylon stick to get it to open. PLUS my rearflow is almost constipated all the time and i need more fiber that seem possible mostly esp since we go to seniors lunches as we are close to broke (we survive on our soc sec — mine 1003 a month and Richard’s 1100 something or close to that– and we pay 815 a month rent plus tel, tv, computer, and utilities. so we make it but my senior advantage at Kaiser costs in copays for visits (a lot recently) and copays for pills — and while this recent spate was 206 there will me a lot more to come. (forgot a job? no. i had one.) (we are doing ok nonetheless: Yale mone is gone now they paid 25,000 for my papers now abt 6yrs ago and i hope to try to get Bolerium Bks to broker & shift the remnants that include a lot more poems. Not letters nowadays. So maybe a few more thou’s that way. NOT OUT YET. i wobble and totdter once in awhile but that’s be left for some other day.
    SO YOU SEE JOEY JOSEPH my friend, we are so doing on our end COMPARED YOU YOU THE KING OF THE CASTLE CALLED IMPAIRMENT we are ok and I’ll bet you’d take our situ if you could. Yet even YET IS ALWAYS EVEN A LOT and even though there are no miracles there is still hope and so you are there doing the next and the NEXT AND THE NEXT in your nest on the river with Carole and your dogs and nature. You did get your second-taste (cf to the ‘second-sight’ events that happen) back. KEEP ON KEEP ON this noting recording exploring. I went to a lecture a week ago on the JAINS in the Cultural Integration Foundation ashram about 6 blocks away on Fulton and 3rd Ave across from GG Park. My goddaughter niece Toya (Victoria who got her PhD from California Institute of Integral Studies: it grew from the CIF first as the Calif InstituteofAsianStudies begun from Dr Choudry & wife 60+ years ago –followers of Ananda somebody) anyway Toya told me about some pgrm there and I began going 11am sundays in January. Week after next more on Tagore. plus Joe they have lunch afterward and it is so good with curry(s) and salad and rice and treats all vegetable.
    Ed
    p.s. I have been thinking of you. what songs do you love still? you know ones with lyrics and melodies that saved you when you felt alone and not lonely really but the solitary you happy at your core?

    1. Chris Robinson says:
    May 30, 2016 at 2:32 pm
    Who would dare follow the brilliance and buoyancy of Edward Mycue? Not me. But a need to thank you both for this rich thread.

  • ACTS OF SELF- DEFINITION: THE REAL STORY
    (“Civil marriage is at once a deeply personal commitment to another human being and a highly public celebration of
    the ideals of mutuality, companionship, intimacy, fidelity, and family. ‘It is an association that promotes a way of life, not causes; a harmony in living, not political faiths; a bilateral loyalty, not commercial or social projects. Griswold v. Conn., 381 U.S. 479, 486 (1965).’ Because it fulfils yearnings for security, safe haven, and connection that express our common humanity, civil marriage is an esteemed institution, and the decision whether and whom to marry is among life’s momentous acts of self-definition.”The Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court ruling on homosexual marriage released November 18, 2003 )

    The real story is how the excluded or ignored come forward
    Identities are merging: doors closed, open
    facts along with comedic theatrical certainties
    Anthony and Cleopatra exchanging clothes
    David and Jonathan exchanging clothes
    Sweltering: not only “global warming”
    Soaring sweeping rhapsody unleashed
    Through lands both ‘should’ & ‘might’
    The real story is how the excluded or ignored come forward
    Frequent fliers, wheels-up, square-long
    Bye-bye to BALK, THWART, HAMPER
    The mundane-ecstatic’s quotidian daily SMITTEN, SUBMITTING, CELEBRATING
    Duties and tasks: the”of’s” the “it’s” the “if’s”
    (Bubbles of ancient air are alive in glaciers)
    When you see (or hear) you recognize (know it)
    Knocking, barking-up wrong trees, in common wrong places
    The real story is how the excluded or ignored come forward
    in the alphabet of vocabularies ordinarily witnessing any self
    –even from a making-nothing-happen queer writing from life
    The real story is how the excluded or ignored come forward.
    © Edward Mycue

  • ANGELS’ STAR FOR Marsha Campbell

    NO THOUGHT OF LOOKING BACK
    FURTHER HIGHER SHE TRAVELED
    NOW SHE HAS REACHED THERE
    IN ALL HER RAINBOW COLORS
    SHE’S ANOTHER STAR IN OUR SKY

    ©Edward Mycue February 2016

    Marsha Campbell’s collection of poems GOING TO SEE SOME WORDS © 2013 is featured in a separate section published in MINOTAUR magazine, #70, pages 23-52 (Jim Watson-Gove, Editor/ Publisher, Minotaur Press, P.O.BOX 272, Port Townsend, WA 98368 – published from 1965 to the present 2016, and continuing.)
    Marsha Campbell’s introductory statement, on page 23, is as follows:

    “Marsha Campbell was born in Portland, Oregon and her early childhood was enhanced the way Rima of the Jungle was in the tale Green Mansions. (I mean by the lushest of rain forests and the wildest of flowers.)
    She moved to Connecticut at the age of four—then on to Arizona and Nevada. She loved this wandering stage of her life as much or more as she loves living in the rather unlovely Tenderloin of San Francisco.”

    Marsha Campbell died February 2016 in Eugene, Oregon where she’d gone in her final six months to her sister the nurse Camille Noel who came down to San Francisco to fetch her.

  • EARLY DAYS IN SAN FRANCISCO
    Edward Mycue “Tings happen” and intentions dented, bent, re-looped as in a mobius strip. I had a sister and cousin in the Haight, San Francisco and stopped in on my way to Vancouver (to get ‘landed’) on June 1, 1970 on my way back from Europe. Then they went away and Margo Mycue said “save the place, we’ll” (She and Lee Chu) “be back” but had a baby 8 July 1971 (Zen Mycue Chu, wonderful Zen, was due 4 July but waited for the full moon) in Virginia Beach where Margo was then working at the Edgar Casey Institute waiting for her first to come. Then she had another, Lili, wonderful Lili) in Tyro, Virginia up in the mountains where Margo went to teach. In the meantime met Richard Steger, the painter. He was finishing up his masters in painting at SF State, Then more strings of everyday chaos and happiness and me partnering at Panjandrum Press. On and on. 5/JULY/2016 10:42 AM TUESDAY

  • SPAM TODAY to me that arrived in my Yahoo account
    “Good morning I am interested to be your friend Shame on you Hi X-Hookup tonight Attention beneficiary This is an official legal notice of an unclaimed fund..Hello I just wanted to know if you received my email Hello I am Basle Are you interested in me? Hello I am Mr Adams Robert..Hello my dear please reply..Hi dear Re Hi I just wanted to know if you received my email..Join now and find a milf to your taste You must be 18 to read this I’m Melissa by name and I read your profile..Greetings nice to meet you..We guarantee you’ll have an affair..I am Barrister Terry..Would U fuck a cougar? Hi sweetie my name is Karlie Date women over 45 I contacted you concerning the fune $5.2 million dollars deposit”
    It is now 2:03 Tuesday afternoon in San Francisco and these spam headings have been greeting me until now. This is in addition to emails I haven’t looked at in my regular messages that I just deleted. That leaves some real messages from family and from my writing life that I will look at and in some cases save in the various files I have set up.

    © Edward Mycue 5 July 2016 Tuesday

  • EDWARD MYCUE P. 1 OF 2
    IRIS GARDEN WITH A PINK ROSE TREE FOR MEMORY
    Irene, your cucumber moon has a piece bit-out.
    There are clouds scudding, wind kicking the iris.
    I have a dream of you eating strawberry lemon ice
    because I know you love pink.
    You just forked-over your dinner – jewls of
    little red potatoes, Blue Lake snap beans, a
    vinaigrette-drenched butter lettuce, scapegraced
    bouillabaisse (unlike your mother’s, the Marseilles)
    and you are laughing, promising Dan you’ll eat
    “maybe a few of those gnocchi al pesto” and
    “a GOOD Louie with lots of crab-leg meat, capers,
    half a hard-boiled egg…maybe a devilled egg…IF
    Philip makes it…and maybe finish-off with (this
    woman has no eating disorders) a little crème broule.”
    From now on no more weariness, Irene. You’ll rest.
    You move to join your father John Perrou; toward

    EDWARD MYCUE P. 2 OF 2
    your Tron and Maytre ancestors. Louise, your mother
    (a Maytre-Tron born in a summer mas high-up in July
    on the rugged/ ragged French/Swiss/Italian border
    of the Piemontese—longer than a century later now—
    stretches out to you her arms and smiling says:
    “The old Valdese welcome you.” And eight centuries
    of Waldenses sing the name “IRENE” who’s come home.
    Go, Irene, join your father John Perrou, join your
    ancestors, join the Maytres and the Trons. Louise
    your mother lends to you her arm, her four-star smile.
    All through the valleys the Tyrian purple floats
    because Irene has returned to the bosom of the family.

    © Edward Mycue

  • “problematic”Friday, May 24, 2013 11:44 AM
    From: “edward mycue” mycueed@yahoo.com To: editor@amsterdamquarterly.nl
    SONG OF SAN FRANCISCO was in limbo for a long time and in development from 1987 on until it emergence 26 yrs later in 2012. In early days there were many poems and spread out to 100 pages and i got to view it as my ‘bridge’ in the sense of modeling it on hart crane’s swingline, going and walking over that bridge to brooklyn and feeling the human level of it.

    The times and my situation became grim, grimer. Everything melted away while ten pieces more like hard bloodless stones remained by the mid-1990’s. But i kept looking and hoping for a return to fullness. I sent what i had to Paul Green at Spectacular Diseases Press in Peterborough, Cambs. England who in mid90’s published my BECAUSE WE SPEAK THE SAME LANGUAGE. He offered to do it. He wanted a special cover (showing the usual San Francisco touristy highlights) from Richard Steger my lifePainterPartnerSpouse with whom i’d teamed on books and other publication areas since the early 1970’s. Richard never takes orders. And so that was the delay. In 2000 i sent the group of 10 to Paul Stangeland who published THE POETRY CONSPIRACY monthly calender with peoms in the San Diego area, and he put it in that. Meanwhile from time to time Paul Green and i continued to laxly correspond. Then around 2010 or 2011 with Paul Green hitting 69 and losing his job over there in the UK and getting ill, he wrote let’s do it. I wrote yes on a 1937 old vintage postcard of the san francisco bay with a sketch of what the east bay bridge was to look like and said YES. and let’s do it.

    he responded he wanted to use the card. i said it was some old thing from a used card bin with no source known. (i didn’t focus that it said in small print ’san francisco queen city — funny that! and odd because it’s cincinnati ohio has alwalys been called the ‘queen city’ — it’s where my mom lived in her teens).

    maybe the above could be #10. but i don’t think of this history as “problematic”. it just was a progress and pilgrimage in the sense of my life journey or is it more trajectory: it may never have been issued as a stand alone title. but i am happy it did.

    there have been 2 other books never published and plus a great pile of poems to be in an English anthology from the Shearsman Press (UK). There was a poet who was compiling it for them, Paul Buck. I heard from the publisher of Shearsman that project was just ended. But i never got my poems returned and this was at a time when things got so difficult for me and all i could do was just move on.

    i miss the shearsman project more than the promised book from australia from paper castle press (that had in 1979 published my longpoem 88 pages ROOT ROUTE RANGE THE SONG RETURNS there; nor the book publication from the now late Paul Foreman’s Thorpe Springs press in Austin,TX SOMETHING INHERES IN THE MARIGOLD.)

    (HEY! THERE ARE A LOT OF “PAUL’S” IN THIS STORY I SEE.)

    (c) copyright Edward Mycue

  • A PEACE CORPS MEMORY
    Looking back, and I have told my story before, about 1960 as an intern at WGBH-TV meeting JFK twice, once seeking the Democratic Party nomination and the second time AS the nominee, both when he was the guest on Louis Lyons’ (Nieman Journalism Foundation Curator, Harvard) news program on which I was the assistant. On one, I think the first, Lyons spoke about Hubert Humphreys’ idea (of what would be called the Peace Corps, then unnamed as something similar to the American Friends Service Committee program abroad). The then Senator John Kennedy replied in his best almost happy/ smart manner that it was a good idea (saying good ideas from another candidate were GOOD ideas) and that “When I am president, I will start such a program” (or words pretty close to that, and ending with his handsome head cocked to the side and smiling — you know like the cat that ate the cream). I was 23 then and it thrilled me, not just the idea for beginning such an organization but as much for the joyful intelligence and daring-do in a politician. As a Peace Corps Volunteer heading later that very day on a prop, 2 engine airplane to Ghana in late August 1961 in the White House, I met PRESIDENT Kennedy both in the Rose Garden and in the Oval Office along with the other volunteers from early Peace Corps groups –Columbia, Tanganyika, Ghana. There were 50 of us in Ghana One.
    © Edward Mycue 27 March 2016

  • DON’T BE LIKE THE SNAKE
    WHO WANTED TO BE GOD

    all so green and curvy inveigled
    that dim little couple Adam/ Eve

    starting that whole eons “road trip” progression: envy lust avarice murder

    :think the snake knew consequences?
    that snots stink in nostrils by chance?

    true love has no blood in eyes;
    love lives, suffers from ignorance.

    Rosie the Riveter sweating wartimes jobs worries how her kids learn.

    smarmy fart snake feels it don’t stink;
    callow couple-duo acts down the sink.

    © Edward Mycue

  • “SPITBALLING” AND “SWAMPING”
    are terms I am learning, BUT they are not new. The gullible (remember ‘gull’?) let themselves be guided and gulled by fakers and shouters. Then they are moved off-track away from what is really the focus, the problem, and the promise. FOCUS & PROBLEM & PROMISE. We, now the elders to whom I speak (even those in their 20’s in some cases) must not be stampeded — Spitballed, swamped, and stampeded.
    © Edward Mycue 16 July 2016
    Monday, July 11, 2016 Swamping by Scott F. Aikin and Robert B. Talisse
    In last month’s column, we introduced a name for what we suppose is a familiar phenomenon. Spitballing is a tactic of deflection, where a speaker repeatedly interjects vague, but self-contained, and overtly provocative statements into a discussion. The aim of the spitballer is to overwhelm his interlocutors and critics by providing them with so many outrageous claims that they are unable to adequately reply to any of them. Spitballing is rampant in public political discussion because, in the forums were such discussion commonly occurs, significant benefits accrue to those who appear to the onlooking audience as having gotten the last word.
    Spitballing is closely allied with a companion tactic that is also rampant in contemporary public political discussion. Swamping is a tactic for controlling public discourse. Like the spitballer, the swamper introduces into a discussion multiple pointed, self-contained, and overtly provocative statements. Yet the swamper’s aim is not to overload his interlocutors, but to dominate the political conversations conducted by others. The swamper’s intention is to say something so overtly bizarre or inflammatory as to force others to discuss what he said. In doing so, the swamper seeks not to deflect criticism, but rather to direct political discussion away from the ideas, proposals, policies, and platform of his political competition. As a consequence, the swamper stays at the center of the conversation, forcing every other topic to the periphery. One important motive for swamping is that, in making oneself the topic of conversation by being overtly either vague or controversial, one crowds out time for critical exchange with others. One swamps the competition.
    We claimed in last month’s column that Donald Trump is an incorrigible spitballer. It should be obvious that he is also an inveterate swamper. The swamping tactic, after all, is largely responsible for his success in securing the Republican nomination. During the GOP debates, the pattern was recurrent and blatant: Trump would say something disgraceful about one of his competitors (or his critics, or a journalist), and then the political discussion in the days following was nearly entirely devoted to discussion of Trump’s ridiculous pronouncement. For example, there have been periods when significant time and bandwith has been devoted to discussion of Trump’s disparaging remarks about Carly Fiorina’s appearance and Trump’s assurances that his hands and other appendages are not small. To be sure, the discussion stimulated by even his silliest remarks contained a good deal of cogent criticism of Trump. But it’s important to note that any time devoted to criticizing Trump’s idiotic statements is time not spent on discussing the ideas of Trump’s competition. As a result, Trump has won the GOP nomination by winning a war of attrition; many of the others who had been seeking the Republican nomination simply could not get their message out to the relevant public. Trump’s swamping effectively drowned them out.
    Notice a further feature of swamping. In order to be effective, the swamper must have a willing accomplice in the media and onlooking audiences. Trump-coverage gets ratings, and so even if a news outlet or commentator aims to critique or express outrage over his comments, Mr. Trump still drives the news cycles and directs the voices of the commentators. One of the other Republican candidates may have had views on foreign policy or on the economy, but Trump’s inane tweets regularly attracted all the media attention. As a consequence, the others who shared the debate stages regularly found themselves with the unfortunate choice of either talking about Trump (thereby contributing to the swamping) or talking about something else (thereby placing themselves out of the conversation).
    It is unclear whether the swamping tactic will be effective in a broader political environment, especially given that Trump’s national competitor is already well-known to the public at large. Accordingly, we expect (and have already begun to see) the deployment of a tactic that combines spitballing and swamping. This hybrid strategy involves the introduction into political discussion of many self-contained provocations that are intentionally vague, followed by multiple attempts to provide clarification, where each purported clarification is inconsistent with its predecessor. The strategy, then, is to swamp political discourse not with analysis of what Trump has said, but with discussion of what Trump’s pronouncements mean. Consider once again Trump’s so-called proposal for a ban on Muslims. The past few weeks have seen Trump and his spokespersons offering various clarifications. The trouble is that the clarifications are not consistent with each other. For example, Chris Christie has claimed it’s not a Muslim ban (and “never has been”), and Trump recently has said it’s a ban on “certain people” coming from “horrible” places, adding later that it’s a ban on Muslims coming from “terrorist countries.” The result, again, is that a major political candidate has announced as a central policy initiative something prima facie absurd and offensive, and his statements about the precise contours of the policy fail to clarify things; so news outlets are bound to devote considerable ink and breath to attempts to decipher the intended meaning. Meanwhile, other topics are crowded out.
    What is to be done in the face of a campaign of swamping and spitballing? At least as an audience, we should try to avoid contributing to the phenomenon. Responding to controversial claims is always appropriate, but our attention must be directed also to detailed and serious policy proposals, ideas about how to stimulate lagging economies, explanations for why domestic and international conflicts persist. Again, we, the onlooking public, contribute to swamping by devoting our attention and time to the swamper and his spitballs. Rewarding those who argue seriously and who try to communicate clearly with our attention is a significant step forward, but it also requires those who direct news stories and political discussions to focus on substantive issues, too.
    There is, of course, an irony to our recommendation. We, in pointing out how swamping strategies draw disproportionate attention away from other issues, have been paying close attention to the swamping. This, of course, is testament to the power swamping has over us, but it is an unavoidable inconsistency that is endemic to any attempt to identify what one should spend less time thinking about. After all, the sensible advice, “don’t dwell on the past” invites its own violation. In the same way that one can have well-wrought reasons for not liking impressionist painting or sushi only if one has had a good bit of experience with them and has attended to their details, so it is with swamping. We must think about the swamping phenomenon in order to identify that and why it unduly attracts
    - See more at: http://www.3quarksdaily.com/3quarksdaily/2016/07/swamping.html#sthash.oItmQWsD.CZTt6WSF.dpuf

  • Hijacked public commons discourse through:“SPITBALLING” & “SWAMPING”
    –terms I am learning, BUT they are not new. The gullible (remember ‘gull’?) let themselves be guided and gulled by fakers and shouters. Then they are moved off-track away from what is really the focus, the problem, and the promise. FOCUS/PROBLEM/PROMISE. We, now the elders, to whom I speak (even those in their 20’s in some cases) must not be stampeded — Spitballed, Swamped, Stampeded–HIJACKED.
    © Edward Mycue 16 July 2016

  • IMMIGRANT SCARS REMEMBERED AS A
    Sweet dry touch of creamy pink sundown
    routinely radiating prosperity bank red-lettered
    like the family Bible spilling out with photos,
    pressed flowers and the four-leaf and the one
    six-leaf clover Richard Steger found in Cotati.

    Those Steger kids had no eating disorders, and
    were keen, keen for bouillabaisse, creme broule,
    devilled eggs, shit-on-a-shingle, anything “-capers”
    and those little potato dumplings called “gnoche”
    served with pesto sauce and a nice crablegmeat-Louie.

    Their mother Irene’s mom, Louise, was a Meytre/Tron
    born in a summer mas in the nineteenth century
    on the ragged Swiss-French-Italian border–Piemontese.
    She married a Perrou, an Italian, also Piemontese.

    A Waldensian, Louise was sent to Protestant Marseilles
    to a finishing school; then she came to the United States;
    Irene was her only who lived to raise; husband John
    Perrou married again and again; Irene favors pink hues.
    © copyright Edward Mycue July 31, 2016

  • EDWARD MYCUE

    .ACTS OF SELF- DEFINITION: THE REAL STORY

    (“Civil marriage is at once a deeply personal commitment to another human being and a highly public celebration of the ideals of mutuality, companionship, intimacy, fidelity, and family.

    ‘It is an association that promotes a way of life, not causes; a harmony in living, not political faiths; a bilateral loyalty, not commercial or social projects. Griswold v. Conn., 381 U.S. 479, 486 (1965).’ Because it fulfils yearnings for security, safe haven, and connection that express our common humanity, civil marriage is an esteemed institution, and the decision whether and whom to marry is among life’s momentous acts of self-definition.” — from
    The Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court ruling on homosexual marriage released November 18, 2003 )

    The real story is how the excluded or ignored come forward
    Identities are merging: doors closed, open
    facts along with comedic theatrical certainties

    Anthony and Cleopatra exchanging clothes
    David and Jonathan exchanging clothes
    Sweltering: not only “global warming”
    Soaring sweeping rhapsody unleashed
    Through lands both ‘should’ & ‘might’

    The real story is how the excluded or ignored come forward

    Frequent fliers, wheels-up, square-long
    Bye-bye to BALK, THWART, HAMPER

    The mundane-ecstatic’s quotidian daily
    is the news.

    (c) copyright Edward Mycue

  • Secrets & Lies

    Keeping things secret can be blackouts, brownouts, dissembling through lies, denials, withholding information, presenting only a selection of truth, half-truths presented as the whole, false dichotomies distorting, breaking down truths bit here, bit there.

    (c)copyright Edward Mycue

  • FISHBOWL

    Fish pass each other in the streets, drifting as an abstract creative force.

    Art will save nothing, absolutely. The soul of a family?

    In silence sculling up rivers, fathoming diversions, plowing a state of mind (which
    will not count the hours)

    hideous black pearls appear wallowing in a round bowl — as eyes bulging in the head of a tattered man my father greatly admires, but his silent anger is alarming.

    We live together there all of us, constantly quarreling. Patience. Art will save nothing. While in our glass prison we build splendid nests.

    © Edward Mycue

  • Song

    from: Night Boats, 1999

    At night your strange heart
    is music learned in love where moonmilk
    is silence. San Francisco,
    these are your rites. At your feet
    are your children, a deep-pile
    garnet rug, broken bisque porcelain
    writing our histories on your
    lymph that like your promise once
    calf-white is now memory-tongued,
    eggshell-thin, raving for healing
    this desperate geography. Your
    skies plum-colored, your boats
    oarless bob in the marmalade waves.
    Get washed you blind, handsome
    city. Your harbor has a stone in
    its mouth. A wingless buzzing
    rises in grey fusion. This weather
    mounts a holocaust song, red, full
    like the hope-ruby with its rue and rage.
    Now we are old linoleum, littered, torn and
    we fight the sunset
    climbing our blue humming.

    From the ‘BUMPS’ series of poems

    100. A PIECE OF ICE

    IS ABOUT MELTING
    BEFORE YOU KNOW IT
    ABOUT LOST STRENGTH
    WHITE STEAM AND A BRIEF
    MEMORY OF HURRY.

    55. BUMPS

    BOYS ADMIRED OTHER BOYS’
    MUSCLES. GIRLS OTHER GIRLS’
    BREASTS. BOTH WANTED THE
    BUMPS. WANTED TO SWELL-UP,
    GROW-UP, TO BE SOMEBODY
    BIGGER, beautiful, BUMPY.
    BUMPS MEANT POWER, ROCK ‘N
    SEX, WHITE TEETH, wheels,
    DRINKING BOOZE FROM PAPER BAGS,
    LIFTED ARMS AND pecs ALL BUMPY.

    114. SCAR HUNT

    SINCE THEY SPOKE THE SAME LANGUAGE ALL THE PEOPLE UNDERSTOOD
    ONEANOTHER AS A FAMILY WHO WANDERED LOOKING FOR A LAND TO LIKE. WHEN THEY
    FOUND IT THEY BEGAN TO CHANGE IT INTO A GREAT CITY WITH DECORATED WALLS,
    COURTYARDS AND A TOWER TO MAKE THEM FAMOUS EVEN TO TODAY A PROUD PEOPLE WHO
    OVERSTROVE BECOMING COUPLED WITH A CURSE OF VOICES LIKE A TEEN GHETTO OF
    MUSICDANCINGHUMMING PRESS-ME-TO-YOU TUNE HELPHELPHELPHELP AND LETMEALONE LET
    ME ALONE EVERYTHING TODAY ADJUSTMENT ENACTMENT OLDCARSNOISE. NOW. SO TIME’S
    ROUGH FINGERS PRINTED THEM OUT LIKE A STATISTIC OF DEFECTS WHEN THE WHOLE
    SYSTEM WENT PIANO.

    100. A PIECE OF ICE

    IS ABOUT MELTING
    BEFORE YOU KNOW IT
    ABOUT LOST STRENGTH
    WHITE STEAM AND A BRIEF
    MEMORY OF HURRY.

    43. A MAN CAME OUT OF A TREE

    A MAN CAME OUT OF A TREE,
    SHE TUGGED ON HIS COAT.
    SHE CHASED.
    HE SAID HE DIDN’T TOUCH HER, TRIED
    TO DODGE,
    THEN THE HORSE,
    A BIG BEAUTIFUL HORSE
    IN THE DREAM CAME AGAINST HIM
    CROUCHING HIS HANDSOMENESS
    AGAINST HIS CHEST.
    HE KEPT TRYING, FAILING
    TO UNLATCH
    THE DOOR AT HIS BACK.
    YES, HE SAID, IT WAS
    A DREAM, BUT THE HORSE,
    SO BIG AND HANDSOME,
    FRIGHTENED ME.
    I WAS AFRAID
    HE WOULD CRUSH ME INTO HIM.
    SO, HE SAID, SIR, PLEASE
    DON’T OPEN THE DOOR.

    75. MEMORIES: steam

    IS WHAT YOU WANT MEMORIES TO BE
    INSTEAD OF BEING SUCH A MIXED BAG
    OF HIPS AND MAGNETS AND DEAD CATS.

    (© Edward Mycue)

  • GOING PIANO

    THEY SPOKE THE SAME LANGUAGE AND AS A FAMILY
    WANDERING FOR A LAND THEY FOUND

    & BEGAN TO CHANGE IT INTO A GREAT CITY WITH DECORATED WALLS, COURTYARDS & A TOWER

    FAMOUS TODAY A PROUD PEOPLE OVER-STRIVING IN A CURSE OF VOICES — WHOLE SYSTEM GOING PIANO.

    © COPYRIGHT Edward Mycue 12/VIII/2016

  • GUIDANCE INTUITION EXPERIENCE THINKING SURMISING
    “Experience is a dangerous guide” is a precept I need to take seriously.
    The article* in the disqus site says in its second last sentence:
    “Our intuition is stunted by everyday experience.” And in the next, and last, sentence it concludes: “It is a dangerous guide in higher dimensions.”
    We say, let me add, “what we think” when what is really happening is that we mean “surmise” basing much on intuition and that based on experience & our experience is pretty much a physical ritualization.
    It may be this that stunts our freedom to really think. Well or unwell that is as much as I can gather right now.
    Jon Kuiawa wrote back to me on disqus site
    Edward, “I agree. I think people are very much bound by their prior experiences. It affects what folks think is true, what they perceive in the world around them, and what they think is possible. Creativity is in large part the breaking through of those walls.”
    *
    Reference/ Response to “SNOWFLAKES AND CANNONBALL STACKS”, Jonathan Kujawa’s article posted on 15 August 2016 in 3quarksdaily.com with comments in disqus.com
    © copyright EDWARD MYCUE 21August 2016

  • HAM SANDWICH
    (ABOUT EUPHEMISMS,WORD CHOICES, SUBSTITUTIONS AND CHILD PSYCHOLOGY OF THE DOWNHOME SORT)
    The women of my mom’s time (1915-1997) would never say ’shit’ but might say ’sheit’. Even then only sheit only when they were on their last nerve.
    I recall the explanation of not saying ’shit’ that why would you say a word like that and not put what it represented into your mouth.
    Well, in my generation (born 1937) we are not so strong about that even as many would still err on the side of reticence.
    My dad Jack didn’t sware, believing that it was a good thing to have a wide vocabulary (even though he never flinched or cared when his pals and others did it).
    My older brother David (memento mori also) could be sarcastic and with a pugnacious vocabulary that went way beyond ordinary common swearing could prove Dad right about a big vocabulary.
    But I remember a time when a little neighbor boy Peter Kysiak started swearing a real blue streak (words he heard who know where) and his lovely wonderful mom Carolyn talked him into saying ‘ham sandwich’ when he was over-the-top angry. Then I recall my mom Ruth coming home chortling and telling how Peter got so mad at Carolyn that with his face empurpled, fists tight at his sides, and with such an evil look at his mom he uttered that “HAM SANDWICH” up in his mom’s face (she the dear long-suffering mom of so many kids) slapped his face. (There is just so much a mom however modern can take.) And as moms do she ending defeated.
    © Copyright Edward Mycue 15 AUGUST 2016

  • Cell Damage

    Fury injustice abyss ashes
    All the animals
    Forgetfulness
    Innocent beasts
    Wild horses wild water
    Splash flesh tackle
    I drag land
    Fierce horses

    Terrible beings from below
    Get rid of the bones
    Snapping sounds
    Dry cinders
    Pests is what our worth is
    Weight and curses
    Scurrying rats
    Broken back

    Such are the birth tales

    Back to top

    Translucence

    as we rose, we changed — birthslug, toddler,

    kiddo, preteen brainiac out through serious
    awkwardness, bootielateral-liciously present

    into some normatively developed willfullness
    termed “transom,” “conduit” — symbols for such

    flowering forms transversing to any seedy end.

    the who we were and are will swell, seek, range,
    swim within the scale our mature notions permit

    wading through them conducting translucent lives.

    Back to top

    Slap My Eyes

    i know you are supposed to say you thought it would be easier than this (given all strived and labored for), and where is the sweet leisured payoff. (it is still “in the mail” and “the sun will come out tomorrow/ tomorrow/bet your bottom dollar…come what may”).

    that’s life: when you come up for air you find you are underwater.
    there’s no retreating back up the birth canal.
    amid all the plod ’n grovel there has to be a secret santa.

    well enough soon enough then enough. enough?
    the where’s and the when’s keep turning.
    we are like that teenager in the gulf of aden clinging to the airbuss wreckage.

    hang in there,
    help is on the way.
    or maybe sometimes help is in the way.

    keep the hope light on.

    love is what the clouds send your way

    living today yesterday.

    Back to top

    Valleys of Departure

    As in November when we plant
    tulip, hyacinth and daffodil
    (pointing
    as old bonds grown dull
    among mutable
    imaginary satisfactions,
    like those meiotic moments
    in dreamed carts of hay)
    those things remembered
    trail, reflect
    attractions.
    The torpor brought
    from the soft thocking
    has gone and left us only us.
    It is time and nothing waits.
    It is soon and nothing waits.
    It is late and nothing waits.

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    The Great Wave

    This is bitter
    Life is brief
    Friendships passing
    Time’s the thief

    Life is bitter
    This is brief
    Passing friendships
    Surpassed by grief

    Time is liquid
    Each sun sets
    Sunset renews
    Our floating leaf

    Back to top

    mood is

    a mind-map as if the mind covered
    the whole body and its feeling and emotions.

    the state of the world
    and our u.s.a. contribution
    of messing it up has me brooding.

    those wasp galls sometimes
    ping pong ball size
    (and sometimes more tiny than a pea)
    on numerous kinds of oak trees
    mirror me to myself the way that
    “power of ten” idea of out-of-the-body
    visualizations re-imagines me to me.
    zooming in/out from insignificance
    and responsibility to not even
    the painted face of a clown.

    Back to top

    Knowledge of a Single Rose

    The five-petaled regular corolla rose
    has sorghum fingers that play with your nose
    from the inner envelope. This is not
    the Rose of Sharon: that spindling hollyhock
    is as near to a rose as a hemlock.

    The rosary is a Roman Catholic devotion
    that has five sacred “mysteries” and five
    sets of ten “decades” of Ave Maria prayers
    and each begins with an Our Father prayer,
    and each decade ends with the Glory Be one.

    It’s all repeated like the rose, like some
    magical-mystical charm or enchantment “OM.”
    It’s meant as more a path than a pastime:
    each rose a single step pilgrimage, window,
    colored hope, and compass pleasingly rote.

    I know you now, rose; I know you not, rose.

    Back to top

    We Remember Magnolia

    Trip down memory lane.
    In deed. Last year’s magnolia.
    Time machines march on.
    View the past. Only.
    Scanning for answers.
    For suggestions.
    If any are disclosed or uncovered.
    The machine never talks “future.”
    Only scans backward.
    Without any updates.
    And the time machine memory
    only blurs the velvet picture
    in any future re-scan backward
    because the most recent past
    is the foggiest of what was
    (having no historical certainty
    validated by memory because
    those mists seem more real
    than today’s blindered confusions
    we stumble in right now).
    Magnolia once white darkens.
    But we remember how it was.

    Back to top

    Yesterdreams—Star Light

    for Chandan Bono

    — bronzed pair of booties holding down a sagging telephone line,
    — picture from a gone time but one that is still just out my window
    here on fulton and octavia streets next to olive trees with plastic bags caught in them
    — “witches cowls” — filled with passing breezes

    amid caws of crows & occasions when sea birds escape east from ocean storms & west
    to California from the Sierras when calmer,

    settling in our parking lots deciding maybe east or west again, birds moving, passing,
    pausing; only flitting hummingbirds silent so far

    — & my mind’s bronzed booties imaged there from pairs of tennis shoes often caught on
    lines where drug runners marked territories;

    my San Francisco mind marked with long densely-textured decades written, cared-for, polished, discarded, & somehow are written again

    because the mind wasn’t finished with them & i was unable to find a step-down program
    to get free from voices, visions. where when i’m

    dead will those booties go? will there be telephone lines & poles?
    will it all sink as sediment under risen shores scraped, lathered by

    empowered tides with only birds on their ways in their days that alone continue while
    below fish swim above our yesterday silt

    in fogs, rain, wind & sun without anyone until “time” arrives as
    earth itself fractures into “space” that collides beyond my deeming.

    Back to top

    Everything Is Bending

    Paths lead up, down. Day’s not east. All’s traffic.
    In these necessary hours, a man lifts his arms,
    stretching a ready, signaling crimson. A long

    shadow adds you. The you adds with. And all
    night, love. Bending everything. So, if numbers
    inquire, tell them we are the ones, they are ones,

    I am one: awe-filled not a turned-brain knob.
    If the numbers inquire, tell me you are a one, I
    am your one, we truckle, burnished, roan now, in
    submarine confusion, swollen, last guest, happy
    proclaiming life is the insult. Even when it’s not.
    If the numbers inquire, you can say how differing

    drummers relive, repeat lessons of pilgrimage,
    malaise, the hungering decline of allegiances,
    how to fill a numb center, to reshape the line.

    Night is a dream and I am dreamt by trees. Trees
    are like words. Words are veils. In the forests,
    the stones are moss-covered. The trees sign to the stones.

    Between two there are lichens. Between things, words.
    Words are the things. But we don’t grow wise. Last
    night, trees dreampt me, you took me into your arms.

    The chill on the night is a path. We don’t grow wise.
    Hold me. Night is a dream. Permission varies, a person
    changes, no fiction’s real. The lovers, joined, were

    separable. Indistinguishable. Not to themselves: so
    neither could extirpate the memory? How could they
    be true to their natures? It made them like numbers.

    In the jail of San Francisco a gardener’s more beautiful
    than his roses. That odor of decay in tender flesh.
    In the Johnny Neptune Bar where the Sunset guys shout
    “lemme have a Bud, I need a bud” a man is fucked.
    “Queer” is a family where since they spoke the same
    language all the people understood each other as they

    wandered looking for a land to like. When they found
    it, they began to change it into a great decorated city.
    With decorated walls, courtyards and a tower to make

    them famous as Babel because that beckons a proud
    people who although overweened and confounded with
    a curse of voices were one family of bending numbers.

    Here cross-dressing is transpersonal. The drag’s hero.
    Here the mix and match malebox is full. Check it out
    You can’t order tools for living. Cross-dressing for

    counterfeiters, ersatz, fake, actors, novices, postulants.
    Pass. Received, recommended. Each an encore. Awe-
    some is not the word. Try another body, try clone, truly

    yours, try genetic position, try engineering (impotent
    mission) try to change anything. Change your whistle!
    Divent, divest, invent, invest, enter the second journey

    moving through to dis-embody, trans-body, cross over.
    Try to change your lord: memory. Go to another planet.
    Drag-queen’s hero, transpersonal. Check it out. Try.

    Back to top

    We Leave Nothing Behind

    What we experience we are
    Much passes through us
    But we leave nothing behind

    What we are we are
    What we have been is us
    What is left is nothing

    We leave nothing behind
    An earthworm caught in time
    Much passes through us

    What we have been we were
    What is left is nothing
    We leave nothing behind

    © Edward Mycue 2009

  • After Time Is Ripe It Is Banished

    Root did not eat down.

    Now sit, judge.
    Now the sky begins to split open.
    Other than this is not now.
    I do not know other than this.
    Other: there where we are not.
    Now, here is.

    Nuclear swords, dialectic knots hang over candidates for Alexander’s shoes,
    stare-into futures for accidents from yesterday’s tapestry.

    Rot eats down, seasons scatter.
    And we read in them, fraying.

    Black mirrors, white minutes manure to loam.
    Meat is absurd.
    Of is from’s motive; what is why’s dance.

    Ideas, nuclear ripe, coral mouthed, are blind windows.
    Now sit in judgment on the past and out of that dark doorway
    remember now is not elsewhere, we are not there
    and do not know an elsewhere.

    Now here is.
    Other: there where we are not.
    I do not know other than this.
    Other than this is not now.
    Now the sky begins to split open.
    Now sit, judge.

    Back to top

    Snowblood

    Burbling up through white
    flattened Christ—
    massy
    crusted
    hundred
    inches of powdery snow

    pillowing up around
    the brown trunks
    those thousands
    of fir, pine, spruce
    holly and yew
    rises
    a deep, warm

    red shame of conquest
    empire rising
    to replace
    a republic crucified

    democracy became
    a snowman
    a showman

    a deathmask
    of snowblood.

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    Blood Enemy

    The enemy of my enemy
    is my friend. The friend
    of my enemy is my enemy.

    The friend of my friend is
    my friend (unless that
    friend is a friend of the
    friend of my enemy). The

    feud of my family is
    a breach in the friendship
    of my blood. My blood is

    my enemy? Is this the edge
    of my world? How canine
    is the tooth of my despair?
    Where is a pulse for peace?

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    A Century Is a Skull Factory

    I
    It’s another century, careless, rudderless
    when what’s next is curtains
    riding the night air
    and victims living their injuries
    sledding along like a shell in a swift stream
    the color of coral, of flamingos
    transparence twilled over and
    intersecting recesses of hurt.

    II
    Discrete bits of elsewhere become
    yellow tulips in a sodden light
    that doesn’t equal dusk because it’s split
    from a century like a skull floating like a factory
    whose function is clotting
    where optimal longings gather under a mask,

    III
    but first it curdles into a dance
    of confusions called a CLINICAL TRIALS, “mono-
    therapies” somewhat like
    a mobius strip adder doubling on itself
    as I sit wanting to fly from my speech into
    silent brown eyes
    flecked with gold
    crosslegged
    waiting
    drifting on the current
    like a flag.

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    White Noise (Marketing A War)

    there’s “intellectual freedom”
    and
    “intellectual property”
    and
    the embargo and manipulation of both
    plus
    the attempt to create a hullabaloo
    in order
    to focus attention (called “a perfect storm”)
    or at least
    a buzz
    the way “placement” does
    in
    a supermarket or a bookstore.

    it’s a control issue.
    it really markets nothingness.
    it’s a colorless life
    all gauded up and inauthentic.
    it’s trash and white noise

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    Tale of Outlaws in the Commons

    WHITE HOUSE AUGUST 28 1961 50 AMERICANS AGES TO ABOUT 30
    HEAD FOR GHANA FIRST GROUP OUT OF PEACE CORPS VOLUNTEERS

    Emphasizing peace not valorizing war nor exalting conflict

    today summer august 6 2009 what is left of them now include
    the tired, lame, halted waiting for god and some dancing bears

    but many are still getting into someone’s face space and roots
    as there is a looming deficit of good will since J.F. Kennedy

    and an abalone moon is sinking into the western skyline as
    the goodwill-to- the-world is remaindered into recontexualization
    and sampling and appropriation as heirs to Nixon,Regan,Bush.

    Those who can’t decide what to do could ask an ant as Michael Torrice wrote
    in Science Now Daily News in its July 22 2009 dot org blog

    and meanwhile go strawberrying, bake apple pies, smell tulips
    or try to find a smell plus seek-out insect life of Florida

    and don’t strive really nor sacrifice futile reality, but start afresh
    and make new friends, renew you inquiring spirit, believe tomorrow

    the way the defeated in the Pleissy vs.Ferguson believed they’d
    ultimately defeat that “separate but equal” judgement in 1874.

    As I write here in Pacific Daylight Time on the San Francisco Bay
    we humans not just Americans believe the downswing will upswing

    and now I hear the water sprite’s “Song To The Moon” for the 4-act opera
    RUSALKA by Antonin Dvorak written 108 years ago lilting soaring

    still hoping for some rightside-up in next year’s words/another voice
    for that drowned maiden and reconciliation and end to remorse.

    Still seeking an end of the foredefeated, of the usurpation and enjoyment
    and use/profits of others, establishing the concept of ‘the commons’

    because we are all outsiders in a small space as artist Richard Steger said
    at a poetry reading in San Francisco’s Bird & Beckett Bookstore.

    Now: I’ve come to the end of my light years, recalling Peace Corps time
    and an outlaw in the commons of a global village, &then/now strike root.

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    Do I Need a New Story, Victoria

    for Alan and Eva Leveton and Victoria Mycue

    From many angles, points of viewing, the rainbow is there.
    I always try to be a glass carnation of perceptions.
    My niece Victoria says changing cannot be forced.

    You have to be realistic about what you are seeing
    trying to accept and understand even when not agreeing.

    What makes all the colors in rainbows? I don’t live in the past.
    The past lives on in me, many ways of seeing, many me’s.
    I live in the now, but who am I? Stories, some, get highlighted.

    I have to become realistic about what I am seeing.
    Living now, who am I who am influenced by these stories.

    From each viewing step, something is highlighted. And angle.
    Some things are obscured when we focus elsewhere.
    When what is love is damaged there can be anger, eruptions.

    I am influenced by other people’s stories as other peoples do.
    Others combine, collide, ally, curdle, become crazed in me.

    Our grandparents’ blossoms. allegiances, angers can be we.
    You have to be realistic about what you are seeing, she says,
    trying to accept and understand even when not agreeing.

    I’d asked if peace was possible, not “were” it possible.
    I asked where’s a pulse for peace fearing there was none.

    Eva and Al, dear friends, said peace—she wrote “pulse”—
    is often hard to find and you had to keep feeling around,
    gently. Then feel some more. Never give up on the double P.

    Victoria, dear niece, says be realistic about your seeing,
    trying accepting, understanding even when not agreeing.

    © Edward Mycue 2009

  • Because You’re Not Me

    Because you’re not me
    your clock beats endlessly
    a time that’s not my way
    of a place I don’t inhabit
    in a you I’ll never be.

    In a you I’ll never be
    there is an endlessly mystery
    like nothing I can get
    which perhaps is not unlike
    those things I have.

    Those things I have
    and other strengths I crave
    you have deep in your self
    because you’re not me.

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    Come Up and Touch Me

    Life is a hair shirt, keep the hope light on.
    You never no, you sometimes yes, you
    just have to proceed by gosh and by guess.
    Like the large commercial washer on the left
    life keeps washing washing, won’t go to rinse.
    Books you order are out of stock, unavailable.

    Sneer, scowl, aggrieved, petulant patrons ask
    what are the fresh daily specials, soups
    and then order cheeseburgers with fries.

    If for any reason there is dissatisfaction with
    this particular poem or with the paper please
    return the numbered page with your complaint.
    Returns policy (effective Sept. l, 1997) covers
    all purchases within 14 days in saleable shape
    except for study, travel guides and CDs.

    Today in survival history Friday July 2, 1982
    a North Hollywood truck driver hooked 45
    weather balloons to his lawn chair and rose up.
    7 deadly sins:pride,greed,lust,envy,gluttony,
    anger,sloth plus 7 heavenly virtues:prudence,
    temperance,justice,fortitude,faith,hope,charity

    Life’s tight,fussy,overworked — a watercolor.
    Then there is mercy in forgetting for a while.

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    Sometimes I Think I’ll Never Learn Spelling

    which is sorting the surrendered
    henscratches called letters.
    Like good law; and misspelling’s like legal
    breakdown. So anarchy’s some alteration from a rule: both breakdown and a change — transformation, mutation — some sort of alteration seen both as reason and result
    —like pink burning to purple
    —like the Blade Runner’s girl Rachel who though biologically-engineered gets conscious
    —like Pinocchio crying and becoming a “real live boy”
    —like having another being growing inside of you
    —or altering molecular structure
    —or learning your true sexuality
    —or entering alternative ports
    —or varying dimensionality
    : such transformations
    and misleadings
    are revolutions of accepted arrangements
    umlauting different drummers’ dancings called
    “can’t” and change as if misspelling. Or
    missed spelling?

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    Driving and Passengering

    I.
    she picked me up in her SCION ice-box-on-its-side hearse with
    the side and back windows she had darkened, like a
    limo—for privacy: because it doesn’t have a storage trunk. it’s
    a nice car to get in and out of: my hips get frozenup now
    some days and that’s a good aspect. she is back in form and
    she is a good driver. at least her manner gives one confidence
    that she is even if perhaps she might not be. but at least i
    won’t be all crazily in fear before the final crackup.

    II.
    (i seem to be becoming a nervous passenger) (i blame it on
    the artist who LOOKS at EVERYTHING—[i blame a lot of
    things on him but never never tell him UNTIL I SCREAM IT
    OUT LOUD SOMETIMES: it's a spousal thing i am
    thinking]—when he drives and i get all like “hey watch the
    road” and then he turns to me and engages plus keeps looking
    at everything and the road too.) (so it’s my problem i know
    but also my life and my death and the heck with it.)

    III.
    sometimes i think you shouldn’t passenger with the people
    you sleep with. but maybe that’s just me. and i only think this
    way sometimes. you might say. poor artist: i recall reading
    several times in my life the saying (who said it?) when i meet
    a poet i want to wash. it must be hard for him having me. of
    course it’s hard for me, too—and 2 hards make a smile. so it works out.

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    Islands in Middle of Lives

    Recall the old Zen story of the person who comes to an obstruction right in the middle of
    the journey of life and sees three choices

    1 attempt to force advance 2 go around 3 turn about and go back and maybe find some
    other life highway to begin on some other mode.

    But person does the zen thing and just sits there and meditates; and after some time
    notices hot dog stands, vegi bars, shops, bookstalls, discos that have been setup by other travelers who “paused” and sees they have created a whole new community unplanned.

    One day person finds a circus nearby and as the OMs would have it meets

    a lama who sells him the mantra “OM PADMOSNISA VIMALE HUM PHAT”/ it’s said in the Ksitigarbha Dascakra Sutra that whosoever sees, hears, remembers, or touches this prayer
    will be purified of negativity and gain freedom from rebirth in lower regions.

    Person begins to reproduce the mantra on saffron-colored strips and then later with pastels (paper, cloth, plastic, tin, but not leather) and then with more primary colors, also with
    light printing on a darker field and sells them cheaply at some recitations

    (of his life, so far) making many friends including a balloonist who offers him a ride up/over
    the initial obstruction: and the story that goes on from there is one that journeyers may navigate for themselves on the river of life when they come to an island.

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    I Am a Fact Not a Fiction

    I am a fact, not a fiction
    a rite, not a ritual
    a progression, not a procedure
    a song, not a schedule
    I am in my life and I live it
    — partake it, enjoy it, wonder at it

    I’m green leaves aquiver
    red clouds aflutter
    whacky as Christopher Smart
    talking to cats
    and alone in dark forests
    in short pants

    I am Niagara River crashing
    over the Falls
    cascading through the gorge
    to the Devil’s Hole
    sweeping into the last Great Lake
    — Erie to Ontario—
    surging into the great Lawrence
    into my mother Atlantic

    rising forward & into the clouds
    into hurricanes
    I cut with the knife of the times
    out onto the rocks
    the Cape of Good Hope to India
    South China Sea
    sieving through Oceana’s islands
    Pacific kingdoms
    up past Galapagos north home shore
    Mission Rock
    San Francisco and my love’s bed
    I am a fact not a fiction.

    © Edward Mycue 2009

  • HOME

    Many of us could never go home
    even when we had not left it.

    Home is a windsong in our hearts.

    These hearts have exploded,
    repositioned themselves, ending
    as much the mends themselves
    as the remaindered hearts.

    This then is ‘home’.

    © Edward Mycue

  • CONDITION

    You don’t need contrition
    for a condition.
    Maybe an explanation
    will do.
    Maybe it’s an act–
    not a crime.
    You don’t need permission
    to seek sublime.
    It’s the condition.
    Don’t ask vindication.
    Brighten the dark.
    No negatives first.
    Follow your thirst.
    Trust intuition.
    It’s the condition.
    © copyright Edward Mycue

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