Links to Other Websites
Make Good Use of Your Sidebar

Use this space for anything from simple blocks of text to powerful widgets, like our Twitter and Flickr widgets. Learn more.

To access Website Management, hit the 'esc' key or use this Login link.


Kali. Z. Fasteau / Soprano Sax / "A Gft"



While listening to someone sing

I don't want
anything or need to know

anything, either.  Leave
leave me alone.  Yeah, yeah I hear
the singing but who

cares that I do or cares if

some bonehead asks
(about the song)
is it

immortal?  Of course

it's not, but even if
it was, how
could I
reconstruct in my mind
why it is?  Even

the most discerning ear
doesn't survive
long enough
to listen long enough
to figure out
such things.  Therefore

I want
nothing, there being
nothing I need
to know
beyond this -- the ear's

Consequently, songs that arrive
only half-alive
& deformed, as if

with misshapen skulls and withered
calves and thighs, possess
the only lyrics
I can grasp, their words strapped

into leg braces that
weigh too much to let
the music roam
too far from home, let  alone

rise above
the ground.



Gerald McCarthy & Robert Bohm, Keynote Poets

Gerald McCarthy (Trouble Light, Shoetown, War Story) and I will be the keynote poetry readers at the June 6th cultural event that kicks off the How Class Works conference.  The event will be held at 7:30 p.m. in the Wang Center, Lecture Hall 1 at the State University of New York's Stony Brook campus on Long Island.  For information about the conference -- e.g., directions, registration, costs, schedule, etc. - click here.


Occupy Delaware statement by Phillip Bannowsky 

Click on the link below to read a fine local (Delaware) article by Phillip Bannowsky on the Occupy movement's vision here in Wilmington, DE.


Graffitti poster / "Goth Armies, Assemble" / Revised

Goth Armies, Assemble . . . 7" x 16"

Poster Text

Goth Armies, Assemble

Goth is the gloom that outshines good
in lands turned nonsense by the bible's God.
The time has come to storm the castle
& shed tears of joy as you destroy the normal
in the ompany of rebels diviner than saints -
only then will hell rise and power faint
and fragmentastion take to task
laws the authorities proclaimed would last.
Chaos chaos everywhere:
the liberation we've waited for!
In a Front St, room above an alley
that ends in language's ultimate gully,
daily life eternally endures -
life is NOW and not deferred.
Dismantle the state, bring it down,
reinvent love of the profound.
Dark minds, give birth to hearts as bright
as brushfires approaching the city at night!


Beginning with a poem by Sabitha Satchi

Read Sabitha Satchi's moving poem "To Paul Celan" online the other day.  Thinking about it afterwards, I recalled an old poem of my own, also about a person's death, although not Celan's.  I'm pasting it below.  It was originally published along with a group of other poems and an essay in the ezine, Dead Drunk Dublin.


Walking into a room while recalling a woman named Rosa

I bring living things, plants.
Hydrangeas. Or are they gladiolas?
Doesn’t matter.
They reek.
They’re ugly and obnoxious.

Entering, I act
like I know certain answers.
But I don’t.

And Rosa? What good is she now,
wordless in her grave?
(They killed her, you know.
Caved in her skull
with a rifle butt.
Then they hurled her in the river.
Months later,
she finally washed ashore.)

Maybe these flowers are for her,
maybe they aren’t.
Anyway, she probably doesn’t want them.

(The river smells of garbage.
The dead are garbage.
The river floods the streets.
When the water recedes,
crazily I smear myself with silt --
at last!)

Now I’m garbage too,
an unwiped ass.

Rosa’s dead -- very, completely.
Let her stinking carcass ride
like once Jesus’ mama did on our shoulders.
Better someone caked with planetslime than a cosmic virgin.

Red Rosa, the socialist -- killed.


I know it's time

I know it’s time.
Kneeling in an empty space between
this world and that, I wrap  
my arms around God’s calves & beg
for redemption.
He smiles down at me
while the sound of wind brushing wheat
hums everywhere.
I smile back & then, tempted
by the thought
of an explosive light,
I suicide-bomb my way through his heart into heaven.  
Later, as I tour Kingdom Come,
more angels than you can count
dance on the head of pin
in a seamstress’s hovel
in paradise’s biggest slum.
The next day, in a cemetery by the river, I carve
on God’s grave marker life’s only relevant fact:
“Never underestimate  
what a slave might strap around his waist
under his shirt.
If you do, he'll take over the kingdom, sure as shit."


Sri Lanka's Killing Fields

This film from Austrailian TV explores the Sri Lankan government's commision of war crimes against Tamil dissidents during the 2009 "wiping out" phase of its war Tamil forces. 

The destruction of the Tamil Tigers is one of the many stories world-wide that illustrates the far-reaching effects of the U.S.'s post-9/11 war on terrorism.  According to the Sri Lankan government, their ruthless military elimination of the Tamil Tigers is an example of how to apply the U.S.'s war-on-terrorism poicy to so-called internal security threats.  If one studies this claim in the context of the recent militarization of India's anti-Maoist policies, and also  in the context of the civil war-like conflicts within Pakistan that have been stirred by the U.S.'s post-9/11 policies there,  one soon recognizes that the White House's lack of concern (no matter who's in office) for its actions' consequences is having a destabilizing effect on this whole region.


Thinking of You

for Arjun Chaudhuri

The wind woke me, my arm caught
like an eel in a net
in a tangle of Suman's graying black hair.
Looking around in the dark and listening
to the gale, I discovered
a pure language, all noise and no words.
Out of bed by then, I slipped
into my robe, then went out the back door
to the woodpile.
Above wind-thrashed trees, the moon flamed
yellow-white, daring
the solar system to question its significance.
The night was cold and I could barely
keep my balance in the wind.
I went back inside.  
Battered by gales, the trees
continued creaking for hours outside the window
like ideas, stiff with age, trying
to reachieve their old flexibility.  
I kept thinking of the moon, with its  
dead rocks and dust, an accident
of secondhand light.  
Transparent clouds
of logic moved across its surface
as it burned without meaning in my mind
and the wind kept roaring, bending
trees almost to the ground.
Unable to sleep, I wrote this.      
If nobody cares, there's nothing
I can do. I love how
in spite of the wind raging everywhere
the intractable moon
won't budge.


The Unwanted

In their folds, the white curtains
hold the gully's dark.  When the searchers
found the body at the  gully's edge yesterday, evolution
culminated.  Momentarily.  Once
half a world away in Dharwad
on an arid hill strewn with boulders, I was present
when others found a baby, also
dead at a gully's edge.  Behind my house

there's a gully too, slicing through underbrush
like a gash in the mind.  The white
curtains' folds hold

what gullies always hold: something
so familiar it's unclear.  Sitting
in my chair, I know things I shouldn't know.  I won't

ever unknow them
even if I could.