Inequality leaves us in a great big pickle
Making us act in ways that are fickle
We take our eyes off the prize
and do otherwise
So that the guy with a dime despises
The guy with just a nickel.
Goodbye Twentieth Century
From death camps to space
Oh how it’s been a race
To leave behind those earthly memories
Earthbound and earth-hugging
As if History itself had been
The victim of a mugging
and the only cure for Auschwitz
Is the comedy of Space
Herr Hegel talked about Being
And said that consciousness can be freeing
And about how in this modern age of ours
We all know that we’re free
So maybe the cure for what ailed us
In that century that often failed us
With death camp and gulag,
With wars that were global
Is to count on space flight
To make us more noble
What better way to escape
From all that depravity
Than by going up up and up
Away from all that Gravity
’till memories of Hell just simply fall away
Like the morning fog
On a late August day
Retreating in mid-morning
From the San Francisco Bay
Says the in-group to the out-group: “You are not us!”
The out-group answers: “Because we are not you we are not even us.”
Therefore we will now begin to create a “we” that is based on our not being
you, a “we” that consists of our saying “Yes you the in-group are we and while
part of the we that is you and not us really has nothing to do with us because
this “we” says we only exist for you and exist therefore not to really exist and
the funny thing is the more we try to exist in this quandary, this predicament
of predicaments the less we feel that we even know what existence is let
alone have any kind of right to know it and love it.
And if and when we see through all this and choose to create a “we” which is
no longer just a reaction to not being you, then won’t we really be reacting
even more reactionarily reinforcing our initial stance of non-being because this
new us is really just a “not-you?!”
When we become aware of this, what is to be done? Is transcendence the
only way out here, something based on the transformation of self but of all
selves and the idea of self…itself?!?!
We have more phones today ever, so we do more talking on the phone.
Do we do more thinking too, because we do more talking?
Maybe we do less thinking because we do more talking and the fact
that we think less, instead of leading to our talking less, leads us to the exact
opposite state of affairs so that instead of talking less and thereby creating
the possibility of thinking more we (instead) think mainly about what we’re
going to say/do/eat /watch (as in tv) next without any thought of whether
this/these actions will be good, bad or indifferent nor any thought about
whether this planet-wide explosion of cell phones, smart phones, tablets,
mobile devices, mp3 players and all the rest of this specific, general and/or
all-purpose digital stuff,shyte and whatever else that we have invented to talk
now and forever with every-and anybody else on the planet or on other
planets) instantly,instantaneously and maybe someday or soon at or
exceeding the speed of light until we become a jungle full of parrots (no
offense to same/they haven’t become the slaves of technology and probably
make more sense in their nonstop nattering than we do iin ours)chattering
ourselves into an oblivion of devolution and rapid-fire texting sans sight, sans
mind and sans meaning.
How do the greedy get greedy
Does it come from a fear
Of being needy
Is it due to a state of childhood lack
Or is it simply one of those things
That can take over a life
And fill it with strife
As easily as a fast train
Can run off a track
Is it vicious and mean
A force that is obscene
Or just another plant in the soil
In which its sufferers are embroiled
Is it due to the karma in which they are coiled
Are are we making too much of a fuss
That like old age and death
Is just another case
Of a flawed human race
Being prone to
If only the rich would
If only the poor could
If only the poor had something to save
If only the rich got less than they gave
If only bread baked itself
And flew into the mouths of all
If only our bowls were filled
By a stream of manna
That never ceased to fall
If only mere matter
Under spirit’s sway did live
And every time you took from another
To that other you would give
If all the slings and arrows we endured
After bruising our self esteem
Were followed by a reminder
Of how life isn’t really all that mean
And if those big dark storm clouds
After whispering thoughts of gloom
Brought us thoughts that were heavenly
that eased away the doom
And also brought a delirious sweetness
In the form of gentle rain
That topped off all our prayers
with a promise
of Unicorns with wagging tails
and castles in sunny Spain
City of Slaughter by Haim Nahman Bialik was a tribute to the vicitims of the Kishinev pogrom.
Arise and go now to the city of slaughter;
Into its courtyard wind thy way;
There with thine own hand touch, and with the eyes of thine head,
Behold on tree, on stone, on fence, on mural clay,
The spattered blood and dried brains of the dead.
Proceed thence to the ruins, the split walls reach,
Where wider grows the hollow, and greater grows the breach;
Pass over the shattered hearth, attain the broken wall
Those burnt and barren brick, whose charred stones reveal
The open mouths of such wounds, that no mending
Shall ever mend, nor healing ever heal.
There will thy feet in feathers sink, and stumble
On wreckage doubly wrecked, scroll heaped on manuscript.
Fragments again fragmented
Pause not upon this havoc; go thy way…
Unto the attic mount, upon thy feet and hands;
Behold the shadow of death among the shadows stands.
Crushed in their shame, they saw it all;
They did not pluck their eyes out; they
Beat not their brains against the wall!
Perhaps, perhaps, each watcher bad it in his heart to pray:
A miracle, O Lord, and spare my skin this day!
Come, now, and I will bring thee to their lairs
The privies, jakes and pigpens where the heirs
Of Hasmoneans lay, with trembling knees,
Concealed and cowering -the sons of the Maccabees!
The seed of saints, the scions of the lions!
Who, crammed by scores in all the sanctuaries of their shame
So sanctified My name!
It was the flight of mice they fled,
The scurrying of roaches was their flight;
They died like dogs, and they were dead!
And on the next morn, after the terrible night
The son who was not murdered found
The spurned cadaver of his father on the ground.
Now wherefore dost thou weep, O son of Man?
Brief-weary and forespent, a dark Shekinah
Runs to each nook and cannot find its rest;
Wishes to weep, but weeping does not come;
Would roar; is dumb.
Its head beneath its wing, its wing outspread
Over the shadows of the martyr’d dead,
Its tears in dimness and in silence shed.
And thou, too, son of man, close now the gate behind thee;
Be closed in darkness now, now thine that charnel space;
So tarrying there thou wilt be one with pain and anguish
And wilt fill up with sorrow thine heart for all its days.
Then on the day of thine own desolation
A refuge will it seem,
Lying in thee like a curse, a demon’s ambush,
The haunting of an evil dream,
O, carrying it in thy heart, across the world’s expanse
Thou wouldst proclaim it, speak it out,
But thy lips shall not find its utterance.
Beyond the suburbs go, and reach the burial ground.
Let no man see thy going; attain that place alone,
A place of sainted graves and martyr-stone.
Stand on the fresh-turned soil.
There in the dismal corner, there in the shadowy nook,
Multitudinous eyes will look
Upon thee from the sombre silence
The spirits of the martyrs are these souls,
Gathered together, at long last,
Beneath these rafters and in these ignoble holes.
The hatchet found them here, and hither do they come
To seal with a last look, as with their final breath,
The agony of their lives, the terror of their death.
Question the spider in his lair!
His eyes beheld these things; and with his web he can
A tale unfold horrific to the ear of man:
A tale of cloven belly, feather-filled;
Of nostrils nailed, of skull-bones bashed and spilled;
Of murdered men who from the beams were hung,
And of a babe beside its mother flung,
Its mother speared, the poor chick finding rest
Upon its mother’s cold and milkless breast;
Of how a dagger halved an infant’s word,
Its ma was heard, its mama never heard.
Then wilt thou bid thy spirit – Hold, enough!
Stifle the wrath that mounts within thy throat,
Bury these things accursed,
Within the depth of thy heart, before thy heart will burst!
Then wilt thou leave that place, and go thy way
The earth is as it was, the sun still shines:
It is a day like any other day.
Descend then, to the cellars of the town,
There where the virginal daughters of thy folk were fouled,
Where seven heathen flung a woman down,
The daughter in the presence of her mother,
The mother in the presence of her daughter,
Before slaughter, during slaughter and after slaughter!
Note also, do not fail to note,
In that dark corner, and behind that cask
Crouched husbands, bridegrooms, brothers, peering from the cracks,
Watching the sacred bodies struggling underneath
The bestial breath,
Stifled in filth, and swallowing their blood!
Such silence will take hold of thee, thy heart will fail
With pain and shame, yet I
Will let no tear fall from thine eye.
Though thou wilt long to bellow like the driven ox
That bellows, and before the Altar balks,
I will make hard thy heart, yea, I
Will not permit a sigh.
See, see, the slaughtered calves, so smitten and so laid;
Is there a price for their death? How shall that price be paid?
Forgive, ye shamed of the earth, yours is a pauper-Lord!
Poor was He during your life, and poorer still of late.
When to my door you come to ask for your reward,
I’ll open wide: See, I am fallen from My high estate.
I grieve for you, my children. My heart is sad for you.
Your dead were vainly dead; and neither I nor you
Know why you died or wherefore, for whom, nor by what laws;
Your deaths are without reason; your lives are without cause.
Turn, then, thy gaze from the dead, and I will lead
Thee from the graveyard to thy living brothers,
And thou wilt come, with those of thine own breed,
Into the synagogue, and on a day of fasting,
To hear the cry of their agony,
Their weeping everlasting.
Thy skin will grow cold, the hair on thy skin stand up,
And thou wilt be by fear and trembling tossed;
Thus groans a people which is lost.
Look in their hearts – behold a dreary waste,
Where even vengeance can revive no growth,
And yet upon their lips no mighty malediction
Rises, no blasphemous oath.
Speak to them, bid them rage!
Let them against me raise the outraged hand,
Let them demand!
Demand the retribution for the shamed
Of all the centuries and every age!
Let fists be flung like stone
Against the heavens and the heavenly Throne!
And thou, too, pity them not, nor touch their wound;
Within their cup no further measure pour.
Wherever thou wilt touch, a bruise is found,
Their flesh is wholly sore.
For since they have met pain with resignation
And have made peace with shame,
What shall avail thy consolation?
They are too wretched to evoke thy scorn.
They are too lost thy pity to evoke.
So let them go, then, men to sorrow born,
Mournful and slinking, crushed beneath their yoke.
So to their homes, and to their hearth depart
Rot in the bones, corruption in the heart.
And go upon the highway,
Thou shalt then meet these men destroyed by sorrow,
Sighing and groaning, at the doors of the wealthy
Proclaiming their sores, like so much peddler’s wares,
The one his battered head, t’other limbs unhealthy,
One shows a wounded arm, and one a fracture bares.
And all have eyes that are the eyes of slaves,
Slaves flogged before their masters;
And each one begs, and each one craves:
Reward me, Master, for that my skull is broken.
Reward me for my father who was martyred!
And so their sympathy implore.
For you are now as you have been of yore
As you stretched your hand
So will you stretch it,
And as you have been wretched
So are you wretched!
What is thy business here, o son of man?
Rise, to the desert flee!
The cup of affliction thither bear with thee!
Take thou they soul, rend it in many a shred!
With impotent rage, thy heart deform!
Thy tear upon the barren boulders shed
And send they bitter cry into the storm
Comment: City of Slaughter should be read in company of “He told her ,” a Hebrew Short story by Yosef Haim Brenner.
There’s something I’d like to know
And I don’t want to make a fuss.
But the question keeps on nagging me
And answer it I must
When our furry little felines
look at us with those big round eyes
we can only put on our thinking caps
and do our best to surmise
the source of their motivation
and the source whence it comes
is it nothing but real true love
or a real bad case of manipulation?
Of course since we love them so much this point is moot
We like to think that kitty, so open and so cute
only seeks the good
and when he/she gives us that special look
can only do it for want
of love or food.
If there’s an answer to this question
where does this answer lie?
In the deepest places of our hearts
or in a laboratory?
For in the end this query involving our cats
– a query fair and just
is “do we look as cute and lovable to them
as they do to us?”
Seven Quick Tips for Web Copywriters
1) Get into the zone. I had lots of trouble in college when it came to writing term papers. I actually stayed up all night once to write a three page paper! Finally I realized that you can’t agonize over each word. Focus your mind on your topic, block out those stray thoughts and let your writing flow. To use an analogy, most baseball games are won on singles and doubles – not home runs! Otherwise you may end up like the proverbial centipede who couldn’t move because it was too busy being aware of its legs.
2) Perspective, perspective, perspective…there is always some leeway of expression, even if you’re constrained to presenting a certain set of facts. Find the right opening sentence. That helps immensely.
3) Perfectionism doesn’t work. Don’t be a perfectionist. Go ahead and write the article without aiming for absolute perfection. Give yourself a time limit. Time permitting, write your first draft and then leave it alone for as long as possible. Then go back and go at it with a chainsaw, editorially speaking. At that point you don’t want to be shy about deleting. An excess of words is one of the most common flaws of nonfiction.
4) Think with your keyboard! Think while you write, not vice versa. This may be the key to it all. Your mind has a mind of its own, and it will be happily catalyzed your keystrokes if you’ll allow it to be. Getting into the zone works! Save your micromanagement for the last step, when you can go back and proofread your draft with the utmost attention to detail.
You can write both fast and well
5.) We’re in the Age of the Internet. You don’t have to forget about the quality content you are used to creating. Just streamline the packaging. That way you can enjoy a steady output of well written prose! In web copywriting, bullet-sized chunks of information work better than complex sentences.
6.) Practice makes perfect. Practice writing within severe time limits. Pretend you’re speed dating or playing chess by the clock.This article was written with one eye on the clock. Admittedly, I am interested in the topic of writing and have already written a few articles about it. If you’re writing about a topic which is new to you,it is especially helpful to make an outline first.
7.) Outlines help. For your average (300-500 words) article, list four or five main points before you begin to write. This will help you to organize your thoughts.
I’d like to expound on a favorite topic
And that is all about
living in the tropics
with sun-kissed beaches
topped by palm fronds swaying
with aquamarine water dotted
with dolphins playing
with bikini clad women with derrieres sashaying
that is what
life’s all about