Monday, November 28, 2016

OTI:two poems and notes:11/28/16

Open To Interpretation

The Black Cape

She's come to wave
Her black cape again,
Right in front of your nose,
And you all dreamy
Sniffing a white rose.
Just as well,
Standing up straight
She's sure to put you down,
Your blood on her black cape.


Notes: hmmph...reference the Disney cartoon character, Ferdinand the Bull...thought to revisit Ferdinand, and make something comic, but it came out gothic, as usual!...sigh...was going to work the word matador into it, the female tense, which is I gather, matadora, or torera, or toredora, the latter being made up by Georges Bizet for his opera Carmen as it was easier to rhyme, or some such...hmmph...and finding that turned up Conchita Cintron, the Golden Goddess, slayer of bulls, and not incidentally the mother of numerous children and breeder of rare pedigree dogs...750 bulls, it would seem the official records report...and somehow, Orson Welles had it that her accomplishment proved what men can do women can do as well...I doubt if that is why alone she was so widely popular...she was cute, and handled a sword, which is the staple of many a fantasy pictorial of fantasy heroines!...


"Her record stands as a rebuke to every man of us who has ever maintained that a woman must lose something of her femininity if she seeks to compete with men." —Orson Welles.


ah, well...thinking on the psychology of Ferdinand, and bull fighting, I thought to google: Freud bull can put Freud beside anything and get...most anything!..ral...anyway, I find myself looking into a reflection of my own black mirror mirror notions...


The meaning of bullfighting is open to interpretation (as long as the bull is strong and the bullfighter knows what he is doing). The spectator has flashes of intuition that come about from the sheer emotionality of the event. These small flashes open the door to seeing different meanings, to nuances, to another sensibility. Later, from intuition, we usually try to create theories. But the theory is never true. It is just a possibility that we verbalize, just one interpretation that expands our comprehension. There is no “one truth”. It’s more like a dream: we have small images and feelings, but as we try to articulate them, they become foggy or disappear. Bullfighting is an ephemeral art and its meaning is also fleeting. Theories attempt to rationalize it and hold on to a meaning, but the truth of it always escapes us.


from an interview with Paco Pereda, who is...


Paco Pereda was born in San Sebastían, Spain in 1958. He studied education and philosophy in university, with a focus on the philosophy of cultural anthropology. He carried out his field work in Morocco. He teaches at the University of the Basque Country in San Sebastían. Since 1992, he has been teaching Spanish history and culture to American college students who study abroad in Spain.


that statement could begin with, "The meaning of Greek tragedy..." and it would probably make better sense...insightful as it is, bullfighting is public torture, the crowd much the same that gathered around the guillotine, lynchings, and most countries these gatherings have moved into dark theaters to watch on silver screens tortures in dramas and adventure tales...and Paco goes on to say...


PP: I don’t have special faith in one theory or the other; they are just tools that can help us. What happens with the bulls is what happens with classical art: someone is always proposing a new argument or thesis. None ever stick, though. The meaning remains open to interpretation and speculation. Like the effect of a mirror, when we seek to explain bullfighting we are really explaining ourselves, how we think, how we feel.


The process of interpreting is an interesting one. We really have to dig out our own subconscious. As the American anthropologist C. Geertz said, we encounter a “dark clarity” or a “clear darkness”. If we over explain things, we kill intuition. When we put too much light on some truth we suddenly grasp, it ceases to be true. We need a dark obscurity to keep on feeding emotions, to keep the function of the theatrical alive in our lives.

from same site


hmmmph...I suppose at some point myself I'll stop belaboring the conceit of the color black!...

Black Sand

To stay warm, Petra sat close to her driftwood fire
On the black sand beach,
Her arms around her knees,
And sang to the Stars
And the Ebony Dolphins
Riding the phosphorescent waves.




Saturday, November 26, 2016

OTI:three poems:11/26/16

Open To Interpretation

Standing Rock

Another rescue
By way of explanation attempt
Lost in the Sargasso Sea
Like floating plastic packaging adrift
Along with the seaweed swirl
That becalms, traps
Ships and thoughts
Like beer can six pack
Plastic holding rings
Around Sea Turtle's neck.
Easy enough to understand,
Easy enough to rescue,
Easy enough to lose
In a drunken stupor sea,
Forgotten struggles in the lea.

Beauty and the Beast

In so wide an expansive
There's just you and I
In a storied stone tower.


Tree wood
Proof against
Shaking earth.
Who'd a thought
The house of sticks
The house of bricks?


Friday, November 25, 2016

OTI:one poem:11/25/16

Open To Interpretation

Beneath The Ruffled Waves

Without Petra nearby
Pet, blind, couldn't see with Petra's eyes
And Pet rested disconsolate
Behind Ishi's village
At the entrance to her cave,
Her chin on the ground
In blindness black.
Petra had been nowhere to be found
After their sudden fall
To the wind ruffled black waves.
Ishi's family worked
Changing the dressings
On Pet's wounded dangling wing.
Petra's crew gathered around
And no one could sing
Blinded too by black sorrow.
"Ichi and Kannon still search
With the long slender craft."
Said Ishmael.
"What from the sky we couldn't find
Maybe from the surface of the sea
They will see.
Some devious thing
In those scrub brushes
Hephaestus made.
They cleaned
But confused
The Black Decks.
And unexpected,
Black Ship Liz
Joined the Argo
And Glauce's Black Ship
Gifted to her by Medea.
Orpheus now commands the Liz,
Jason the Argo,
Glauce's follows,
Creon commanding.
Set on revenge they are
In pursuit of Medea
And the Golden Fleece.
Medea and the Northern Reach
Are Unaware
Of the approaching Greeks
And their terror.
What do we have?" Ishmael continued,
"Ichi's craft
And Nemo's dented tube.
The Northern Flight has a Queen."
"And you have none?" asked Kannon
Emerging from the Conifer Forest
With Ichi and his crew in tow
Back from the search.
"This is too slow,"
Kannon said to Ishi
Still working on Pet's wing.
"Open your wing!"
Kannon said to Pet.
And Pet spread both wings wide.
"And by my eyes can you see?"
Asked Kannon
"Just so." said Pet.
"Then. let's go
And rouse your sleepy head
Dragon friends!
Meet us at the Harbor
Beneath Volcano Never,
There's Dragon's work to do!"
Said Kannon to the crews.
And leaped up to Petra's saddle
On Pet's neck
And off they flew.


Wednesday, November 23, 2016

OTI:five poems, notes, two illustrations:11/23/16

Open To Interpretation


Maybe this will work
In Irvine Park,
And else wares alike,
With Maya my dog,
Her leash around my wrist
While I poke at my iphone notepad
Writing the epic.
Sometime she nuzzles my hand to say
"Let's go!"
Pulling letters away from words,
Words away from the "epic".

An Epic

"An epic" said Poe, "laconic."
"Just so, it would it would seem."
Melville said.
"He has book one!" added Twain.
"Eleven more!" said Apollodorus.
"He has oaks of compare with Dodona." 
Said Homer.  "That park."
"And woodpeckers too to
Tap tap tap." said Cervantes.
"Yes, we'll all be tap tap tapped."  said Euripides. 
"And poked poked poked." said Poe.
"Would you prefer briefer conjurings?" asked Dante.
"Yes, it is always the thought
To just string him along..." said Melville.
"Just to be here." said Dante.
"My Dulcinea for that.!" said Cervantes
"Lenore." said Poe.
"Beatrice." said Dante.
"Enough," said Emily, "leave him be..."

A Sharp Turn

Petra guided Pet with her legs
To make Pet make a sharp turn.


Oh, Maya has stolen the hot dog package!
His poking distracted!
And goes for his hand when he goes for the empty package!
And Maya growls!
This may not be so bad...
Just so.

A Sudden Fall

Like wild dogs' reach,
The harpoons flung from the Black Ships
Ripped Pet's left wing,
And downward with Petra
Pet spun into the Black Sea.


Notes: Maya, my dog, has outgrown her old dog carrier, and funds being short, and the summer heat, delayed getting a new one, and then I had notice of a used one for free, and a delay of that delivery (from my niece:), delayed things more.  But now I have it, and if fits perfect in Silver, my jeep, where I have taken out the passenger seat, and the back seat, and made a flat floor with some plywood and mats.  It's quite nice to have her beside me, and safe away from jumping on me while I drive.  And she can still look out and see the passing scenes.  First outing was to Irvine Park...curiously while there, we walked together a ways out into the riverbed, away from everyone...just the foothills in the distance...first time in a long time I've been even remotely out and about in 'wilderness'...and realized I have no compulsion anymore to go 'outside', or even dote on wilderness scenery...if there isn't human habitation about, of some sort, it's just too lonely!...this may be a passing curio...a few far flung journeys now with Maya, and I'll have back my adventuring!...anyway, I realized I can do something workaday like while walking her, namely write, poking at the notepad, as noted above...I like that, to be outside and about when writing...thought to do self similar thing with my watercolors, but way to problematic with Maya the wild thing beside...when people ask if they can come close, I tell them Maya is wild...maybe me too...the proof copy of my Creative Space Publishing book, The Black Deck Tales's really neat...and not too many errors of spelling and such, I'm a day or two, I'll have those, those I can find, fixed, and I'll be able to post it live to amazon like Women Can Do No Wrong...not a single copy of that one has sold, which was expected, and likely BDT will follow suit...but, now, when I go to Orange County Poetry Club gatherings, I'll have a 'text' to read from...always wanted to have a chap book...and there's never been a vanity onus to poets making their own chap books, which now CSP facilitates...I'm okay with it anyway...whole blog now for years is just such...I don't know if I can add eleven more epic chapter books to BDT!...a passing notion...but the plot is thickening...and I think I've morphed the Dodona Homeridae into a Chorus which I'll indicate with the underlining when they are just together chatting...ral...things to keep in mind:


  1. Praepositio: Opens by stating the theme or cause of the epic. This may take the form of a purpose (as in Milton, who proposed "to justify the ways of God to men"); of a question (as in the Iliad, which Homer initiates by asking a Muse to sing of Achilles' anger); or of a situation (as in the Song of Roland, with Charlemagne in Spain).
  2. Invocation: Writer invokes a Muse, one of the nine daughters of Zeus. The poet prays to the Muses to provide him with divine inspiration to tell the story of a great hero. (This convention is restricted to cultures influenced by European Classical culture. The Epic of Gilgamesh, for example, or the Bhagavata Purana do not contain this element.)
  3. In medias res: narrative opens "in the middle of things", with the hero at his lowest point. Usually flashbacks show earlier portions of the story.
  4. Enumeratio: Catalogues and genealogies are given. These long lists of objects, places, and people place the finite action of the epic within a broader, universal context. Often, the poet is also paying homage to the ancestors of audience members.
  5. Epithet: Heavy use of repetition or stock phrases: e.g., Homer's "rosy-fingered dawn" and "wine-dark sea".


pics of front and back covers below...all black...of course...



Sunday, November 20, 2016

OTI:four poems:11/20/16

Open To Interpretation

Walking Slow

"Begin again again?
Sure, every tale
Starts all over!
Once upon upon a time,
A pirate Queen named Dulcinea..."
"Petra." Black Dragon Pet said.
"Yes, Petra too,
She has many names.
Once upon upon a time,
Petra had a Black Dragon for a pet,
Can you guess the Black Dragon's name?"
"Pet!" said Black Dragon Pet.
"Of course, and Petra and Pet
Lived in the Land of Lost Loves,
The Land of the Lost Peoples,
The Land of No Return,
The home of Lenore,
And do you know the Land's name?"
"Nevermore!" said Pet.
"Just so,
And on the shore of Nevermore
Among the ice flows and ice bergs
Rises a long dormant Volcano
Black and red and brooding
With a perpetual cap of snow
Do you know its name?"
"Never!" Pet roared with pleasure.
Petra paused in her singing,
Seeing Ichi,
Tripping and stumbling
In his hurry running to them.
"A blind man has grace
When walking slow."
Petra said.
"Just so," Ichi said,
"The Black Ships are gone from Harbor!" 
"Where too?" said Petra.
"North." said Ichi.
"Pet, we'll go see." said Petra,
Leaping aboard Pet's neck saddle.
"I'll not be slow, hold tight."
Said Pet, rising to the heights
Of Volcano Never.

Antique Show

It is only a desk
And a smallish one.
And you only glimpsed
Its carpenter maker?

With small drawers for toys
And marbles and such.
A tower like cabinet in the center
With a glass door
And shelves for display.
On either side at the tower's base,
A shelf on left and right
For displays as well.

The models,
Ships and planes and creatures,
Rested there,
The desk top still has the nicks
From their fashioning.
It's made of pine
And has the dark original varnish.

And is one of a kind.


Volcanos are all called Never
Until everyone's eyes
Tear with ash,
Then they're called Terror.

Sunday Best

Love regaled
In different pews.
In one my sins they say
Smell to high heaven.
In yours
It's just my old canvas boots
Odiferous from workaday sweat.
That, and my pits
That make your nose curl.
I'll repent and don
My leather hiking boots
That smell of mink oil
While I walk with you
For a song or two.
That, and I'll get some of
That sticky perfume
For my pits too.
But away from such meetings
I eschew all masks.
I am what I am,
My words what they are.


Friday, November 18, 2016

OTI:one poem and notes:11/18/16

Open To Interpretation

Bat Love Potion

A penny for my penance
A token for its worthlessness
Hair clippings poop pee
The whole swarmy lot
Have more value than me
Unless you drink this stink
And I can reside in your night.


Notes: eesh...there are bat love potions...bat parts seem to be a prime ingredient for such...I studied out some more about hyperobjects, and found them related to something called phenomenology, and that's related to Epicureanism, and that to the feminist Simone Beauvoir...I was studying her wiki, and there was a photo of her and Sartre sitting on couch across from Che Guevara, so I studied wiki's Che page...and all this while I've been reading bits of Lucretius, an old Roman Epicurean...Epicurean's back then were different...they found explanations for things that didn't include gods and superstitions...and Lucretius introduces the notions as a heal all for the wars and troubles of his time, which he blames on gods and superstitions...I should source that...brb...


I fear perhaps thou deemest that we fare
An impious road to realms of thought profane;
But 'tis that same religion oftener far
Hath bred the foul impieties of men:


the 'foul impieties of religion', I think, got picked up by leftist idealists, often atheists, the modern Epicureans, and became 'the foul impieties of capitalists'...for Che it was United Fruit...that and his motorcycle rides through Latin America where he saw lots of poor's been pointed out that someone with his skills could have found better expression of his concern, as there are many examples, than being a revolutionary...he very nearly lobbed nuclear weapons at us...which seems impious, I'd say!...Che and his ilk often create mirror like opponents, or maybe the opponents made is one of the curios of human nature that cruelty begets a counter cruelty...trick for the peaceful minded is to stay clear of these, which was exactly the goal of the Epicureans...they stayed away from politics...Che too had a pollyanna thought that after the revolution people would transform somehow into peaceful's not gonna happen...and there's no escaping human turmoil...however cruel our behavior all seems, we somehow keep lurching forward from generation to generation...Lucretius reads like todays news, as does Che's commentaries...whatever it is, or things, that makes us so, they are like hyperobjects...and they are all too vast and invisible...but we see the self similar manifestations...current events resemble events between the world wars...hyperobjects had another name for the ancient Greeks...gods...



Tuesday, November 15, 2016

OTI:two poems:11/15/16

Open To Interpretation


You are Infinity's only friend
And your transcriptions
Her only hope.


Snow fallen in the night!
I'd wake up early
To find your footprints on the paths
Before the tourists obscured them.
You didn't make them for me
I know,
And if I followed your trail
Right up to you
How I looked to you
I could only fail to see.
"Click", a pic
For them I made,
And me.


OTI:one poem and notes:11/15/16

Open To Interpretation

Day Book

Every week, every morning
To morning,
I read my book,
Day page after day page day.
One page one day one hour one song,
Your page,
My everyday
Every page day favorite.


Note:  hmmph...there was a book back then, Notes To Myself...brb...1970ish...I don't think I read it...maybe a was one of those books, like books from authors like Rod McKuen and Leonard Cohen, who did the Seagull one?, and such, that always seemed to be about, late sixties early odd time...came to mind thinking that blogs, for the most part, are notes to oneself...hmmph...the proof draft of The Black Deck Tales is being shipped, and I'm kind of anxious to see it! one can do, along with blogs, books to themselves! reading the other Creative Space Publishing books I picked up at OCPC (Orange County Poetry Club), I realize I'm one of the few readers of them...and likely there will never be a back and forth between me and the, what they, in a sense, wrote to themselves, I read to myself!...or, so, I updated my WOW, World of Warcraft, video game to the new expansion, and in the intro is a video about how the new adventures's video...I'm trying to update me now!...Dragon 'flight' came to me doing the Tales, importantly as it lead to Northern, and later Southern, 'Reach'...Reach I was borrowing from the rock climbers, they climb a length of rope, and then another 'reach'...but there's also a sense of location, I think...I didn't study this out!...brb...


a continuous extent of land or water, especially a stretch of river between two bends, or the part of a canal between locks.

"the upper reaches of the Nile"


Oh, good, had that right...brb...and with 'reach' as a rock climbing term, I have that wrong, and was thinking of 'pitch', though not far afield, as reaching with one's limbs or ropes is certainly a part of the effort!...writing is like rock climbing...hmmph...the notion of Dragon 'Flights' is at least as far back as the Dragon Riders of Pern stories...there too are the telepathic dragons, and there too, in other stories by Ann McCaffrey, are the 'brainships'...the notion of spaceships that are 'organic' this case, piloted by a human brain...something of this too in the Dune stories...the notion of ships that are creatures in and of themselves...this may seem silly, but the notion of Gaia, the earth as a sentient being, not so much...the earth is after all a ship, often thought of as an 'arc'...granted, it doesn't navigate on it's own rotating about the sun, but all things in the universe float as it were in the vacuum, and so 'ships' in a sense, the earth, a 'black ship'...Ann had it too that dragons bond with a human, and probably much else that I've unconsciously borrowed...I read one of the Pern books long ago...and WOW borrows the 'flights' and the dragons' 'colors', so that's in the mix of things I've gathered...looked about for 'northern reach', and found this:


Aptly named, the Northern Reach lies in the northernmost part of Apollyon on a sublet of land that is accessible only by the great Glacier Pass that connects it to the remainder of the territory. The Reach is cold, volatile, and eerily quiet: very few creatures call it home save for the hardier sorts accustomed to year-round cold and icy landscapes. While it thaws somewhat in the heat of summer, for the remainder of the year the Reach is very dangerous due to the icy slopes and frosty paths. Even so, wolves come here to investigate the Caverns that are fabled to be the birthplace of darker magics.


That, I hadn't specifically ever seen!'s another game it appears...thinking on this, I recall the area in WOW that is all frozen snow covered...'aptly named' would seem to imply one comes to this...convergent geography!...wonder what's about for 'southern reach'...brb...


Jeff VanderMeer has said that the main inspiration for Area X was the hike through St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge.[5] However, he's also said that dreams inspired such elements as the writing in the tunnel from Annihilation.[6] Moreover, Jeff has cited a number of books as having an influence on Southern Reach such as The Other Side of the Mountain by Michel Bernanos.[


odd!...oh, here a New Yorker article about area x...even odder!!!...hmmph..and what is a 'hyperobject'???...brb...


Nonlocal: Hyperobjects are massively distributed in time and space to the extent that their totality cannot be realized in any particular local manifestation. For example, global warming is a hyperobject that impacts meteorological conditions, such as tornado formation. According to Morton, though, objects don't feel global warming, but instead experience tornadoes as they cause damage in specific places. Thus, nonlocality describes the manner in which a hyperobject becomes more substantial than the local manifestations they produce.[

well, I find the commentary and Morton difficult to follow!...I just watched one of WOW's clips, an interview of one of the game designers, with forum questions, and find it remarkable that folk can talk like's a game, and yet has about it an 'area x', and it's 'hyperobjectivity', like a tornado, manifests in our playing the game...the game itself overall is like 'global warming' is everywhere and nowhere, and only comes to light with our attention when we's an odd thing!...but that's kind of how I pictured the 'black deck', among many other things...words have synonyms, antonyms, puns, similarities, all kinds of stuff, so it's hard to say just what all I was going on about with 'black ship', 'black deck'...I'm not sure myself!...the Tales are a very localized thing for me!...and I find myself in sympathy for what Ann said of her own favorite book of hers...


Helva scored well on encephalographic tests and her parents chose the shell option. She would be a brainship, an elite of her kind. "Brainships were, of course, long past the experimental stages" in her time. Supposedly, "the well-oriented brain would not have changed places with the most perfect body in the universe."[12]
The story closes with brainship Helva singing "Taps" at the funeral service for her brawn Jennan. Decades later, son Todd McCaffrey called it "almost an elegy to her father".[13] About that time, she called it her own favorite story, "possibly because I put much of myself into it: myself and the troubles I had in accepting my father's death [1954] and a troubled marriage."[9] She has also called it "the best story I ever wrote", one that still makes her cry.[11] She chose it to read aloud as Guest of Honor at the annual science fiction convention Eurocon 2007.

these ships, like Ann's dragons, were allied with a human...hmmph...enough...too long a note!...poems as tornados?...don't go there...TMI!...ral...



Friday, November 11, 2016

OTI:three poems, notes, one emoticom:11/11/16

Open To Interpretation

Robert Graves

So, so
You were successful
And left us for that other trench
And now you want to come back.
Not many successful tales
Have that plot,
But we'll make room
And think of something
And send you back
Where you now belong.


So, so
We're killing someone over there
With bombs and bullets
Made in the USA
And you want to go on and on
With these solemn
Medal bedecked memorials.
Those flowers wilt in a day.
Over there they tiptoe through
Those metallic tulips

Decisions Decisions

So so
You think it's right
You think it's wrong
You think it's weak
You think it's strong
Tell me
When the bullets whiz by my ears
What you decide
If it won't take too long.


Notes: Robert Graves...reference Goodbye To All That by Robert Graves, his personal tale of WW1...that title, I think, is from an old Greek tragedy, the one with the watch towers on mountain tops from Troy to Greece lighting their signaling bonfires to report the victory at Troy...the first soldier to report at Agamemnon's palace goes on about things, and in passing says, 'goodbye to all that'...the ten year siege of Troy...I happened on that in a translation I haven't again happened on!...anyway, it's 11/11/11 again...Decisions Decisions...generic from my generation's era...and still the case for current it, this one is a curio!...'flowers wilt' is hackneyed, a low hanging conceit, but I wanted to get to a 'flower' that doesn't wilt, namely the bombs and bullets...and that old song 'Tiptoe through the Tulips' came to mind...kind of hoped it was WW1 era song...Tiny Tim certainly gave it that old time recording tinny sound, but no, composed in 1929...anyway, 'tulip' for the bombs and bullets is apt!...the flower buds look a bit like a hand grenade, and the underground bulbs are like land mines, which is a fit with tip toeing...normally I wouldn't lay this all out, but studying out tulips, which I did before for another poem, it's sacred to some goddess...brb...oh, I cant recall what I was on about before with's in the notes for a poem back their a ways...anyway, it is native to Turkey and the Middle East (that post about the Turkish national park has it...Mount Sipylus and Cyble)...anyway, tulips are native to, as it happens, those places currently in conflict, from Turkey and the Middle East, all the way over to the Central Asian borders with China...maybe it's a climate thing!...there's a lot of symbolism to tulips, most of it romantic, but it appears on Iran's current flag in an abstract script that translates out as the name of God in the shape of a tulip...Tulips too are Iran's mention of fallen soldiers who defended Iran, their martyrs...and so tulips have a laden meaning to many...curiously, the Iranian flag is a tricolor...


A tricolour is a type of flag or banner design with a triband design which originated in the 16th century as a symbol of republicanism, liberty or indeed revolution.


...our flag is a tricolor...anyway, looking at the little location map of Iran at the wiki page, I took note of the big body of water to the east of the Black Sea...what's that?...the Caspian Sea...Central Asia is just like out of sight out of mind...but I've been there before in a the ramp up to the first gulf war there was some nervousness about how the Russians would respond...Iraq was arms trading ally...all those tanks we blew up were Russian, and in a back and forth talk in a forum, it popped into my head to post, 'Beware the Caspian Gates'...notion being that any troop movements by Russia would go through the Gates to get to Iraq...that may still be a notion!...but there have been times in history when what was on the other side of the Gates, the Central Asian barbarian hordes, were a genuine fear...that's why the gates are there!...they are also known as the Gates of's remarkable the impression Alexander the Great left on the Persians...some of their lore has it he built the Gates, even though they predate his conquest...Gog and Magog are said to be on the other side of the Gates...just waiting...


The early Muslim traditions were summarised by Zakariya al-Qazwini (d. 1283) in two popular works called the Cosmography and the Geography. Gog and Magog, he says, live near to the sea that encircles the Earth and can be counted only by God; they are only half the height of a normal man, with claws instead of nails and a hairy tail and huge hairy ears which they use as mattress and cover for sleeping.[104] They scratch at their wall each day until they almost break through, and each night God restores it, but when they do break through they will be so numerous that "their vanguard is in Syria and their rear in Khorasan".[


physical walls don't work too well...they keep them out, but they also keep one in...treaties and deals are the tradition...if a wall goes up between us and Mexico, treaties will come down...example: Israel and the Palestinians...but the evangelical hordes want their fight, and have their heavily made up proponents...INSIDIOUS - "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" - Music Video...eesh...


Thursday, November 10, 2016

OTI:two poems and notes:11/10/16

Open To Interpretation

Second Labor

For pop Alz was a dream.
They all dream,
And we call them 'they'
As they're like children
Before they're named.
But I don't know,
Maybe he was lucid as I
And can recall each day.
Don't know,
Not a one of them has returned
To explain it.
It looks to be hell,
The continual looping
Memories repeated spinning.
Caring, I experienced what I could,
Eating sleeping existing
Beside him day after day,
Looking into the entrance
To the underworld
With its guardian,
The Lernaean Hydra.
You don't need to see this,
But Alz is like
That many headed serpent's
Heads talking all at once,
Arguing incessantly with one another,
Making no sense.
Quiet one head down
And the dragon grows another,
Maybe more.
And they are ear piercing loud.
Even when peacefully sleeping,
The afterimage of their screaming
Makes their waking a dread.
While you wait while they sleep
Maybe you sleep too
Only to hear them in your dreams,
See them in your dreams.
I still do.
Pop's one pissed off ghost,
And my clothes still soiled with
Virulent hydra blood.
You don't want to be
Too close to them
Or me.

So, So,

So, so,
Again I'm again a student
With his homework project
As again
A paper mâché volcano,
A carved balsa wood Stonehenge.
Show and tell has always
Been my favorite time,
My words alive with telling
And your eyes as well listening
For awhile
Until I see the long parade
Of my fellow students' projects
Dulls your gaze over mine.

So, so,
I show you my kids' stuff
I thought of interest
Just like back then
I'm still in school
Retelling my adventures,
But I note your own interest
Behind your eyes
Keened by your own adventures,
And for these tales of mine
You have little time.

So so
Pursuant to some future
I make my superstitious way.
You, superstitious too?
Oh, we have that in common,
Not a good sign.


Notes: Second Labor...reference the second labor of Hercules, slaying of the Lernaean Hydra, the serpent/dragon with many heads...cut one off, and it grew another...Alz reference Alzheimers...I hesitate to post this one, but I realized my experience was a fit with Hercules'...I'm not Hercules!...the old myths are made much of by different interests...these interests see in them allegories...modern psychology references its diagnosis to the myths...metaphysicians see allegories of spiritual things...and scientific principled scientists see things too...there's some merit to all of them...I'm finding the old Greeks loved ambiguity...every so often they would have contests for playwrights, like the Olympics for athletes...plays were submitted, and from these a few plays were chosen, each playwright given a whole day to themselves to perform three tragedies, and a satyr play, and after the performance the judges would vote...brb...


At the end of these three days a jury of ten people chosen by lot from the body of citizens chose the best choir, best actor and best author. At the end of the performances, the judges placed a tablet inscribed with the name of their choice inside an urn, after which five tablets were randomly selected. The person who received the highest amount of votes won. The winning author, actor and choir were thus selected not purely by lot, but chance did play a part.


That's ingenious ambiguity...almost like our having a popular vote, and an electoral college vote from the all or nothing win for each way to let the gods have a hand in things!...I've distanced myself from alz...just don't like to even to talk/think of it...or even medical things in general...which maybe doesn't help much for people who might benefit from my experiences...though in truth, the entire blog is dripping in hydra blood...hydra blood eventually does in'd Dante put it?...brb...


Dante passes through the gate of Hell, which bears an inscription ending with the famous phrase "Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate",[17] most frequently translated as "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."[


I can't even read through wiki's takes on allegorist algorithm of some sort keeps dumb bunnies like me out of that cabbage patch, which is just as well...medical books/things make me glaze over too...but on reading the wiki Dante takes, I see a segue into the So, So, s...Dante is guided by Virgil, a student with a teacher...not an unfamiliar relationship to me!...I regard everyone as my guide/teacher, always have, always will, I guess...always feel like I'm the little kid tagging along...which often leads to disappointment when the big kids ditch me!...oh, I need to do some poems about being 'ditched'! is just the worst...but I always look up...


Today "Hydra-like problem" or "hydra" refers to a multifaceted problem that seems incapable of step-by-step solution, or to one that worsens upon conventional attempts to solve it, for example, attempts to suppress a particular piece of information resulting in it being disseminated even more widely.


hmmph...oh!...I figured out the strange increase of pageviews...had to study this out! google blog editor there is a page or two that show statistics on pageviews...this has a name, Google is useful for those marketing their blog...for me, it's just vanity to look at it, and wonder who in the world in Sudan would happen on my blog!...and in the study, I discovered something called Referral Spam...this is when a bot finds the analytic page, and visits it...doesn't even visit the blog, just the analytic...but it leaves a pageview notation, as if it visited the blog...the purpose of this apparently is to dupe someone studying the analytics to click on the web site source, the bot's, that is funneling all the pageviews, just to see it, and so be lured to whatever the site is about...the analytics have things like what search engine and platforms viewers are reaching the blog with...this is all very dull, and now that I know where all those recent pageviews are from, I can go back to ignoring the analytics!



Wednesday, November 9, 2016

OTI:one poem, 4 emoticons, notes:11/9/16

Open To Interpretation


Our Poems

Our poems from today
I'd like to hear about
Seated across from you
At these joined together
Picnic tables in long rows.
Oh, not the ones in your books,
Keep those for the stage
And the microphone.
I'll listen, too, those.
Rather I'd hear
Share with you near
Our new ones from today,
Like we're playing bingo.





Notes: in a moment, off to OCPC's Wednesday night gathering (Orange County Poetry Club)...they all have those Creative Space Publishing books...bit upload to CSP of The Black Deck Tales has bogged down...waiting on email confirmation from them for interior approval...meantime, I've sent it off to Thomas at OCPC through facebook messenger...that's how those books get, that might work!...and I'll go no further with my own printing, and be more than content if OCPC helps me to print it...then I'll have a book too to read from!...more when I get back...bk...hmmph....tried to synopsis like ten years of Tree In Door Fauna And Flora into like five minutes for Izzy, who is Thomas' replacement as master of ceremonies tonight...maybe ten minutes...don't know that the gathered overheard me where we were in front sitting on the two chairs at the card table with the books...signups in progress for the reading...I left just as they started, and as I retreated Izzy gave me a shout out which roused the gathered to applaud...a courtesy I know...but, it was kind of like, the back and forth talking, kind of like Our Poems...anyway, came home with three more books from the card table....oh, I have one from last week too that I haven't mentioned...
A Twisted Smile by V.L.Cisneros
Human Noise by Lauren Waites
Tear Down The Wall by Poetry Club
(this one looks to be the origin of the OCPC, and dates from 2011, a combined anonymous effort by students at Saddleback College in Mission Viejo...I think)
Wall 2016 
(a literary journal put out by Saddleback for students to contribute to)...oh, so I bring this up to current, the tale of blog, and I am explaining trying to make book under auspice of OCPC of The Black Deck Tales, and Izzy says she looks forward to seeing it when the book is made, and I say, yes, but, oh, I have it online, 'you can see it on your phone', but she doesn't follow things online, doesn't use computer, but I showed her this post up on my phone, by way of explanation of my web 'addiction'...her guess!...I tried to explain mediums, like painters use, watercolor, oil...hers, mine, different...on the way over I was wondering where I am most me, and where I'm employed, working for someone, a company, I'm not me, very much...I'm fine here in the blog, I'm me...there are places, people, I'm with where I'm me, others not so much!...there's a poem in that to sort out!...moving everything over from the blog to recitations and publishing in books and all that, I don't know...'me' felt a bit lost walking back to Silver, my jeep!...I have an odd Wednesday routine now, which I tried to explain! the morning I'm at Grand Jury duty in the tall building with the eagle logo, and in the evening, just down a ways on 4th, at the 4th Street Market Place, I'm at OCPC with the skull and crossbones logo!...ral...the Market Place is very nice just to go to, eateries and sports tv and games, ping pong!...  



Tuesday, November 8, 2016

OTI:two poems and notes:11/8/16

Open To Interpretation


I open a book, any book,
To see how it's done,
How novelists use so many words
To say so little,
And puzzle,
As the usual is
Few words that say so much.


Medea and Onyx have arrived in Athens.  And on a patio adjacent to Aegeus' Palace Banquet Hall, Onyx waits patient while Medea and Aegeus argue.

Medea, too soon
To be so round.

Where I have been
Time descends

I doubt it is my son,
Rather Jason's you nourish.


Theseus, my newly discovered son,
Who will kill you on sight,
Such is his righteous momentum
Having cleared the path to Athens
Of criminals and hateful creatures,
Warns me of your scheme,
That you would your last remaining child
Be king of Athens.


I have no doubt.

Then doubt this,
Theseus is Poseidon's son.

Not so.

It is everywhere known,
Ask any god,
Aethra hard on after you slept with Poseidon.
Look for yourself,
It is Theseus exploits along the path
That bespeaks a half-god's
Godlike strengths.


It is Theseus that would slay you
And take for himself Athens.


You know my gifts,
As priestess of Hecate.
Beware the proffered cup
That tips your health.

Leave me.

Theseus comes,
I leave you to
Your convivial banquet.
Tomorrow I'll return
When you are clear eyed
Thirsty for truth,
Or sated,

Onyx and Medea having spent the night in the outdoor Theater of Dionysius on the slopes of Athens, rest toghether on the stage, the theater empty, but early morning Athenian risers have gathered at the perimeter of the stone seating, looking on in wonderment at Black Dragon Onyx.

I don't know why I returned, Onyx.
Remind me.


The father of my child is a fug head.

Jason or Aegeus?

Aegeus, not that it matters.

Children are children.

These empty seats suit us.

My presents alone explains that.

Onyx roars and belches flame and black smoke.  The gathered onlookers high on the slopes step back, fearful.

I can do that,
Stand and show them my stomach. 
Oh, look, a young girl with a doddering elder
Wend their way though the stone seats, running to us. 
How brave, how foolish.

The couple bow before Medea and Onyx.

Tutor and Nurse
Queen Medea, mistress.

My sons' tutor and nurse, Onyx! 
I am so glad to see you,
I thought your lives too lost to my travail.

By some magic, we escaped the throng,
How we can't recall,
And made our hurried way to Athens to join you,
But you have been gone.

Just so,
Though here I am.
I have another for your
Tutelage and care.

We are your servants always
Though too
Where you are
We must be.

Yes, my tiny realm
And smallish family,
With a giant dog.
Onyx, can you bear their weight
On the long flight back?


First a last word.

Back at the Palace Patio, Medea leaps off Onyx, and interrupts Aegeus and Theseus who have  been talking.

You are an idiot.

Maybe so.

Alive this morning tells everyone so.

Theseus grabs his sword to confront Onyx.

Medea, you promised a treasure.

I haven't forgotten, you see something?

The sword.


And the sandals.

Take them.

Theseus makes bold with his sword. Onyx licks his head with flame.  Theseus sits and unties his sandals, his hair smoking.

Leave us.

Theseus, barefoot, leaves.

Tomorrow, Medea,
Theseus goes with the sacrifices to the Minotaur
At the Marathon offering, 
And will be out of the way.

As you are out of mine. 

My son?

You deserve no sons, idiot. 
What I deserve has been given. 
I'm done here.

The Sword and Sandals safely in Onyx's claws, he lifts off; Medea, Nurse and Tutor, astride his neck for the long flight back to the Northern Reach.


Notes:  Voting is voting.  Vote!



Sunday, November 6, 2016

OTI:three poems and notes:11/6/16

Open To Interpretation

Street Light

"Thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt tavern and tavern.
Henry IV part 1 Act III Scene 3 William Shakespeare

No shame in that
I'd say
Dead in the street gutter
After a night in the tavern.
We've all made that walk
Our own shadows before us
On the pavement from
Our stars over head.
Were there street lights back then?
Let me check...
Oh, just so,
One, then, could hire a walking lantern.
Did the link-boy turn when he heard you fall?

Rich Or Poor

Depression is like hunger,
Everyone gets hungry.
Rich or poor,
We want to be happy.


Onyx's 'palace'
Was a square stone fortress tower
Situated on the shore of a marsh
That was sometimes a lake,
But in winter when snow covered
Was an expanse of white
With reeds sticking through
And hummocks covered like snowballs.
Onyx's Nest was atop the Tower
And there beside
He slept in hibernation with his Dragon family.
In the lantern lit Tower Hall,
It's tall windows' glow falling on the night white snow,
Medea sat on a three legged stool,
Perfectly still,
The painter from Sycion was melting his wax.
"The Black Dragons brought you here, Pausias?" Medea said.
"Yes, one day when I was minding my own business, 
Plucked from a country lane like a roadside flower."
Pausias said.
"They have discerning tastes."
Medea gestured to the murals covering the Great Hall's walls. 
"And not I alone," Pausias said,
"Others from my school are here as well,
Along with our works the Dragons pilfered."
"Have you my likeness?" Medea asked.
Pausias examined the wooden panel before him,
His encaustic painting of Medea in progress.
"I approach."  said Pausias.
"I too." said Medea, her hands on her belly
Rounding with Aegeus' son.
"Enough of this.  Make do with what you have. 
I must be off."
"As you wish, Queen Medea." Pausias said.
There isn't much to a Dragon Tower.
A Great Hall, a Kitchen, sleeping quarters,
And in Winter, each of the Towers of the Northern Reach
Were isolated, snowbound.
And Medea had yet to acquaint with their human populace
Beyond the few attendants at Onyx's Tower.
She ascended the stairs to the Tower's roof.
Thereabout, Onyx and his family,
So many black hummocks
White snow covered,
Dreaming Dragon Dreams.
"Wake up, Onyx." Medea said.
From the Dream, Onyx heard Medea
Far away on the horizon of sleep,
And half awake his consciousness flew to her.
"Wake up Onyx!  I need a ride!"


Notes:  I've never been able to read Edmund Spenser, or for that matter the epic poets he emulated, at least the allegorical ones, like Dante.  And for that matter, allegorical epic poets after him I can't read either, like Milton, or even Blake's 'books'.  Stories heavily laden with allegory, my eyes glaze over.  How's Hollywood have it, 'if you want to send a message, use western union'.  Hmmph.  Nevertheless, the epic poets can really write, so always worth a looksee...anyway. studying out Spenser's biography, I happened on this...


We must keep in mind that to a late medieval/early Renaissance audience, such borrowing from other authors without citation was not by any means considered plagiarism. In fact, it was taken to be the sign of a well-educated poet who could command different sources and integrate different styles. The medieval style was one of incorporation, not originality, and this carries on from Dante to Spenser to Milton. rumor has it that Spenser died in a tavern in London, where he had returned after having his Tower overrun by Irish rebels...he may have been destitute, or maybe depressed, or maybe maternal grandfather died on a street in Chicago just so, and Spenser's demise tickled that nerve...depression is a peculiar is just as real as hunger with the self same directed need for of its sort, whatever that might be...but that being a nebulous notion, no one has any certainty on how to deal with depression...I'm steeling myself for the election Tuesday!...reference Spenser's Castle in Ireland, now a ruin, Kilcolman Castle...apparently, before cannonballs, Castles were Tower like, perfect pedestals for Black Dragon Nests, I'd say!...reference 'link-boy'...'link-boys' might have their modern counterpart...oh, and reference the ancient Greek encaustic painters, all lost...



Thursday, November 3, 2016

OTI:five poems and notes:11/3/16

Open To Interpretations

Golden Apples

So, Hercules,
You think Atlas will come back
With your golden apples.
Just so, Simon thought his burden


Poets are gentle sorts
It seems
Which belies their strength
To withstand lightning bolts.

Goose Bumps

Anyone can read a poem,
Like walking over
A clear ice frozen lake,
The transparency
Revealing wonders.
But it is only readers
With a poet's skin
That will break the ice
And take a shivering swim.


That Apple was round!
How easy to miss
The significance,
Eve's magnificence
Offering this round world to Adam.


We dovetail
Sweet nothings.


Notes: these little ones could have really big notes!...I'll leave them be least they become sour somethings...Cubs!!!



Wednesday, November 2, 2016

OTI:three poems and notes:11/2/16

Open To Interpretation


You make me nervous,
And feelings like that
Don't happen everyday,
I'm reluctant to throw them away.
It's not what I want.
And what you want
I don't know.
Looks to be
You're not nervous at all.
Just say what you want of me,
Not what they want
Of you to want of me.
If it's bad news for me,
I had reason to be nervous.


And put down in words
Down on paper words
Where they can't go anywhere,
It's the same,
Being put down,
Being told
You're not enough.
Killed off,
Put down like a dog.
It's a daily slaughterhouse
Put down in words,
Or put down unheard.
It's the same

Back Cover

Black Dragons rule the Southern and Northern Reaches, the white caps of this world.  They dread the Black Ships that sail beyond the Pillars of Hercules, but to have a Black Ship Captain for their Queen, and to hear her sing, is their deepest longing.  Journey on Dragon dreams, the poems and songs of the Black Dragons and the Black Ship Crews.  The Ravens and Gulls are crapping all over the Black Deck.  Grab your scrub brush.  They miss you.  Rub this book.


Notes: Nervous...I get nervous before every basketball game I go to referee...terribly melancholy too on the way to the game...if it goes well, I'm happy as a clam...Bill Russell threw up before every game...stage fright...usually goes away once things get going...oh, poop too...seen Hawk and Owl do that before they lift off...brb...


Infinite sadness is more than just the 3rd album by the Smashing Pumpkins. It's a feeling that you get when you have severe anxiety. It's this feeling as though there is no happiness in the world - as though joy has been sucked away, and you're left with this feeling as though nothing will ever get better.


eesh...Newspaper...too brutal...but there was story of a young girl, who had just recovered from serious cancer, which I think disfigured her face, and back to school, she met the usual bullying, and that 'infinite sadness' got to her, and she took her is, just the other day, the day I wrote this poem, I parked nearby the drugstore in the shopping center, and on walking through the lot, a short male approached, face and mouth not right, and speaking on and on, walking right towards first I thought they were homeless, but it didn't fit...more like some dow syndrome kid lost from the group outings I often see...anyway, I behaved badly, just ignored them and walked by, the usual 'don't bother me' I give the homeless...I've come to the grim conclusion that that is the best I can do for homeless panhandlers...I never see any starving skinny I continue walking, and happen on who must have been the kid's father leaning on his car door, about to get in, calling for the kid, and looking at me like I'm crap...which I was...Back Cover...on reconsidering, I have it now to title the book of the Black Ship, The Black Deck Tales, and have both back and front covers be all black...on the front that title and my name, on back, this blurb...realized book cover blurbs always look like those old balloons in the video game Shadow good fit...'rub this book' (from the poem, which I'll include, though not of the sort I culled for the Tales) part of the conceit, along with the black a quest announcement in WOW...'rub this book'  I'll use a lot for like, 'click on this!...ral...I'm being too clever...but glad of new choice, as I don't have to fret about making my own cover art...and project will move along quickly...blurbs are interesting...kind of an art/poem form in and of themselves...Creative Space Publishing requires one, part of the extent of their trying to help you sell your publication!...on looking at amazon's book offerings you'll always see one of these blurbs...