The Olympic
Games in London are coming to an end…
Michael
Phelps, collected his 19th Medal; Hope Solo didn’t do so
well for the U.S. Soccer Team.
Phelps,
a man of will and skill that is amazing…with:
Ability,
courage, devotion—
At
one point of his life, invoking destruction on his body and soul,
now seemingly, somehow, he’s rescued.
Here
today in Lima, Peru, it is near noon my wife will soon bring
me lunch—rice, chicken, pork, I thank
God I can eat so well!
Last
night we had a slight rain; a black sleek dog, was laying by
our door this morning, someone poisoned
him,
His
owner disowned him, and a few folks are afraid he may bite
their children, a few have tried—
Mitt
Romney’s running for president, against Obama, both losers, Romney, may lose
Virginia I hear— how in heaven’s name do we
pick these pea brains?
Gore
Vidal died a few weeks ago, a homosexual writer, and another
one for Sheol, I never did like his
writings much anyhow.
Meteorologists
say the U.S.A., is in a drought, with hurricanes and
tornadoes all about—yet we’re making
gasoline out of corn.
This
morning I have somewhat been amusing myself: two blackish-
brown sparrows, that normally come
around came around and Are here right
now, eating, constantly eating: they eat from dawn to
sundown: from a saucer my wife leaves
out in the Garden, half Filled with seeds—you’d think their stomachs would
explode.
Well,
each month is a novelty, to say the least, but always bleak, a
poem with too many stories, such as:
more trouble at Wounded Knee, and the
Oglala are in an uproar again, not like back in 1975,
which I remember, confronting the FBI, nor
like in 1876, with
There
great defeat by the Yankee…just more complaining, saying: The Great White
Father is unfair, in this case, the Great Black
Father, none-the-less, they want the
Black Hills back I bet, it’s All too unremarkable. Thus, they hold the flag
upside-down, as if in
despair.
The
pests, the black sparrows left and came back again, with two
gray doves, they don’t know when enough
is enough.
Syria
is at war with itself—Iran wants to help, you know how that
goes: one thief to a thief, one bully
against a bully.
Somalia
is coming out of one, twenty-one year old self inflicted
war; where 250,000-thousand people live
in egg-shaped pods of Brushwood tied with strings; and the enslavers live in
woodened
roof houses and solid framed homes.
Painful
is the human condition today, this month and seemingly
every month.
Barbaric
is the human soul, so it seems, this month, and every
month…!
Well,
that is the August poem for 2012.
#3391 (8-15-2012)
