The Lost Millennium

    

In a corner of the world there was a land called Sumer

Whose waters reached the Euphrates Valley and the Syrian Desert, its high plateau?

As a result, the mud of two northern streams created a delta, with a pitiless sun…

But rich was the soil, as anywhere on earth!

And man here made his home:

This was the beginning.

Diversified by marshes and reed-beds, rivers flush with their banks...!

After the Great Flood, retreating waters and a new cultivation took place; the Antediluvian devoured by the apocalyptic event.

Hence, into Sumer the giants of old went, degreed a civilization among the dark-haired race, to include the Hulks of Jericho, and those Goliaths at: ‘Stone Heap of the Wildcat’ and Gaza … 

Sporadically circumstances would promote social unity.

And there was Susa, Musyan, Elam, and the Persian Gulf—Mesopotamia, And Queen shub-ad, who created style.

And pottery formed, and temples were born.

And kings came and left.

Like King Gilgamesh, whose ancestry stretched back to A-lu-lim., the first of the Sumerian kings (NUN RI)

And thus came: gold vases, and royal graves at UR, and the Sumerian hymn and they hummed to the gods of old! And the villagers wore

Garments of sheepskins, and molded clay figurines, roughly chipped.

From crystal, they wore necklaces: of all kinds, and some with beads.

This was the lost millennium.

They thought back then, somehow or another, virtue was a necessity for the gods, therefore, came sacrifices and the daily ritual: 

Spells that fix and bound man; hoping to remain engaged, to keep the favor of the gods.

As a result, feast-days came and went; animals killed for rituals, like flies!

Barbarism, perhaps, but that was life, at its edge.

It drew the gods, and man’s moral judgment.

Prompt, the gods exercised their power, and man then started to build statues to their likeness, and now human sacrifice even found its way:

With magic from the dismembered angelic beings: those renegades tossed out from Heaven!

Those who cohabited with earthly women, and gave birth to giant children, and created ungodly occurrences, even cannibalism.

Hence, Astrology was now born on earth, as Sumerians now ruled the skies.

Astronomical knowledge came from the gods too, and the gods (those angelic supernatural beings who battled in Heaven against the supreme!)

Those ecclesiastical creatures, that fell out of the sky, one earthly day!

Whom would be eventually cast into the Prison House for Angelic beings, far off in some cosmic nebula?

Mesopotamia came under Sumerian rule, and Ur, Lagash and Nippur honored the Moon-god. And then came more public works; Baal was created out of words whom dwelt in the sands of the Ancient Near East, right up to the Mediterranean Sea! …

And it became the Sacred Way, and the walls of the Ziggurat [Temples]

Were built.

Sanctuaries, with an inner court, and doors decorated that lead to narrow chambers: to the Holy of Holies. Shrines, sacred vessels.

It was an unusual time, and phenomenon ... were great platforms were built in Lebanon, and great brickwork, and grand sculptures

Gods and goddesses, enchanting oil-jars; and forever lost dynasties.

A lost millennium, that would in time stretch to Greater Cities like:

Babylon, Nineveh, Damascus, Jerusalem, Troy, Knossos, Athens, Rome, Pompeii, and Mecca.  

And within, men would lead men like lambs led astray, for what man knew was next to nothing, taking life jovially and carelessly.

#1522 10/19/2006/ Published in the Arab Magazine “Al-Mashriq” (GAZA) / Reedited 1-2015 & revised 8-2015

  

Orion’s Orchard [Astronomy and Theology] Revised (Bilingual)

      Orion’s Orchard

[Astronomy and Theology]

Revised

In the universe, the one that surrounds the Earth (perhaps the mind as well)—someone once threw a ball into dark matter, dark energy. After that, that same, someone created gravity—I do believe—and threw that same ball  now  mixed somewhere out into nothingness, threw it out and over his head, and it exploded, threw it one after another yet at the same time, as if all the compounds were in each throw that was really one—; from man’s way of thinking, it caused a Big Bang, somewhat in that unseen form of matter that pulls the universe—supposedly this way and that way, thus creating the great expansion, that has gone on since who knows when; again man’s speculation would say, fourteen billion plus years, give or take: After ten-billion years, after that mighty toss everything slowed down a bit, light diminished by fifty-percent, —yet: some kind of momentum like a heartbeat, or the swaying of a pendulum of a Grandfather clock kept the universe in check, —that ball thrown in motion (although its push threw everything in all directions) which is still keeping it airborne: carried by the shove that was set in motion; hence, when it loses its momentum, when the ball falls, or the pendulum stops or the heartbeat has its last beat—complete, it will crash, I do reason, and all that will be left—again  I do reason—will be the ball (and its substance: what is hanging onto it, in it): that is all that will be left—I repeat, everything else just: waves, just waves in nothingness: waves that were made by that One Person who forced out,  as a result, nothingness and all that it created will come to some kind of a standstill (I replicate): —it has to: for what will carry it—when all the engines that run the universe weaken: When the protons and neutrons no longer come together in the nucleus of an atom, and no longer do the great galaxies spin fast enough, and thus fly apart, and the gravitational, nuclear and electromagnetic forces collapse? Save that, that someone we—most of us that is—call God, does not create something else out of some kind of a new nothingness.

       It is how it was, how it had to be, how else could it have been: all this nothingness coming together, surrounding our world we call Earth, with all its “t’s” crossed, and “i’s” dotted; with its universal gravitational balance, from moon to earth to the sun throughout our solar system and beyond. We normally don’t think this way, lest we want our minds to become mad.

       I heard a voice in this dream I had within my head, it said: “I am immortal, I sit behind the suns, and write epitaphs, for all the living things, then I open up their lips, an endless task it seems at times: the zenith of life comes from nothingness—and I, I alone hear their dying wish: to remain, to be: to some extent, to be like me forevermore, in my eternity. Eyeless faces, pale and un-molded, that is what you all were once, but by my graces so you became something more than nothing.

       “Orion’s illumed by my side, showers me like a rainbow with its gasses, breathless orchard: it is the magnificent mocker of the universe: perhaps you would call it such.  Hence, should I touch, only touch it (lest I destroy My own makings): only touch its burning drums, put my finger into its aflame winds, —what I created it all out of—nothingness, the horse’s head would roar, as if into a merciless, pitiless volcanic eruption, yet the moat around my untouched garments, it would never reach—and with the beckon of my finger it would go silent.

       “The Universe is like a squeezing viper at times, a sacrificial rip in all its proportions, the magnitude that I’ve carved out of the thrust, as you call it—or have called it, from the push: from end to end, or as you have now proclaimed, its endless, end, meaning there was no beginning, save you have not the knowledge to identify me, so you create  lively and provocative theories, breezy in style,  probabilistic mind-benders, portraits of  randomness.

       “You see, and you don’t see, that I created all this out of oblivion at different stages with different utterances, —yet its creation became instant, and when you study this more, you will understand it more, you will understand me more, why your existence is at all—: is this not a question you keep asking: ‘Why am I?’ It is not that I need you that I molded you out of clay, pasted you together from that thrust, twist, wave, and roar— created elements and matter, and mystery for you, which to me  was all  from emptiness; but it was a gift of life, from me to you, called love. That is what it is all about!”

#1366 6/5/2006; written while at the El Parquetito Café in Miraflores, Lima, Peru, one afternoon (reedited, 7-2012) Reedited 11-2012/Revised 12-22-2014

Spanish Version

El Huerto de Orión

[Prosa Poética]

En el universo, el que rodea el mundo (quizás la mente también)—una vez alguien lanzó una pelota—creo—en algún lugar, y  esta explotó—, algo: que retrasó todo un poco, y su empujón (su empuje, en todas direcciones) todavía lo mantiene en el aire: llevado por el empuje que fue puesto en movimiento (mucho tiempo atrás); de ahí, cuando éste pierde su velocidad, éste se estrellará, realmente supongo, y todo es decir, será la pelota (su sustancia: la que está colgada sobre ello, en ello): esto será todo lo que quedará, todo lo demás sola serán: olas, solamente olas en la nada, del que esa persona una vez hizo el empuje; por consiguiente, la nada y todo lo que este creó vendrán a una especie de una parada (repito)—tiene que ser: ¿para que  lo llevará?  A menos, que alguien no crea algo más de una especie de algo nuevo. Esto es como fue, como tuvo que ser, cómo más podría haber sido: ocurrió para rodear el mundo, con todos sus “tes” cruzadas y sus “ies” punteadas.  Normalmente no pensamos de esta forma, no sea que queramos que la mente se vuelva loca.

       Oí una voz en este sueño de mi mente, esta dijo, “Yo soy inmortal, me siento detrás del sol, y escribo epitafios de todo, todos los seres vivientes, después abro sus labios, una tarea infinita parece de vez en cuando: el cenit de la vida viene de la nada—y yo, oigo su deseo moribundo: de permanecer, ser algo; caras sin ojos, es lo que ustedes fueron una vez, pero por Mis gracias tú te volviste, y ellos se volvieron—más.

La iluminación de Orión por mi lado, me riega como un arco iris con sus gases, el huerto sin aliento: esta es una simulación magnífica del universo: quizás lo llamarías semejante, tal vez: a la fantasía de Baudelaire; o el crepúsculo de Poe; o los peligrosos huertos profundos de Clark A. Smith; las imágenes musicales de George Sterling, luces fantasmales; el murmullo de Dennis Siluk, silencio perplejo; el epigramático vuelo de la imaginación de Ellis.  Toco, sólo toco (no sea que destruya mis propias creaciones): sólo toco más allá de sus ardientes tambores, en los vientos de nada—del cual he creado todo esto. La cabeza de caballo: ruge como un volcán, un foso alrededor mío; el Universo se parece a una estrujante víbora, un rasgón expiatorio en todas las dimensiones que he tallado del empuje, como tú lo llamas, del empuje: Lo he arreglado (fijé) para ti: el observador de la tierra.”

Comentario por el Autor: “Aquí está una clase de poema cósmico, que espero lo disfrutes; realmente confío en que esto breve y vistosamente va a exponer el elemento de importancia de la belleza del universo enorme de Dios. "

# 1366  5/Junio/2006; escrito mientras estaba en el Restaurante Parquetito en Miraflores, Lima, Perú, una tarde. Dedicado a Brynna Siluk [mi nieta]

Curse of the Suns (Subtitle: Armageddon’s Stellar Doom) Revised

The silence inside the stars, from earth’s vision: men decry to God’s

       wisdom, and see visions!— 

This is when God had blinked his eyes, and the evening stars trembled, no        

       longer in a solitude or rest, and balance.

This was when all creation had to face cosmic tides of chaos, in the          

       Heavens?

       “How deep is this abyss of night?” will be asked: when chaos will not

       rest!

Ah, then man will ask and seek, as the seas ebb and sway, — the oblivious

       “Whomever they are in this deep, these Armies of eternal night, cold

       and bold: as they may be, combatants from the ramparts of some

       remote garrison, inside some far-off nebula…why do they approach?

Do they not seek to storm beyond the immortal lights of Orion?”

They gaze upon the gulfs in the curvatures of time: they wish to burn, and

       they walk with stellar doom.

These armies, immense, should they not be hidden from earth, wrath would

       they bring—

Until now, God has made them unforeseen!

And man has only dreamed in dreams, and in visions, of their schemes.

Should imaginings become reality—they would create a battle path of       

       menace that would sway to irrevocable war—

Wars for a generation—

Armageddon’s stellar doom: a deep blood splash, from the heavens,

       wherein lies the unbegotten.

How narrow the channel between them and us— they even now set eyes

       upon our orbit; and to them we are but the untrodden dens of the

       cosmic strange… to conquer and enslave!

Lo! The brief yet cunning evil kept in suitable shape for this gloom filled

       day, prophetic doom, approaches—

Marked by annexed darkness, unstable black matter and energy, with

       thrones of fire, from some lost destiny, no longer silenced by God’s

timepiece, thus, the ghostly hours have come, Orion’s horsehead of light

       its firmamental gloom, belted with suns and showered with chaos

Has seen the earth’s helm, its sublime array, now comes this heavenly fray

       this, march of menace… an untillable immense!

The whole universe now in high unrest—; in a darker darkness, where man

       has never been, nor seen, where matter is thick, and as liken to hot magma mass, where dead stars are swallowed up  deep into  spiral  pits of   

       cosmic darkness, where once the angelic prison for the unvirtuous seraphim were imprisoned, no longer caught  in this fiery quarry,  its

       endless maze, swaying in appallingly walls, trying to escape those fatal days — these cosmic foes, ere, they know their doom filled, as the axles of

       earth knows it, breakability, if only for a moment, to create a hush so deep… no thing or being, would be able to withstand the swift

       immeasurable night’s doom— Lo! From the lapse of form!

Lest Elohim’s hand take up man’s fate!

Behold, not even the stellar strongholds deep in Orion, with their cosmic

      besieging armies, and their legionaries, nor the supreme armies of the deep spiral abyss—whom are but barbaric eyes to God—should he

       interfere, in these not so far-off days, man would vanish into the haze,

       the invading flames, of chaos, into the bombardment of  a thunderous

       trillion-trillion, cosmic neutrinos!—

And knocking out all the biological ancestral material that God used to       

       mix and produce life.

And should not God shorten those days, all that will be left will be a        

       cosmic tomb, and the grit of firmamental gloom!

And I had seen in a vision, of those not so far-off days: that the sun was

       powerless to illume the moon, dwarfed—; the time of sorrows.

And I had in those not so far-off days: denial of this end, that this perfect

       and final war of wars: mutate was man’s mind to this comet’s like

       blaze, of destruction; as if to become frozen primordial soup; perhaps to reform at another time, under the right conditions.

And to them that would not kneel, were thrown into a fiery mote; into a  

        encoded doom by the dark messengers, of gloom.

Now the vision has passed, all that was to be hidden into the unfathomed

       stalls of mystery, will appear tier by tier, until the very end, which is  without question, jut when! 

No: 4430 (July 2, 2014)/ revised and reedited August 26, 2014, reedited/revised:  8-20’15/ For: Naason Mulatre, Cecilia Matias Aliaga and Marge McPartlin

  

Condemned! (Sin must be swallowed!)

He told me he saw a miracle!

He said he wore a holy cross!

He even said, he saw a vision of Christ.

And held his own, a Rosary and Bible:

Read and prayed them every night!

Then cried with pride: all who’d learn from him

Who sought the truth, — God would open

The gates of: promise and hope!

But what he didn’t say

Was what he didn’t know—?

He couldn’t tell he had a closed heart, and

A ruptured mind and soul, equally fouled!

And thus, this wouldn’t allow his faith to settle—:

To be drawn from the Father to Savior:

And because of this, the Holy Spirit did not

Allow the relationship that could have given

Love and life, between him: the Father and

Jesus Christ: eternal life; therefore,

As all sin must oblige and bear:

He was judged and condemned, right there!

#47832/8-10-2015

Inspired by writings of Pope Francis (EWTN News/CAN Aug 9, 2015)

Note: I see the approach to God in the following manner: it is kind of like: the Father calls your name, the Holy Spirit, check you out, and the Lord Jesus cleanses you, and the Father then welcomes you.

Uncle Wally: POW (WWII)

Uncle Wally was in a concentration camp, during WWII, he talked briefly about it, and so I shall simplify the routine as mildly as I can for the reader; it was not an exterminating center.  But a place to break the human spirit. Such camps have ceased to exist, but there are many more that has taken its place. From Iraq, to Afghanistan, Russia, the Philippines, the POW’s of the IS, Iran, China, and so forth.

       Private Wally and his platoon had landed on the shores of Normandy, they tried to make it over to where the fighting was going on, he was captured, along with the majority of his platoon, 44-men, and taken to a concentration camp by train into Germany. He was given a number, let’s say it was #905, because it was just past nine o’ clock in the morning when he was captured.

       He noticed there was a crematorium, for those who lost spirit and became a bag of bones; the trucks took a trip down there with bodies every so often, not daily, but weekly. What he saw the first days was a miserable heap of half-dead, the dying and starving men, and when he sniffed the air, on the first day he arrived, he smelt roast beef, a tall soldier with horn-rimmed glasses came to his side, pulled him out of line, he was called the Strohshineider, he showed a bored expression, “You’ll be in barrack 18,” then he hesitated, muttered to the side of his ear, “we can handle this differently,  we have meat and nourishing food, would  you like to come with me, you and a few of your friends, you hand pick them out for me, and…” no one in the line  said a word, someone coughed slightly this broke up the Strohshineider’s concentration: Wally recognized a few of his friends,  they shook their heads ‘no’, he didn’t know what they already found out but it was a signal that they didn’t want to be picked out as volunteers for this meal, but he didn’t know why. The Strohshineider snapped “Well?”

       Wally said, “I’m not hungry sir.”

       “Get back into line,” he commanded, after giving him an elbow to his ribs as a warning. It was not an excessively vicious elbow stab, but it bent him over. Uncle Wally straightened himself out. The Strohshineider smiled.

       “I’m okay,” Wally told the comrade to right and left in line, although standing straight was difficult.  Then the Strohshineider picked out three full-grown men who had become skeletonized, “Take down their numbers,” he told a soldier to his right, and have them report for dinner, after you clean them up.  Those three stood frozen as if an avalanche had fallen on top of them. They knew their time was up. Wally grinned. He was hungry, did he make the right decision?  Without interest these three went into the tumult, the abyss that everyone else resisted.  

      ‘Was there a way to escape,’ went through Wally’s mind? Standing in line looking here and there. Electrically charged wires everywhere. A triple strand of barbed wire circled the outer rim of the camp.  Said the soldier next to him, in a whisper, “We talk only in the fog, when in line usually we don’t, and nearly below a whisper if we do. And never when the wind is blowing against us,” today it was not blowing at all. The voice came from behind hm. “Don’t turn about please.” Said the same voice. “I’m in barrack 18 too, my number is #806, no need for name here!”

       “Will those three come back?” questioned Wally to whomever would listen, and never moving his body, lest he draw attention.

       “No one ever does,” said an unfamiliar voice.

       Now Private Wally checked out the watchtowers, a glance here and there, “It’s dangerous to spy on the towers as you’re doing,” said a voice.

       “Why?” asked Wally. No one answered. “Are we supposed to just stand here and stare at each other?” Had someone answered him it would have been more bearable, but no one did.

       “Why me,” he asked himself, “fighting the enemy would be better than this!”

       “Move them to the barracks” said the Strohshineider, in a matter-of-fact tone to the soldiers guarding the prisoners.

       Said Wally, in trek, “There isn’t any gas chambers here, right?” to the soldier beside him he was speaking but a voice from somewhere said: “If they give you a towel and tell you to take a bath, then you need to worry!” and a few of the soldiers shook their heads, as if it was a bad joke, “No,” said another soldier, “not here but if they take you elsewhere, who knows?”

 No: 1103/ 7-28-2015

Note: the story is based on Historical Fiction, in other words, the author is filling in gaps, gaps that his Uncle Wally never filled, but who lived it. Wally lived in Minneapolis, Minnesota, lived to the ripe old age of 85; he was a survivor.

Three Women (Or, ‘Cain’s Arrival’) 1980-1999

Interlude Vignette III

Tokyo Tower, Built 1957, model after the Eiffel Tower in Paris

The author went to its top, 1999

 …

 Three Women

(Or, ‘Cain’s Arrival’) 1980-1999

Opening

I have always held women in high esteem, to be one of God’s most charming and pleasurable creatures, and I do not speak from any narrow mindedness, perhaps some gullibility in my younger day; I’ve been examining this for a long time, with little conclusion to nat. It may sound a little like a cheap throw at women in general, but in spite of anything I’m on their side, somewhat, —men can be barbaric, and rude and boastful and prideful but with men, women can figure them out after two shakes of the dice; women have too many sides and are too chaotic for a man to figure them out; perhaps one woman to another, and the devil and God can figure them out, and to be honest, women I do believe can even at times trick the devil, but man lacks this ability for some odd reason, my advice for him is to simply get out of dodge, forget revenge, or vengeance, or payback, it has a boomerang effect, when used on a woman, in other words, it doesn’t work, payback is hell.

       How many times—I can’t count them—I’ve escaped from their obliterating clutches, wanting to call this Godly creature a menace, I held back, only in fear of God, since he created her for man. So all this jibber jabber brings to mind three women I’ve never talked about, or wrote about in any of my writings, thus, this is their debut. I don’t know why I haven’t it’s been rather a blind spot of mine. And I mean no harm in this small brief, or vignette.

       As far as Donkeyland goes, it fall in place perhaps the least of my writings, but it does have its place.

       On another note, before I get into the three women, my present wife, now for fifteen-years, has got to be a saint for enduring me, for I am all those things I previously mentioned men have and she over look them, I I’ve never got, she’s a woman!  I keep waiting for the hot iron to hit the anvil.  

       This of course is, and still is, the trying periods in my life thus far, — long-term relationships with women that is. Of course, when I consider all the days of my life, admirable as some were, and I accept responsibility for making them otherwise at times, for demolishing these three relationships, but frankly, I never derived much pleasure from them mentally—when we add longevity into them, and so I cite them only to prove there were other women I was involved with, who held some importance to me. I will try to be as honest, frank, short and bold as I can, that is for a poet saying something, and for a novelist, saying much.

       The ability and will to pardon, says Cicero of Julius Caesar that is the height of good fortune and a supreme virtue, I do hope these women, hold no ill-will, and should they read this and figure out who is who. And a word to the wise I’ll put it in a Haiku, right now and here:

Know well the cunning

Nature of the flower be—

For you taste its fruit! 

      

(7-9-2015/No: 4756)

Three Women

 Sharon W., 1980 to 1986; Jean T., 1986 to 1992; and Kikue, 1996 to 1999.  

       With all three I wore the fig-leaf suite. Somehow I was obliged to go with them for extended periods of time (combined, 19-years, take or give one or two). Had I allowed it to extend beyond those time periods I just mentioned, it would have introduced what?  Death! Which is a pity, on some accounts, or mental anguish, or perhaps a breakdown, who’s to say.

       With all three I liked the plunge, and coolness of their beseeching ways. Sometimes I think God made women only for scenery, like hippos and whale watching. When I broke up with them, I really had no justification, but I chanced the danger in not breaking up. If not more than that, I have not missed anything, yet Sharon was the good part of Adam’s rib, once I was going to rent out a room from Doug in the Neighborhood, Donkeyland for her, and had second thoughts, it would have been to daring, and careless of me. Jean, she nearly strangled me with her obsessiveness, and jealousy. Let me elaborate with Jean T., a moment, and try to put it in a philosophical poetic phrase, so you’ll get the whole picture at one glance:

Be not jealous that you think

Every bird of the air

Will take your lover away from you!

Such jealousy will make you burn

Lose yourself restraint!

Give way to twisted small tales

Into tall tales.

People are more readily to believe

Evil than good.

 (7-9-2015/No: 4757)

Need I say more?  And Kikue N., from Tama City, Tokyo, Japan, at the last moment, was most uncomfortable. It was as if she had taken a viper pill, and here I was seven-thousand miles away in one of the largest cities in the world, feeling like I was being extorted mentally, to having to stay in Japan; her family hating me without knowing me.  I was on her turf now, having met her in Turkey, several years before this trip to Japan, and to get to know her parents before marriage I stopped in Japan for a week, she had visited America, Minnesota, my home state several times we got along well, — but the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, as they say.

       Don’t get me wrong, men I realize are different than women, we think different, and we are different, but in this case the difference was too big to overlook. The old saying, opposites attract one another, may be so, but it’s not a comfortable life having to always try to adjust, when you could have selected someone more compatible.

       Sharon was fire, fine and noble, educated; she couldn’t save the sick buzzard—me! But she tried. And Jean, was often, too often the despondent lioness; I was advised by Denny one day, a friend, when in need, said, “All I’ve ever seen you two do is fight, and I’ve known you for two years.” But the sex was great, and that makes you overlook things, what a man needs is a little more than pleasure. Denny was really telling me, in essence, that I was too close to the forest to see whatever I needed to see, —and he could foresee—the serpent of the tree had bit her in the leg, and thus, I should avoid her, forevermore.

       With all three—don’t get me wrong—I have had many a multicolored times.

       But often, too often, it was like riding a horse all night long as fast as one can, hoping to clear the vicinity, only to find, the backyard is too big….

       As I reread this, it sounds as if I have named, renamed, this story ‘Cain’s allergies…’ something or another, instead of ‘Three Woman,’ but this is an error in judgment, I simply come to the conclusion females have some of Cain’s blood, most of them anyhow. I don’t want to generalize, so I say ‘Most’ not all! They are akin to fish with big teeth, you put them in the water, they sink, and when you try to save them, to snatch them out, they bite you. Hence, I can never figure out or determine if it’s Monday or Tuesday with them, matter of fact, they are a paradox, inconsistent, a puzzle, some, not all moody, but trying to figure out which one, you end up in a spiral.  And the perplexity of this, will never diminish. So what do you do?  My advice is to watch the movie: “Fiddler on the Roof” where the Fiddler has a little room to hide in on top of his house, extended out and above the roof, and when his wife gets into one of those ecstatic, or frenzied moods, there he heads. 

No: 1041/2-21-2014

Revised and Reedited, 7-2015

      

Bad-mannered

  

First, get off your island—

Next, a word to the wise: let your mind’s custodian

Be your guide!

And your pride your folly!

And remain innocent as a new-laid egg,

And you’ll be suitable for anybody!

If need be, compromise, use social comparison:

Ride on somebody’s cultured coattails…!

Learn not to clean your fingernails when you

Eat cake, or lick your fingers, or your chops!

To cover your mouth when you cough!

Nor pick your nose in public.

Trash is trash, and is vulgar in any color.

#4761/7-25-2015