GET TOUGH
Please go negative!
Brutish cuts unhinge my "nerves."
Be bad Obama.

PASS THE PANDER
McCain gets the cheers.
Where are the simple answers?
Please us with more pith!

More below...

Yup, "Buke" (It rhymes with puke) would have been 88 yesterday.  You don't know who I am talking about?  That's not so strange.  Wikipedia tells us this about him:

Henry Charles Bukowski (August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994), German-American poet and novelist. Gained fame, phenomenal sales and critical recognition in Europe but continues to be generally ignored by the American literary establishment. Bukowski's writing was heavily influenced by the geography and atmosphere of his home city of Los Angeles, and is marked by an emphasis on the ordinary lives of marginalized poor American Whites, the act of writing, alcohol, relationships with women, the drudgery of work and horseracing. A prolific author, Bukowski wrote thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories, and six novels, eventually having 110 books in print. He is often remembered as "The Poet Laureate of Skid Row" and, in a nod to his somewhat irregular lifestyle and habits, the "Swamp King of L.A.".

 He was ignored by most, but those of us who read him were irreversibly changed.  Look below the break to find out why.

Hello once again lovers of odd free verse and groundbreaking visual art. It is I, the semi-quasi-proto-crypto-illustrious Yosef, here again to regale you with my brain detritus and to provide you with a forum to post your own expressions. I live and breathe politics so much that I need to get away from it at times, and I'll bet you might feel the same way. I would LOVE to see your stuff, just love it, I tells ya!

It is about 12:15 in the most wonderful place on earth, Kauai. It is about 3:15 on a busy Saturday on the West Coast, 4:15 in dry heated New Mexico, 5:15 in the Land of 10,000 Lakes, and 6:15 in Ekaterin's home town.

Have a glorious evening, wonderful Kossacks!

It's Not Enough of Elvis

it’s just not enough
it’s not enough of Elvis whiskey decanters
Elvis toilet paper
Elvis condoms
Elvis impersonators singing Elvis songs
to Elvis fans
Elvis albums pitched on Elvis TV sets
to Elvis moonies
Elvis Cadillacs that travel Elvis highways
Elvis socks that fill Elvis shoes
Elvis snow skis with matching Elvis parkas
Elvis pill boxes stuffed with Elvis drugs
for Christ’s sake it’s just not enough
not enough of Elvis handguns
good-luck stick pins
disposable douche bags
golf balls
garage door openers
hideaway beds
and even poems like this that make you tired
it’s not enough of Elvis
it’s just not enough

The AP reports that Palestinian national poet, Mahmoud Darwish, is dead. More after the jump....

First, I am deeply saddened to hear of the death of the immensely talented Bernie Mac, and I send condolences to all who were fans of his, like me.

Second, I've been eating myself alive with anxiety about politics, and I need to live somewhere else emotionally for a while. Hence these threads of mine on Saturday nights. I have some of my humble, amateurish verses for you. I would LOVE to see your original art or poetry as well. The more the merrier.

It's almost 12:30 in the middle of an astonishingly beautiful day on the east side of Kauai. It's about 3:30 at the San Diego Zoo, 4:30 in the Idaho panhandle, 5:30 in steamy St. Louis, and 6:30 in Providence, Rhode Island.

Have a good evening, my cherished Kossack friends.

Well, I hit a dry spell there, folks, and I haven't had any new verses to share wit youse all (to use Chicago-style idiom), but I'm trying to get back in the game. I would also LOVE to read your stuff as well, and/or see any of your ORIGINAL art work, if you have it. I need a break from politics once in a while, or it'll drive me over the edge. So let's eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we canvass!

It's 1:30 in Kauai, an island of beauty like none other. It's 4:30 in wonderful Oregon, 5:30 in dynamic Denver, 6:30 in steaming Illinois, and 7:30 in Ekaterin's home town.

Have a great evening, my treasured Kossack friends!

Skewed pens
challenging cuneiform
and the 'i' for an 'i'
before the cursive takes hold.

New moon is coming up, Friday, August 1.

Which has nothing to do with anything.

I just have to fill up this space so I can post my poem after the flip.

It's a poem about hippies.

So many of us are busy.  So is O-boy.

Jet lag.  Bad hip.

Rather than fill his website's inbox, give your thoughts in Haiku form.

More below the break...

A few thoughts on "good-bye" and "see you next year" and... I guess... the current political climate.

True story:

I LOVE the rawness of this:

"He's welcome to our war-torn city," said Habibullah Hamdard, a 42-year-old teacher. "If he has loved his children, he should love the Afghan children who are dying around the country every day. The white guy couldn't do anything, let's see what the black guy can do."

The Librarian of Congress has chosen Kay Ryan of Marin County, California, to be the next US Poet Laureate.

From SFGate:

Ryan learned about the honor Monday, when she and her partner of 30 years, Carol Adair, arrived home from the Aspen Ideas Festival  ...

The next day was a busy one, because she and Adair were scheduled to be remarried, having married the first time in 2004 at City Hall in San Francisco. "We'll have to get the rings re-engraved with the new date," she said.

Nana lay on her back on the pillows on the floor
as Walter guided her
through the soul journey meditation.

Cradling her head, holding her feet,
all around her we supported her,
touch and intention, as she
relaxed into her private sensations.

Walter talked and Nana answered,
a golden ball of energy,
the astral traveling.
I felt the spirit in the room
rise and expand as Nana
breathed and imagined.

Towards the end, she described
the orange light of gratitude that reached out to touch
                                                                                    everyone
on the planet
then returned to her body
to infuse each of her cells.
Thank you magnified
the fundamental blessing.

I wrote this poem after reading a diary here where the diarist tries to defend the New Yorker cartoon by saying it is satire.  Let me be clear.  I'm a black woman who wears an afro every single day.  A HUGE afro.  I wear my hair like that because it grows like that and I'm fond of it.  I wrote this poem in response to that diary:

Insular living
It must be nice
Hanging out with the good and the white
All good Americans respect your vice
When you’re lucky enough to be male
And white

More below the fold

With the FISA vote coming up tomorrow, I plan to spend the day at Walden Pond, a place that has provided guidance and comfort to me at various points during my life. When I was a kid, I swam there. Granted, I didn't know about Thoreau back then. I was 6. But I also spent the day before the biggest professional challenge of my life: my dissertation defense at Walden Pond. It seems laughable to me now that I ever worried about that defense. Seven years later, I'm concerned more about defending the Constitution.

It's late, why not have an open poetry thread?

I've printed a couple of my translations/transliterations/transmogrifications of Colombian vallenato songs by Alejandro Duran before, and I just finished a new one, of his song "Pedazo de acordeón" ("Piece for Accordion"), but changing the accordion music references to versifying references, so that'll be my contribution (below the fold). I'm calling my version "Autoepitaph," which I stole from Reinaldo Arenas's poem "Autoepitafio."

I'll print the lyrics as I transcribed them as well, so you multilinguals can call me out for my foolish errors and/or appreciate my exploitation of some ambivalent meanings between the languages. And please feel free to contribute poems in any and all languages, don't feel limited to Spanish! (I don't speak it that well myself.)

Tom was one of our great writers and poets.  And one of our great under appreciated writers and poets.  He was also a sad soul who could not face his remaining time on earth without agony, and chose to end his own life on this past July 4th, Independence day 2008.

Tom was a friend of mine, I am proud to say, because his friendship was a validation of my own value.  I don't need to have my value proven to me, but to earn the care and love of such a special person is special.  And my care and love for Tom was easy, because he appreciated me for whatever reasons.  

Are you familiar with Tom Disch?