I made the mistake-or was it-of posting this recently. Almost immediately discourse deteriorated into unpleasantness. No wonder I’m reluctant to employ my voice or post anything remotely political. Navigating such a complex, polarized information landscape is fraught.

First there was a disagreement about the authenticity of the photo, which is fair enough. Then a sort of pissing contest ensued about who was the most well-informed, or least indoctrinated.

It appears to me there is little possibility of rational discussion, or a ceasefire, or the unimaginable therefore unattainable, peace.

What breaks my heart most is that despite our potential, human beings are seemingly incapable of true advancement. It’s all so fucking sad.

WHO TO BELIEVE

The podcaster with a legion of followers?
The journalist who’s been there,
face etched by the sun of that distant land?
What of the emigrant decrying the place,
or at least, its right-wing government?

Is it the loudest voice that holds the truth?
Or the one armed with the sharpest wit,
slicing through arguments with precision?
Is it the one drawing the most poignant,
heart wrenching analogies:
“World’s largest concentration camp.”

The optimists, pessimists or realists?
All claim to know the facts,
seemingly own the facts. Clarity.

Censors lurk, eager to snuff out every voice,
mute dissent, but still, we hear. Listen.

Exactly who are the indoctrinated?
Who wields oppression’s heaviest hand?

No one agrees as debates
devolve into discord none can flee
while sidestepping the vital teachings
of forgotten epochs,
flames ignited in a terrain
rife with deceit and harsh decrees.
I wonder how to mine hope from the mire.

Complexities abound in every human heart,
our aim not to unfurl hate
but to envision a world rooted in empathy.

Can I hear a gentle word?
Is there room for a kind gesture?

I cast my lot with truth,
however elusive.
Weariness creeps
into the wait for illumination,
the vigil for the dawn
of a new era.
A new beginning.

“It was never an apple.” Makes sense, doesn’t it?

Despite several disruptions, I’ve been writing like a fiend this year in order to complete a collection of poetry and new edition of my novel, “The Town Slut’s Daughter,” for its 10th anniversary in October, which blows my mind. I’m aiming to amass enough new work by end of April, enough to pull together a manuscript with an astute editor.

In any case, I happened across this funny and irreverent meme, the best characteristics of memes-and thought of Paradise, a concept as elusive in meaning as it is in real life. I found two poems with references to Paradise, both character sketches, both inspired by the same character. While some people remain enigmas, churning them into art is perhaps peversely, gratifying.

The image is “The Paradise Sonata – Revelation,”  a woodcarving on paper by  renowned Czech painter, draughtsman, graphic artist, Max Švabinský. Only the ether knows who’s responsible for the meme. Gotta love life in the 21st century; it’s moments like these that remind me to cherish the unpredictability and interconnectedness of life.

Happy Monday my pretties! I wish you all a week filled with fruitful endeavors.

ADAM

Free from moral constraints,
self-described mental case,
more lewdster than lover
disappears in a puff
of cigarette smoke
along with fig leaf
and cute apple cheeks.

Though his well-crafted sentences
seduced,
my pronounced longing
did nothing
to create union
or usher in paradise.

ADAMANTINE TRAVELLER

Though you may have an affinity
for the coke-addled,
a penchant for the woebegone
and a fetish for the shattered,
you will abandon the road to ruin
if I take too long
or refuse to take direction.

Transcendence is not
your destination, nor love.
Love is beside the point,
as is joy.
You may do jolly,
but not joy.
Whatever the point is,
your needs and desires
are shifty and ill-defined.
“Whatever,” you declare.

May your spittle fly,
may your words be sharp as daggers.
May tremors tickle the foot
of your bed, deliver
the entertainment you crave.

I will arrive at my destination
solo,
whether I like it or not.

I arrive as surely as verse and song,
for my destination is mine.
Your mayhem can’t blanket me
or smother chimera,
any more than you can “handle” me,
or get me, or have me,
me and my back-breaking dreams.

On this Valentines Day eve when I’m feeling more than a little disillusioned with romantic love, I will share a poem about a mother’s love for her son. Truly eternal.

FAMILIAL FANTASIAS

In the languid night’s tender glow,
through labyrinthian processions
upon an infinite summer catwalk,
we glide beneath a banana tree canopy,
south of the equator where snowbirds go.

Here we are soul sisters once more,
flaunting our glittering gowns,
tittering, kisses flying
though jasmine-perfumed air,
enveloped in a gauze of unbridled bliss
until, within this splendor
no one knows where my son is.

Panic ignites a creeping ivy of dread,
blossoming into a frantic search
the way I searched the one time I lost him
in waking life, when he vanished
into the maw of a vast supermarket,
leaving me to frantically call out
for an eternity/five harrowing minutes,

his absence now a shadow that grows
with the passing years, perhaps a catalyst
for the portraits of Junior that surround,
each frame a shrine to the fleeting nature
of moments.

In his realm my son reigns supreme,
an architect of worlds,
weaving narratives,
parading his own grand designs.

This is the effect Ian has. I adored and respected and admired this kind and gentle man so much; dear friend, poet, collaborator and indefatigable language art instigator. Singer. Influencer. I will miss that singular voice. Effect.

Sadly Ian left this mortal coil Friday November 3rd. Much love and condolences to all his friends and family.

Photo of Ian as a young man beautifully captures his beautiful soul. Rest in peace Poet.

“We will soar, for we are armed
knowing where the lies land us.”

My son and I recently visited New York and the 9/11 memorial, which was equally eerie and moving.  Though effectively a tourist attraction, it was beautiful, evocative and respectful of the souls lost. I wrote the poem below a couple of years after that terrible event.

I still love flying. How human is that, to continue to take risk in the face of tragedy and despite fear? Courage or folly? Both?

SOAR

Before you-know-what, you-know-when,
I flew in an airplane. I won’t say what.
Or when. People are sick from it.
NASDAQ crashed. Family plan with it.

I remained on the upswing. Going somewhere.
Chicago specifically, e-poets’ geo-conference.
I am digerati. A doyenne of new media culture.
Still, airport security confiscates my apple.

My orange. Half my dinner. They take nothing
from the hinky, hacky-sacking Travis Bickle
doppelgänger who must pose more of a threat,
though that’s like comparing potheads to divas.

Pick up my e-ticket. Wait with the other sulky,
wannabe passengers, SeaTac muggy as a laundromat,
air fouled with KFC. Machines vend to the grounded.
Concrete pillars tremble in the wake of each landing.

Since this is before you-know-what, I don’t assume
a 747 will take out the Space Needle or land
right through us. I don’t equate ‘jet’ with ‘bomb.’
I need only worry about the quake. The Big One

Vancouver and Seattle—sitting queenly
upon the Juan de Fuca fault line—are overdue for.
I am anticipating flight, savouring my thrills,
bumpy joyrides, like motherhood.

Junior calls. Yes dear, Mommy will be home soon.
Before the split, his father cautioned us:
Mercury in our mouths. Vaccines.
Population control. Microwaves.
A conspiracy of urologists.
Fluoride. Fallout. Wheat.

He has found a healer. Can he be cured?
We all know I’m doomed to be infected.
I’m the one who will eat tainted salmon
at the barbeque, the one with stretch marks

and eyes closed in the photographs. The one
who defected, the one who didn’t want
what he wanted, sixteen hours on a film set,
baby languishing with a sitter.

He gets on the phone. Another forecast.
I dreamed you died in a plane crash. I saw you
flailing about in the ocean with your books.
Oh stop polluting my trip with your Eeyore pooh.

I am part of a feminist plot against fathers,
and it was a controlled explosion
set off by the U.S. government.
Suddenly he is solvent, taking me to court,
re-staking his claim to our precious cargo,
crusading to save his son from the new world order.

I board. Window seat. Always, despite dire warnings.
Junior likes to compare the people to ants.
Houses are Lego, mountains, papier mâché.
We land. Kurt appears in the flesh, our virtual rapport
downloaded to O’Hara minus the time-outs and errors.

I feel at home in Chicago, loose in its Loop, towers,
Art Institute. Go to live in Chagall’s epic blue
glass dream for a day, emerge bestowed with wings,
like all his lovers and madonnas.

I have not flown since you-know-what,
you-know-when. We are saddled with dread
after witnessing steel crumple like tin.
It is safe to grieve. Cockpits secured.
Air marshals on board. We will fly again,
prepared to take down any motherfucker
who thinks he’s going to hijack anyone.

We will soar, for we are armed
knowing where the lies land us.