if i were to predict something,
it would be something obvious.
it would be something you might predict.
senator clinton will suspend her campaign in the near future.
barack obama, the imminent nominee, will be the democratic candidate, for now.
mr. mccain might win the election.
and then there were three.
i would ask myself to give one good reason why i would not vote for any one of the three.
one good reason why not.
why wouldn't you vote for one of three?
i will give you mine.
i wouldn't vote for hillary because of the obvious reasons, as mccain.
i wouldn't vote for barack also because of the obvious reasons.
ha ha
seriously, i wouldn't vote for obama because he summarily denounced some things that the reverend wright said, which he shouldn't have denounced without exploring exactly what it was that the reverend said which offended him, and saying what it was about said things, which couldn't be true. bla bla
i wouldn't vote for hillary for the same reason i wouldn't vote for john. they both cannot share their allegiance both with me and that other thing they are aligned with.
what is the best reason you could give me why i shouldn't vote for your candidate?
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Friday, May 9, 2008
Suffrage (my first sonnet)
The meadowlark inside her throat, so long
She offers yellow to a morning wind
A jester-warble while the sun begins
Its rise above the sound of barking dogs
Her beak drawn back, irreverent grin she’ll stalk
The smallest chuckle hidden in the grass
Like insects wet from sprinklers’ morning laps
She’ll gargle dawn, go shameless in her walk
Why does she laugh when mourning dove will cry?
A milk-toned coo released from slender flute
Toward epiphany such bruises held
No golden bellow here, their pantomime
Like one and one make something out of two
This morning’s songs will mingle in the field
She offers yellow to a morning wind
A jester-warble while the sun begins
Its rise above the sound of barking dogs
Her beak drawn back, irreverent grin she’ll stalk
The smallest chuckle hidden in the grass
Like insects wet from sprinklers’ morning laps
She’ll gargle dawn, go shameless in her walk
Why does she laugh when mourning dove will cry?
A milk-toned coo released from slender flute
Toward epiphany such bruises held
No golden bellow here, their pantomime
Like one and one make something out of two
This morning’s songs will mingle in the field
Thursday, May 8, 2008
good yellow, pale
good yellow, pale
there is much of she
in that yellow rhododendron bloom.
look down into the garden bed,
see how every bloom
lays upon the twilight air.
every time i see that shade of yellow,
i see the soft pedal;
you would wish to see it,
wish to see how every flower,
co-insides with her aesthetic meaning.
each is subtle soft white skin,
each holds the shade;
the golden light of middle spring butterfly wing,
tucks and seals the hue
as it is made.
the stolen light, sifts
this time on the rippled fingers of her touch.
a tender mouth,
has electric softeners,
it molds and preys, at times.
the courtyard greyii, senicio
two toned, a kiss
waits upon its own,
has a two level lift.
with the hybrid sunshine,
the four oceans at my feet.
wait upon you,
with your soul, my hand upon your cheek,
eyes meet, soul hardens,
as the humid air unsweats
the precious pod to perfect ripeness.
the river water makes down the cress,
lush, whole, seeded with the spicy avolander.
the heart of darkness, shed a light on.
the whole system in the breast
the sweet smell of breath,
and the way she would writhe, and moan;
how would angels sing of god
or men at any less a loan.
the good native snowberries,
with their flat and hovering leaves,
flatter the wind,
hold their shape in that refined logic
which holds together simple to immaculate.
the whole course of she to he
is causeway, byway,
the shoulder on the road would grow a certain grass,
or her subtle pass.
how wholesome and how intricate.
the soft subtle rhododendron flower,
yellow, full of hope.
the course slow,
day upon night,
it slumbers, nourished;
it knows that admiration,
the seer would entreat.
the chickadee or finch,
has a certain liker,
as she continues with her kind;
knows a certain nest,
a good yellow, pale.
he has been there with his mate.
they circulate and chatter,
then fly their bodies close, sail
as that which makes the fire hot,
in the sorrow of that scented mourning dove.
you or that sweet flower,
she or the woman that you love.
how are the pine needles situated?
do they fall with the wind's harbored holdouts?
as the tea leaves linger on the bottom of your bowl,
the angels of your destiny would
say the obvious first:
oh, she is beauty.
and truth.
and also love.
the seven stars of that large ladel
shine, have upon their rim,
the beginning light form, brimming of,
as good, yellow, pale, dim,.
your watership is loft in time,
and hailing railroad lights are shining.
the soft trail moon, wanes,
and is aloft upon the light
of that yellow rhododendron,
with her flowers,
and their shade.
rrzollinger
C 2008
there is much of she
in that yellow rhododendron bloom.
look down into the garden bed,
see how every bloom
lays upon the twilight air.
every time i see that shade of yellow,
i see the soft pedal;
you would wish to see it,
wish to see how every flower,
co-insides with her aesthetic meaning.
each is subtle soft white skin,
each holds the shade;
the golden light of middle spring butterfly wing,
tucks and seals the hue
as it is made.
the stolen light, sifts
this time on the rippled fingers of her touch.
a tender mouth,
has electric softeners,
it molds and preys, at times.
the courtyard greyii, senicio
two toned, a kiss
waits upon its own,
has a two level lift.
with the hybrid sunshine,
the four oceans at my feet.
wait upon you,
with your soul, my hand upon your cheek,
eyes meet, soul hardens,
as the humid air unsweats
the precious pod to perfect ripeness.
the river water makes down the cress,
lush, whole, seeded with the spicy avolander.
the heart of darkness, shed a light on.
the whole system in the breast
the sweet smell of breath,
and the way she would writhe, and moan;
how would angels sing of god
or men at any less a loan.
the good native snowberries,
with their flat and hovering leaves,
flatter the wind,
hold their shape in that refined logic
which holds together simple to immaculate.
the whole course of she to he
is causeway, byway,
the shoulder on the road would grow a certain grass,
or her subtle pass.
how wholesome and how intricate.
the soft subtle rhododendron flower,
yellow, full of hope.
the course slow,
day upon night,
it slumbers, nourished;
it knows that admiration,
the seer would entreat.
the chickadee or finch,
has a certain liker,
as she continues with her kind;
knows a certain nest,
a good yellow, pale.
he has been there with his mate.
they circulate and chatter,
then fly their bodies close, sail
as that which makes the fire hot,
in the sorrow of that scented mourning dove.
you or that sweet flower,
she or the woman that you love.
how are the pine needles situated?
do they fall with the wind's harbored holdouts?
as the tea leaves linger on the bottom of your bowl,
the angels of your destiny would
say the obvious first:
oh, she is beauty.
and truth.
and also love.
the seven stars of that large ladel
shine, have upon their rim,
the beginning light form, brimming of,
as good, yellow, pale, dim,.
your watership is loft in time,
and hailing railroad lights are shining.
the soft trail moon, wanes,
and is aloft upon the light
of that yellow rhododendron,
with her flowers,
and their shade.
rrzollinger
C 2008
blackbeard's blackbird
first image represents my corny nature...second is from a sketch and painting i am working on...i thought to style it graphically. it turned out nice...and once i have a printer i can add it to the list of things to print. both were colored in photoshop...yeah i think i am getting better.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Monday, May 5, 2008
Birthday and Colt
Dad's birthday was Sunday and we celebrated with the infamous trifle. We also have two new colts, but just one picture right now.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
As a Word (redux)
As a word.
(a love poem)
Words do not well describe sorrow.
but words are the only,
the sole seed yet to sow.
The circumference belayed in inset, is
hollowed out,
as devastated
as though a via:
you is gone,
i has been made.
The charm smells to lilac,
and soft sponge is turf
at certain forest pansy;
Like the finch and lute in rhyme.
They do not hear, nor
do not see once the timid jester, wane.
They foreshadow self,
and uncertain do not sit,
nor do they learn to play.
As one self proclaimed,
the called bird would 'lieve,
and would be 'lieved.
But the dense grass, is hopeful,
as burden on life,
as the constant up turn
as baton wing:
the singing of fall song bird,
collapses as that sound to 'lance.
No interruption nor continuous animus;
a la viva sinco royale':
oh, the five regal exclamations!
The dense snow mound spirea,
as all the lush things of summer
in their floral bloom,
like the certain one in love,
unsteady to remain,
radiates again.
I hear the sound.
It is a quiet and not without hearing:
The crisp morning fog
rises o'er olympics,
then glides down to puget sound;
the distant silent quarter,
the icy mid march snow
makes glide the stiff glass.
wretched,
in debt, i is beholden to a dream.
It swirls,
down by blueberry bog,
and strawberry field.
There is woman,
is vision,
is most true friend.
She can hold in her heart the whole love.
She rises out of life.
There is figurine, and mirror,
as she is multiplied.
Imagine a star rock.
There are mountain passes where the aspen quake
where the plates tectonic,
shift and leave things different.
But some things stay the same.
where is i sorrow?
where is i pain.
something i took,
something you granted.
the rainbow gathers algebraically
toned to pastoral brilliance.
i would say the truth outright;
i would languish.
i would say in she,
perfect, like a rainbow, half;
A circle of complete inflection.
though one could wrap a sound, or scent,
in tones of she to modes which quiver lips,
and whole bodies writhe in agonies,
as fog which veils nothing.
the truth bare and revealed, is
the solid azalea row,
two diagonal, three straight a cross.
Hips on rose and alium seed,
the stiff smell of garlic and the sound,
butterfly bushes blowing in the breeze,
toast with fried egg,
a good stiff coffee been as roast.
i falters.
An audacity can not hope.
one cannot recompense to that which is not seen.
such sits and waits,
having hung my head.
again the stiff mountain wind wails.
wait by the creek for water to pass;
while the water passes,
meditates,
it discovers she, as though she were for i,
and even water cannot falter,
as tragedy were here beheld first.
the humans marvel in there able ties.
the cryptic modes,
and the ways of corn fields rowed;
when i was young and she was young,
i wondered where she was,
and now i knows.
rrzollinger
c. 2008
(a love poem)
Words do not well describe sorrow.
but words are the only,
the sole seed yet to sow.
The circumference belayed in inset, is
hollowed out,
as devastated
as though a via:
you is gone,
i has been made.
The charm smells to lilac,
and soft sponge is turf
at certain forest pansy;
Like the finch and lute in rhyme.
They do not hear, nor
do not see once the timid jester, wane.
They foreshadow self,
and uncertain do not sit,
nor do they learn to play.
As one self proclaimed,
the called bird would 'lieve,
and would be 'lieved.
But the dense grass, is hopeful,
as burden on life,
as the constant up turn
as baton wing:
the singing of fall song bird,
collapses as that sound to 'lance.
No interruption nor continuous animus;
a la viva sinco royale':
oh, the five regal exclamations!
The dense snow mound spirea,
as all the lush things of summer
in their floral bloom,
like the certain one in love,
unsteady to remain,
radiates again.
I hear the sound.
It is a quiet and not without hearing:
The crisp morning fog
rises o'er olympics,
then glides down to puget sound;
the distant silent quarter,
the icy mid march snow
makes glide the stiff glass.
wretched,
in debt, i is beholden to a dream.
It swirls,
down by blueberry bog,
and strawberry field.
There is woman,
is vision,
is most true friend.
She can hold in her heart the whole love.
She rises out of life.
There is figurine, and mirror,
as she is multiplied.
Imagine a star rock.
There are mountain passes where the aspen quake
where the plates tectonic,
shift and leave things different.
But some things stay the same.
where is i sorrow?
where is i pain.
something i took,
something you granted.
the rainbow gathers algebraically
toned to pastoral brilliance.
i would say the truth outright;
i would languish.
i would say in she,
perfect, like a rainbow, half;
A circle of complete inflection.
though one could wrap a sound, or scent,
in tones of she to modes which quiver lips,
and whole bodies writhe in agonies,
as fog which veils nothing.
the truth bare and revealed, is
the solid azalea row,
two diagonal, three straight a cross.
Hips on rose and alium seed,
the stiff smell of garlic and the sound,
butterfly bushes blowing in the breeze,
toast with fried egg,
a good stiff coffee been as roast.
i falters.
An audacity can not hope.
one cannot recompense to that which is not seen.
such sits and waits,
having hung my head.
again the stiff mountain wind wails.
wait by the creek for water to pass;
while the water passes,
meditates,
it discovers she, as though she were for i,
and even water cannot falter,
as tragedy were here beheld first.
the humans marvel in there able ties.
the cryptic modes,
and the ways of corn fields rowed;
when i was young and she was young,
i wondered where she was,
and now i knows.
rrzollinger
c. 2008
Sunday, April 20, 2008
sad news follows;
Paul Bruce
husband to Julie Goodman
father to Kanisha Goodman-Bruce
Ashanti Goodman- Bruce
Imani Goodman-Bruce
Died in a motorcycle accident Monday April 14, 2008 at 4:00am in Boise, Idaho.
He was hit at twilight on the 13th by a driver who couldn't see him because of the glare.
500 people showed up to his funeral on Friday April 25, 2008 at 11:00pm.
40 or more from out of state.
Paul was a good friend to me.
he was a good husband,
an excellent father.
he was 41 years old.
i spent some of my time in Boise thinking about Ryan,
another friend, brother, son we lost too early.
it reminded me to hold dear those who i still am graced with to love.
you.
see you all in June.
safe travels.
Paul Bruce
husband to Julie Goodman
father to Kanisha Goodman-Bruce
Ashanti Goodman- Bruce
Imani Goodman-Bruce
Died in a motorcycle accident Monday April 14, 2008 at 4:00am in Boise, Idaho.
He was hit at twilight on the 13th by a driver who couldn't see him because of the glare.
500 people showed up to his funeral on Friday April 25, 2008 at 11:00pm.
40 or more from out of state.
Paul was a good friend to me.
he was a good husband,
an excellent father.
he was 41 years old.
i spent some of my time in Boise thinking about Ryan,
another friend, brother, son we lost too early.
it reminded me to hold dear those who i still am graced with to love.
you.
see you all in June.
safe travels.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Frank Herbert: Arrakis and Oil
In this rare interview, Herbert spells out the metaphor of water as oil (which also parallels the greater metaphor in Dune - the scarcity of resource, melange specifically). Having read the series twice, and remembering specifically the connection Herbert states as..."he who controls the spice, controls the universe," I find it compelling and prescient that he placed so much emphasis on Arrakis - and in that light it reads similar to Zbigniew Brzezinski's The Grand Chessboard.
He who controls Arrakis controls the spice. He who controls the spice, controls the universe. Sounds a bit like the Neocon attempt at global hegemony, eh? Arrakis as Iraq - and the spice as Oil...and the Padishah Emperor as the tragic ignorance of empire. Perhaps Herbert was only imagining possible futures, but it seems in hindsight that he imagined very well.
-reese
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