Friday, April 8, 2011

Too Late the Rider Dodges Chaos Attractors

I used to be a night rider,
the two wheels beneath me would spin,
I made sure the rims were trim.
Singing about starving in belly of whale.
Me and myself would be the geek chorus
on those summer nights, I would have a public burning.
With Tom Wait's Blood Money acting as the catalyst
for my private catharsis.

Since that time I am no longer a self photographing dork.
Nowadays instead of the brothers Gracchi I reminisce about Torn and Taxis.
There is no crying for my lot at 36.
Though my heart is full of regret,  I don't want the sleeping dogs to bark.
What is this but another doggerel verse
while I should be planning a monograph on data structures.
and asking art! art! whats the state of the art!

My mind no longer shoots off multiple threads instead
the processes are context switched out and move about.

Enigma Of Visions

When I woke up Friday morning I was worked on worked on one of my bash projects
and the when that reached its next debug level I looked at the mysql tables 
that I had exported to csv files.

All the data was there except for the headers so I started to work on a script
that would capture the header info of a table with an arbitrary number of 

Now, most of the examples in our great electronic void of answers seeking
questions deal with specific cases when I wanted something a little more
general so that I can port the solution to differing problem sets.  So out of
my laziness I spent the next 10 hours working on a sql script that will do that.

By 11 some parts of it were working but I was stuck on a part and my all seeing 
left eye was tired.  Due to this problem I went and took out the concavity of
completeness decided to let the windows to my nonexistent soul rest.  Hopefully
in the morning with a fresh right eye a solution would become manifest.

Since I was not sleepy and after hours of chilling with Dre & Big Boi there was
no way I could walk with those bawdy bards to the board of empires.  Even though
they promised me that it would not be TV but HBO.

So in these mean times I closed my eyes and searched for rhymes worth a million
dimes.  Remembering Kasper Hauser I picked Enigma with a shiver of my finger,
which led to the mouse firing its eager trigger.

Now as I laid me down to weep I closed my eyes, my soul to keep,  The music
must have had a spiritual vibe because there were shapes and colours dancing
before my very eyes!  Once again my brain lies!

The last time I experienced something like this was almost 20 years ago.  When
I used to do 200 calculus and physics problems a week I was blessed with 
abstract dreqms.  In my sleep the worldy words about frictional forces,
acceleration's causes took me to the pythagorean plane.  Each problem appeared
out of the mist and would retreat when given a solution with a twist.

This time I did not see code flasshing in my mind's eye.  Instead it was a
mental visualization.  Like turning music into colours via FFTs wavelets of my
conciousness broke tympanum's eardrum. Fancy that rods & cones firing all
because I have a skull and tiny bones!

There I was rocking to a higher feeling gaining insight into my foresight even
with no clock on the wall to be approaching midnight.

Then someone's knock on the door and almost brought me back earth's iron core.
The vision changed to faces in slow rain.

When I heard the chanting "Bitches and Brew! Bitches & Brew! There's enough for
me and you!" I knew my wonderful experience was through.

Peace in the east to my sister that I have seen the least.

A salute to Wayne whose writing should be sung about in paenes.

Props to Shabazz the faithful disciple.  In your knowledge of the nation brook
no rivals.  May you have the pleasure to take a leisurely stroll in foreign
weather when IT schemes help you fulfil your dreams.

Good morning
Good bye


I'll take Bombay the Hardway
if you will give up the quest for bread.
I now dwell in a land of subprime LATAs
where the battle of carnival lent was suppressed
here the pigs chant mo lu e before they kill and go

The archpoet was no jude Obscure
At my last party I was moaning o this modern world
full of techno, terror, free love,
where ipods uniote and mp3s fight.

in our kampf against god and state
hierachy is the mother of all enemies
caught between the rock and enoch
I pull out the sign of drawing restraint 9

you will not find this in daily sketch
or written as a column advocating peace in the concord
the streets are always raucous when the horns blow
on the flowing achabas

Waiting For The Siren's Call

As I waited for the siren's call
the underbelly of urgency gnawed at my stomach wall.
As I thought of Monday and the email,
 or spoken word from an employer
that either echoes approval of my professional views,
or pans my performance.

Once again I dust my empty suit,
make another pot of coffee
and pace the house in silence.
Restless ennui fills my heart on this
sun filled Sunday.

Earlier I had done an 8K and made golden, granola
and talked with my sister about Boston and the brahmins
who think they own her twisted streets
After my sister left the house is silent.

We went to Annie's so she could remember old times.
Back to boredom now,to much tension to type.
There is nothing I can write as I wait for the siren's call.
Putting on my coat and gloves

I step into the dark blue, haze of cloudy night.
In the sculpture garden the cherry and spoon shine like brand new dimes.
I walk over the blue bridge and look at its lovingly shaped logs.
A savage named Jack Pine came here with his friends from the north.
They came to make this city by the lakes.

But now the economy has changed.
No more construction based on raw human power.
No more warehouses full of flour.
No more riding the rails to Chicago with an empty lunch pail.
I cross the bridge and over the traffic's roar I think of Lavonne some more.

I imagine you sharp on the attack;
spiking the ball into the opponent's court.
You jump float and...
they try to anticipate what your topspin will bring.
But a feint to the left puts the right to the test.
I see you on the beaches of LA
making a bump,
despite the sun, surf & strategy of tension
Lavonne is always ready for receptions.

My chilled fingers are clenched
and I laugh at my old joke on The Wedge.
Past the black leather, biker's  coffee bean store.
I see tattooed sadness drowning dreams of love in dark beer and bitters.
I see hipster's smoking American Spirit in all of irony's feigned nonchalance.
I circle Lake Calhoun like a midnight satellite.
I think of Lavonne and her little dog.

Has she heard Buckshot La Fonque?
What's her stand on US3?
Does she think Fishery Black is just another in the long train of sad, jazz hacks?
I think of your smiling voice & lusciousness.
I don't know the colour of your eyes.
Are they sultry? 
Are they impassive?
On the surface appearing placid,
but underneath you look at things with laughter,
 wear secret smiles,
 have rages & intelligently display a sales agent's wiles.

I hope to stare into your eyes
And we shall look into the abyss of each other's souls
And then come up for air.
Now as I head back home Rembrandt's J'acusse flashes before me.
Speeding cars ignore me.
Winter cyclists bore me.
Drops of snot flow to the frozen snow.
And the moon hides in Minneapolis smog.

It is 3 am when I complete my long frozen tour and step into the door.
I plan my next repast,
filet mignon with asparagus and mushrooms in homemade tomatoes sauce.
Today has become Monday
By civil twilight I will know if I will be enjoying employment's delights.
If my dream is deferred I will continue
to write my story in a book of plans.

Write code so that I can switch from sysadmin to developer mode.
Exercise to get into a triathalon in the cold
Learn to make bread,
listen to Kropotkin when I goto bed.
Learn the politics of dance in the Dakota
listen to Armin van Buuren while I practice headspins.

The Snowboarder's Song

faster, faster, went the speeding, snowboarder.
Doing a five-o-grind that made made the spectators rock 'n roll in their minds.
Working with gravity and other forces he did an ollie that was smooth as butter.
With the snow and the hill he felt such grace
that if he had been catholic he would have
said hail marys during the powdery race.
Traversing past trees,
leaving a wake of flakes he jumped
and thought,
"more tomorrow?"

Those Who Waited For Walt Whitman

With only her raw talent
and cannibalized pieces of her life
she went to the International Bank of First Impressions
for loan of idioms.

She wrote prose which sold for pretty pennies
to hipsters seeking highs from
other people's lives. 
At a reading of her passages
five hundred Buddhists who
were waiting for the return of Walt Whitman
(their bodhisattva) chanted "oohm"
and expired. 
Through the triumph of their communal will
the sacred band
was buried on a barren hill. 
Suddenly it was covered with a
billion leaves of grass.

The Swimmer

I rise from the deep
swimming through a sea of troubles
I move from river to ocean in one smooth, continuous, jerky motion
I glide through the mists as unknown things creep
celebrating the mysteries in my lonely elation

The Question?

What am I doing here?
What is this life of stupid cares?
Why do I spend time typing and sending packets through the air?

They go without the aid of wire;
Yet I am in a cloud, bound
to an imitation aeron chair.

Why can't I be like Prometheus
and rebel at three times treble?
What am I doing here?
maybe I should have killed my dreams
I should know by now that
they will only be dashed
like a piece of fragile earthen ware
why scheme and take on other people's dares
just to prove that we should be rated as men not mice
people get silly and throw the dice twice
don't tell me its because of the lexicon of the Rubicon
I won't buy your semiotics
As I travel like an unthinking missile;
eating up miles in the thin air
going through my mad career,
I pause and stare
what am I doing here?

personally many times I wish I did not want
would like to give up my silly cares
especially when life is ethereal
and after 3 generations people will forget me
just as much as they remember breathing yesterday's air
even though I am a progressive pilgrim
who did battle with the grim giant named Despair;
cleft him in two with not one stroke of my sword, but a pair
before he died he asked a question
whose damage I cannot repair:
"what are you doing here?"
"why must you persist with this life of stupid cares?"


The earth is my noose
seeking a life 450 absolute proof
Want to surf the universe as a light wave,
a photon traveling past Alpha Centauri.
Not existing as an eater of calamari.

Become abstract
Live beyond facts
One day I will play with ampax
while leaving my shit on wax.
But before then I look for open mic nights
standing under klieg lights
experiencing stage fright
Speaking in tunes in a smoky coffee room
But as I step into the arena
I will be brave and ignore any catcalling knaves.

Sailing a gravity wave
to th dawn of a new age
My board is a chaos attractor
it takes me to where macro and micro fracture

Immeasurable when I am measured
with structure in my destructure.
More basic than masers,
existing in the plane of phasors

But when the signal returns to zero
I go back to Asia from where I came.
Visit my home where the drums sing praise names
the wearers of agbadas rest their cellys on rotund bellies
They shy away and yell “fie!” at the dusty dadas
who recite the chants of the rastas
And in recompense get looks of scorn.

Silent Season

The silent season
The ghosts of reason
the unburned weather
makes men clever
the advert is a red alert
feature creep in death's white keep
more junk on the heap
a stack of tools,
buried under a pile of useless fools

The vapor trail
in the hazer's tail
hung up with a five inch nail
a battle for more goods and chattel
I pay the rent with money already spent

Smoke your shitty mahorka
in the dead city of Katorga
In your crooked left eye
I see a mad gleam
are you cooking up another bankrupt scheme?
trying to revive another dead meme?

The death of cool
over an unused spool
two savior's duel
the crowd drools
in the afternoon heat
they found radiance in the cadence
unlike the Seleucid's their eyes are pellucid
from watching god
who sent a bard
down from yard
to lead us to Asgard

Remembering Sarzent the Mad Man

A celebration of Sarzent,
no not Sargent the English painter
But Sarzent the Senegalese traitor.
I read about him when I was sixteen
It was a book that brought beatitude to negritude.
The Afro-French writers were celebrating a renaissance
as usual I acquired the book by chance,
it's funny Steve just mentioned serendipity
hah! Ain't life silly

But back to Sarzent the mad unholy saint.
The story was a piece of romantic fiction
not like those described in Barbra Cartland's pages.
And other bodice rippers designed for the ladies.
No more like the German who talked about the quest for He-man
Starting with Goethe, through the nineteenth century
they talked about those who try not to bleat like sheep
Why don't you read Keats?
In the present day there was Thomas Mann

But back to Sarzent
the writer's lyrical plan
left me stunned, he showed me a man who got himself canned.
Sarzent who forgot who he was not
he went insane
In mental anguish he forever will languish
and in his pain he did sing
a song about valuing the old age.
It has been more than ten years
the words he spoke I can no longer evoke
However my head still rings with his raucous chorus
listen to things!”, “listen to things!”

It always made me want to sprout wings
discover the unknown
hold it in my hands
in the meantime I listen for my still, small voice
I see my fading secret self
but he responds with endless silence
it deafens me with notes about ancient tragedies now remote.
The lynching of the Gracchii
for poor romans they kept bitching
I daily mourn over their faded, jaded glory.
Thoughts as these bring a semblance of peace
but I still explore my wild places,
my dark horse kicks the traces
running to and from my ancient places
trying to set new paces

As I swim through my conscious stream
the sun reflects off another mad gleam
and once again I grasp it's supporting beam
May I never wake from this walking dream.
Maybe, next we shall talk about Daddy Mboya's cannibal ram


While searching for Hiram Abiff,
I crossed the burning sands and died in seven deserted lands.
Raised triple blessed I saw a crescent sun
pay obeisance to the moon and stars.
While Ifrits and beings with seven digits
Wage cunning war ending in amours
All the way from Mars to the plain of Jars.

Two hundred and seventy three extinguished lights,
so the seekers read with three sixty candle lights.
Still, the questioners of I am cause ethereal blight,
Until Alice traveled through an organic singularity
no one could refute the pious claims of universal topology.

Capitalists discuss manifest destiny
Theorists advocate historical necessity
As the materialists become eclectic in their dialectics
Kant went ballistic and exploded,
Kierkegaard denounced low culture’s sadistic hedonistics

I hoist an iron flag and trod through the hyperplane in which I carried a little clay pot
That held a land that time never forgot,
for it is where Gog and Magog ran amok
With many heads operation phoenix was blessed
The diseased speak of peace,
their left hands caress grey, gun metal.
The right sells embalmer’s grease.

Till I rise like Osiris
there will be no end to the crisis
so we ask Horus to lead the mad chorus
We seek one whose oscillations are harmonic,
Travels like a photon that proves the existence of a Higgs boson.
In the meantime,
Industry researchers spend millions on useless chirals
to keep gluttons in an endless spiral

I cast seven cowries with bated breadth.
And wait for Ifa to predict the hour of my death
Listen to things and earthly kings.
But remember that Attila was the true lord of the rings

If while evading spirit sniper’s wiles,
and staring into the bamboo tiger’s hooded eyes
You react with a Buddhist smile

The Western Lands Saga

The western lands
Traveling under an azure sky
I try and escape the father of lies
by crossing the bridge of sighs

With each step chanting a mantra
to break my inner cipher
trailed by cackling magpies
as Apook lurks in every nook
trying to snare me with his crook
impale me with his hook.

But by invoking my seven souls
I enter the realm of the bold
Dodging the crags filled with hags yelling
"evoe!" as golems dance on their arched backs.

I feel the heat closing in
The fuzz look placid from all the hits of acid
as the squealing pigs hallucinate, prevaricate
I call on Dr. Benway to operate.
But the old fucker just procrastinates, acts obstinate
Eventually he objects to the limited torture,
because he dislikes my high couture
After I carrying out the procedure
I suture and make a killing on pork futures.

I summon Kerouac for a game of jumping jacks
we write rhymes on one time
to a beat that is lax
Ogun on his way to Oshun, chants a sutra for smiling Siddhartha

As I free associate
Hoping that no prions act like ions, disassociate
making my brain lame before I achieve greater fame
I have never been sufficiently celebrated
However I am not yet a rotting corpse

But before you summon the hearse
I will read more tales of mystery and imagination
interact with tesseracts,
place infinity in a five sided box
eat my bagel with extra cheese and lox.
I will perspire after my desires and never retire unless I expire.

As the KGB and company sneak around Karlshorst
I play with Airsnort
The junkies with monkeys
carrying machetes and bringing flechettes
endure storms and scrapes
while hunting for rutile
but their endeavors are futile.

So we grab the 103 degree burning man
dance like people with no plan
Pagans in body paint dodge and feint
as our fearless leader tells them "bring it on!"

Bold Ares summons the dogs of war,
in a celebration for gore
as they pant and grunt
once again the poor unduly feel their brunt
they honor their paters
sacrifice to their maters

So we cast our bread on still waters
knowing we shall never have sons or daughters
From Damascus to Aleppo nobody weeps for the Azores
Instead celebration and elation for those who wiped out the canaries
(their interests were pecuniary)
Where are the Caribs to bear witness of what Columbus did?
Who knows the name of Tasmania before the rule of Britannia?

From the banks of the Niger
to the mighty old Miss
I watched the falls of Niagara
with a secret shiver
it traveled from my liver,
passed through my marrow
to the quiver with fifty arrows

She asks me for her locket
As I dig in my pocket
Mind coping struggling to cope, I feel out of hope
Grasping for rope I touch the note
written by Kassim it says:

Seek liberation through desolation
Avoid inebriation
it only leads to alienation and isolation
Only you can bring elation

So I turn my back on the hack
Make a mad thousand yard dash
up the thirty nine steps in time to see
a new sun rising over Proscion
This ends the saga of the Western lands

Go west young man!
Rape and pillage those indigenous heathens
ignore the pipe of peace
Shed blood in the streets
Go west till you reach the shining east
Pray and genuflect in the direction of Mecca
from the plain named Decca
Burn biscuits to Yoshi on the peaks of Mount Fuji

Who Am I

Someone asked me how do I define myself.
I thought about it for a minute and replied in this wise:

Well I consider myself to be a poor righteous teacher
a spiritual prankster.
a constant wanker,
a jaded sage,
a glutton who does not care for mutton
who walks through the valley of death
avoiding the preachers and other hue-man leachers

when i reach the plain of fear maybe my third eye will see the clear
I seek what is real
with a will of steel cos I am full of insan kamil
I seek tales of the travails of those who rode the rails
I like to read about the wobblies and their battles
with the bosses who wanted to gobble the overrated capital

without music, politics, and the the electronic ether
my life would be one long bout of depression with a sliver of repression
all mixed together with a vacuum of obsession.
this would be the most terrible oppression
I think that explains part of how I see myself.

Liberty Marches With The People

Liberty marches with the people.
Her bosom is bountiful, her figure full,
Last night her hunger was quenched on cornflakes dipped in patriot's blood.
She has been co-opted ever since Babangida kept the prize.
Nowadays she is content with a little yam pottage.
On the corner, see Liberty taking bribes!
But what do we expect when Justice is blind?

During Tai Solarin's failed caliphate she dwelt under Agbara expressway
In those days of street sweepers & roaming night soil keepers
Liberty only had a chipped enamel cup,
they said she only fucked around with area boys and touts.
To those unemployed louts she took the form of her twin sister,
the succubus named Dream Stealer.

Makanki carried Maitasini on a rusted shield when they on a conquest of bread.
There is no Paris commune,
see the mobile police with their speakers chanting
body moving, body moving
tear gas screams are so soothing
our water cannons killed the next Frantz Fanon.
Our nylon bag teams uprooted Yggdrasil
even Loki cannot get out of this tough spot”

I see liberty marching with the people
today she has a wutang tattoo from her beau.
Her tee shirt says obey the antidistestablishment.
The liitle drummer boy now raps through a loudspeaker.
See Maher-Shalal-Hash-Baz whispering to the tight pursed innkeeper
A petite bourgeois in his, dockers, and keds carries an ikea spread,
the fish wife questions pree teen asks them for the shibboleth of dreams.
As liberty marches with the people she becomes the world tree whose roots are you and me.

Ponder, Command and Conquer

more signals at eleven
This is an object of type IOConciousStream

I am the invisible man
wandering the land of the ghosts
In triple darkness my cipher is manifest
without a living dharma would there be karma?
I create mad vibes for my tribe

While we ponder, and wander
about creation of our nation
Seeking ethereal simulation
by engaging in random procreation
can you have a sunflower sutra
without the creation of a latin sura?

I get high off seminal earth, the windy word and the cleansing fire.
While you and I verse we can deceive entropy and the hearse
This life is a trial on the truth forsooth none of can escape the noose
And while sipping on crushed grapes I contemplate
Ghandi the Askari sitting under Olumo,
dancing on Pluto and laughing at Profumo.

Well, I init call on PlanB which floats the function,
ActiveMeasures(int p*)
We issue a final call, a clarion to all or if you want
wear the grinning mask and engage in scheming tasks
but remember that the Ghostface Killer and Bobby Digital will overthrow your whole citadel

We close like Ibn Khaldun yelling koom fa ya koom
And voice cries out in the wilderness Iqra! Iqra! Before your doom Ahad laila Ahad !

I am the invisible man surrounded by ghosts and motes
I drop lyrics and rimes to hebephrenics
Integrate with surds and paralleize the new ontogeny

people instill fear in their progeny
due to their own mental dichotomies
we all commit crimes in chasing dimes
heed the word and weed your deeds

Thank you patient reader

Banji Trimegistus, Kassim Ibn Hammed

Don’t make me get all iambic on your pentameter


The thoughts run in a cadence
the spark of radiance
is lit intermittently
the profound flows in cycles
being insightful is frightful
it leads to the death of sleep
would make a nonexistent wife weep

food becomes an irritant
frailty an unwelcome presence
the idea seeks the death of self
The mind walks around in a daze
extraneous emotions are repressed,
elation is manifest,
I stand at the door of discovery
eager, to find the ether.
Nothing else matters while I obsess
waiting for the new thing,
the alarm bell to wring

All faces look the same
I pause to remember my last name
I s today Thursday, Wednesday or Friday?
Better look it up on the newspaper stand

After two weeks the energy flags.
Beneath my bright, burning, tired eyes there are bags.
Now is the time for lazy torpor.
I will sleep all day

Desi Dreams

Before you kill him make him holler
For you the club was worth the forty dollars
Standing in high heels that kill
The dj moves the wheels of steel.
Even though you claim Punjab
People mistake you for A-rab

Your parents schemes about a brokered marriage
Are nixed because of the dude's wack ass carriage.

But what the fuck do I know writing shit in this screed?
My last woman's appetite for destruction was an unending need.
Stoked by something inside her she would constantly feed.
Making enemies every where she peed.

she brought me low like burnt Njal's thrall
and now I drive slow with my homies
while listening to songs about the romies.
But now that its over
I will build a life in the clover.

Before you can ask a question
I apologize for the lengthy digression
That was old timey like three hour movie
with ten minute intermissions.
nowadays all things begin with commercial intercession.

Back to the people who created Chittalong
You were born like this
Into the world where black felt jackets
Are worn by the fantastic.
He has not seen your smile in a while and
In the frozen streets you make out
So that he knows there are no cold feet.
Into the great silence the speakers boom
like the birth of violence.