India - the sonnet

I made weapons to kill for Mir Ali;

though Muslim, he came from India

and dotted every "i"; crossed every "t"

his name approved my deadly media.

Now i don't want his job or the lucre

but empty my soul through hammer and chisel.

Knowing it's gone, what's left of my life,

grateful for what i find, big and little.

Little is what i need, big would be stone -

and paying much for a hovel makes no sense,

so if for drawings that kill, i must atone

i'll bring money to those carving for cents.

To have - one gives; so i'll give what i want

bringing aid for carving comrades more gaunt.

jts 10 March 2014

Valentine's Day - the sonnet

Ma turned me out when i was in high school
and again this Valentine's day - okay ?
Maybe right , maybe wrong , maybe useful .
If i can still love , it is a good day . 

When in high school , i was sure about love ,
today i use a muse to love through art 
i brought ma a portrait of she above ;  
it may help ma to see me in my heart .

Now of all there is , it's all i want 
love of art is what i found without ties ;
and the fear and hurt contained by a taunt
can be best blunted where the love will rise .

I am alone , i judge that's not too bad , 
for the love i learned was at home as a lad .

jts 021614
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Mexico - the Sonnet

When nine, a Ray found my heel in Guaymas;

At sixty-nine I'd go back to that bay - 
Perhaps to verify pain is no boss,
Or to pass some more time that's on my way.

There'd be stone and workers - both I prefer.
Not to say, I don't love y'all where I am,
Yet "who" I am won't be found with either -
Nor in some rank described by an emblem.

What's left when the hammer, chisel and stone
stop ringing ? Peer deeper - a bunch of dust.
Take this poem where it began? I can moan,
Or use what I've learned, to create more trust.

Why Mexico? la mujer son bella,
Y la comida es sabrosa

2 July 2014 jts 

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Greece - the sonnet

To choose anywhere in the world to carve

I’d choose Greece for its stone and history .

Our for profit world marked that land to starve

so I got “ stagnation “ for my query .

She who-would-be-Queen knew ; i did not hear .

Where else in our orbit to carve in Peace . ?

Knew I my muse , I’d go there to be near , 

and as with all things of worth , not use keys . 

A quarry is in my future , old love 

returned that truth when asked “ where do i go . ? “

I must listen for guidance from above

but know from my gut which line to toe .

The hardest part is done ; inside my heart

the reason i am here is to make art .

(˚ ㄥ _˚)                    

solidarność 

jts 1 January 2014

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christmas Eve day - the sonnet ·

Last year tonight i insulated pipe ;

this year they froze , and for that i’m glad .

Family thinks i’m mad , i guess i fit the type ,

that or they think frozen water is bad

My body's filled by water - some think’s theirs .

" Frozen " after the month's hottest ever - s'good .

Hot’s what comes next ; “ they survive - who shares “

i’m old , i’d share what i’ve seen if i could .

This morning a witch said “ only hearts speak “ ;

so true that many just read “ lonely hearts .  . “ ,

others will cry “ witch ! he must be a freak “ -

and be right , for “ good sums “ exceed their parts .

i know as certain as my hot bath grows cold

“ save love for holy days “ is what we’re sold .

(˚ ㄥ _˚)    

jts 122413

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Leaving Bali - the sonnet

Sang Made Budiasa - artist

I am leaving Bali, and I am sad,
that’s my own damn fault, same as when happy.
Being torn from illusion can make one mad -
odd, such nonsense can come from being 'sappy'.

How can holy-hoards, 'Boarding' be snappish?
Limitless yoga won’t quench some rages;
You love being served; not asking 'what's your wish?'
What do 'boolays' find that's not on stages?

When the world will not help Bali be well,
no one will care - “where are the resorts?”
The demons had been loosed - all Bali hell ...
funny to see 'retreats' turned into forts.

When i am gone, i pray it won’t get worse;
if so, still my blame, it'll be a good curse.

(˚ ㄥ _˚)                    

jts 15/11/2011

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going down the road - the essay ·

My father was a man of vast experience which often revealed itself in lessons or entertainment, one was never quite sure which was which. He had so little interest in dogma or doctrine that the respect reserved for elders was often as not bestowed upon him laced with a patronizing tolerance of his unremitting eccentricities - the perfect “taoist.” Reflecting back on my own unkindness and lazy respect for this complex and in many ways inscrutable human being, I struggle to reconcile the remarkably high standards for personal integrity which he nurtured and his unorthodox instruments - a mix of curiosity and accommodation informed by an unflagging allegiance to the most tender of human emotions - love. His concept of love was not found in the hothouse of modern advertising or cultural whims but through a devotion to learning about the whole of human history as explained in the written word - any word: good, bad or banned. He was well-described by Camus’ quote “ The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion. ” However, he was not defined by any real struggle - yes, a paradox.

My father committed himself deeply to his beliefs which often set him apart from - wives, children, community standards - armament of the conventional; nor did this resistance to the status quo manifest in culturally destructive behavior almost as though he anticipated John Lennon’s “ Imagine “ and was conducting his own war on hatred and cruelty while developing concepts for a better world. That he was an high school English teacher, very nearly gives credence to the deepest fears and convictions of the rigid right about the cause of our nation’s fall from grace. The dilemma for any zealot attempting to frame this argument is that my father had no doctrine I knew of, outside the principles of decency and love. It sounds maudlin and sappy; it is not. When the big tent revivals were becoming institutional in the conservative bastion of Southern California he spent years as a member of the American Indian Church - a decision which would put him on the fringes of both congregations but closer to his concept of g_d. His understanding of love was not based on paid admission to the “ love show; “ his knowledge was gained in the battlefield - matrimonial, patriarchal, romantic and professional. He was mortally wounded by love and brought back to life by the same, so much so - he could not be denied.

I know, I tried - I ran, I raged, I blamed. I did everything but accept the superiority of his strategy which had nothing to do with politics, affiliation, assertion or occupation. You could talk shit with him, but not at him. He had the good fortune to know selfrespect as well as his own heart - he was a writer, a poet and an inveterate reader impervious to anything that did not directly further understanding about anything. I asked him once in my best snide Young Turk voice, “why’d you become an English teacher?” I said this not to learn but to elevate myself at his expense believing if I had to be in the wastelands, so did he. “ I love words “ was his reply. His focus was intense and unrelenting in pursuit of this love and he used words to good end - craftiest of the crafty - seditiously Socratic without a morsel of bullshit because he was driven by curiosity rather than certainty, hubris or supposition. His constancy took the form of loyalty as long as you took the bit in hand and worked out your own solution, the capacity for which I’ve grown to appreciate enormously as I move toward my own end. His support was often in the form of quips; He anticipated “memes,“ and it was from his last most persistent homily which prompted this essay. “Going down the road“ had become the universal solvent to most every existential dilemma or query - “ how ya’ feeling Pop ? “ . “going down the road“ . . he’d smile.

The well-schooled might take exception to this facile approach to wisdom - a wise decision, for the consequences of applying this pat answer reflects the difficulties of implementation for any of the philosophies predicated on the simple: buddhism, taoism, christianity or islam. For Pop, implementation came in the form of a contradiction - how to go down the road in bed with a broken thigh knuckle and alleged dementia. A preexisting heart condition precluded any reparative surgery rendering him incontinent and at the mercy of today’s “ best medical practice.” What would be the difference between having the cards my father was dealt and ones we are all dealt daily? - water poisoned for profit with the remaining water sold to those without lifeboats; a national election where I gambled +/- 1% of all I had saved to help elect a man who now wants to take back 1.5% from me to support the unmanned murder of grandmothers in a war without end, which pales compared to the previous; or previous to the prior - my father’s predicament, after all what are the masses without the individual? The notion of going down the road is not novel per se, only rephrased from one of the many human anthems - Sol traversing the heavens by chariot; Perseus paddling the river Styx or even Lao Tzu’s “ The Tao.” It is the scale and commensurate utility this oft sung procession is capable of expanding to which might prove useful, especially given the let-it-ride stakes to which the least responsible amongst us have exposed us all.

My interest today is to mobilize what remains of my life. Like father, like son - I like to write, but I carve stone, paint and draw as well. To get to one or all of each of those daily is a busy day, so if I’m not getting in front of one or all, am I stalled? If I was that same Young Turk sassing my old man; not a problem, plus I’d have drunk like Bacchus for good measure before I passed out a 1,000 miles down the road. I’m not that kid; it’s a chore for me just to get in 40 hours week, but the more difficult task is acknowledging I ain’t Sol ambling over the heavens, and I’d have to see the terms before I paddled any river Styx as a hired gun hunting Medusas. The more I’m disabused of fantasy and distraction the more I can create - fucking paradoxes. The most that can be said on this trek is that I’m not alone. Bob Dylan has sung recently “gone walk down that dirt road ’til someone lets me ride.“ Mr. Dylan learned it from somebody, who learned it from somebody else, just like I learned it from somebody . .  . Though there is a great effort afoot to inhibit our collective abilities to individuate or be apart, much less learn, from: parents, peers, education, or assimilation - we are all making our own journey, and we have been from the beginning of our recorded history. We may not like where we are, but the possibility that we are not on a spirit quest of some fashion or another is not likely. Whether it is marching downfield with 60 seconds on the clock; searching for lost America armed-to-nines ‘cause lord knows what kind of commie pink-o bogey man has been placed in the highest office of the land by the liberal illuminati elite depriving the rest of us, good G_d fearin’‘Mericans our “manifest destiny,” or even Mr. Natural “just passing thru,“ we is on the move, going down the road . .  .

(˚ ㄥ _˚)                    

solidarność 

jts 11/08/2017

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