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our time will come
1-23-02 but didn't we have a nice time
That bastard Kai says that he is taking back his page starting Saturday so this may be my last post. And to that end I offer you the Mojo protest song. It protests change for the sake of replacing one dictator(President of the "Free World") for another and all the lies that come with it.
Won't Get Fooled Again
We'll be fighting in the streets
With our children at our feet
And the morals that they worship will be gone
And the men who spurred us on
Sit in judgement of all wrong
They decide and the shotgun sings the song
I'll tip my hat to the new constitution
Take a bow for the new revolution
Smile and grin at the change all around
Pick up my guitar and play
Just like yesterday
Then I'll get on my knees and pray
We don't get fooled again
The change, it had to come
We knew it all along
We were liberated from the fold, that's all
And the world looks just the same
And history ain't changed
'Cause the banners, they are flown in the next war
I'll tip my hat to the new constitution
Take a bow for the new revolution
Smile and grin at the change all around
Pick up my guitar and play
Just like yesterday
Then I'll get on my knees and pray
We don't get fooled again
No, no!
I'll move myself and my family aside
If we happen to be left half alive
I'll get all my papers and smile at the sky
Though I know that the hypnotized never lie
Do ya?
There's nothing in the streets
Looks any different to me
And the slogans are replaced, by-the-bye
And the parting on the left
Are now parting on the right
And the beards have all grown longer overnight
I'll tip my hat to the new constitution
Take a bow for the new revolution
Smile and grin at the change all around
Pick up my guitar and play
Just like yesterday
Then I'll get on my knees and pray,
We don't get fooled again.
Don't get fooled again,
No, no!
Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
Meet the new boss,
Same as the old boss.
now Mojo is mad and wants to kick Kai's ass, that bourgeois puppet.
1-22-02 Mojo returns
Just a quick post by Mojo to keep this page fresh while continues his sabbatical. This poem is a very "high school" poem in its unabashed romanticism and big dreamer qualities. But Mojo wants to know, what's wrong with that? He saw In the Bedroom the other day and needs a little upliftmofopartyplan.
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
Now Mojo doesn't know whether to milk or pummel himself.
1-19-02 like a hurt lost and blinded fool
I must say that I am extremely happy with Mojo's posts thus far but I figured I would do one of my own just for the hell of it. Looks like I will be back in the big City of dreams very soon. Though a little stream of bad luck continues to plague in the new year, I am hopng that the Chinese new year of the Horse, which I am, will turn things around for me. I will put out an orange, burn some incense and put money in little red wrappers and see if that helps change things. I have not been doing much besides getting ready for my move, which included a yard sale today. I didn't really make much money off of it but at least I now have less to bring back. The stuff I didn't sell I will give away to Goodwill or Cerebral Palsy, whomever comes on Monday morning. I am nervous about my move back to the City because I have completely depleted all savings and will rely on the kindness of strangers (I mean friends). Friends like Mark and Mark and perhaps even Mark :) Can you say "mooch"? sure, I knew you could. I don't know how many of youe have ever heard the National Lampoon record, "That's not funny, that's sick", but that is the Shiiiiit! I mean it. I can quote a lot of stuff off that album and most of it makes me piss my pants it's so damn funny! I dare you to buy it, it will change your life . . . or something like that.
Tonight I went to the volleyball game and was brutally disappointed - but that seems par for the course these days. My only point of accomplishment would be that I heckled one of the UCLA players so bad that they actually took him out for the last game and a half. I also got a lau hala headband from the Samoan drum master, which ain't so bad. He is a crazy man that paints himself and runs around shirtless with a spear, imploring the crowd to get pumped up and cheer the Bows to victory. I didn't really taunt the refs that much tonight because there weren't that many points of contention but I do know the head linesman by name now. And last game he offered me his whistle. I came clean and told him I had to decline it because I couldn't take the pressure. He just laughed. He was good people.
In keeping with poems and lyrics I will leave you you with lyrics from a song I know Chris is tired of but damn if it isn't one of the best songs ever written. I was thinking about posting a Thom Gunn poem but Mojo said he wanted to do that. Besides I can dedicate this to those good friends languishing in the lost and found. Like my journal and my soul.
LOSING MY RELIGION
Life is bigger
It's bigger than you
And you are not me
The lengths that I will go to
The distance in your eyes
Oh no I've said too much
I set it up
That's me in the corner
That's me in the spotlight
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don't know if I can do it
Oh no I've said too much
I haven't said enough
I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try
Every whisper
Of every waking hour I'm
Choosing my confessions
Trying to keep an eye on you
Like a hurt lost and blinded fool
Oh no I've said too much
I set it up
Consider this
The hint of the century
Consider this
The slip that brought me
To my knees failed
What if all these fantasies
Come flailing around
Now I've said too much
I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try
But that was just a dream
That was just a dream
ah, where is that sad ass monkey Mojo when you need 'im?!?
1-17-02 when Truth broke in with all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
the birches and the birches. Naturally, Mojo aspires to be a swinger of birches . . . wink-wink, nudge, nudge; if ya know what I mean! But Mojo thinks that this poem has more to do with the themes found in the movie The Ice Storm than it does with having carefree fun.
BIRCHES
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground,
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm,
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
>From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
Robert Frost
damn, now Mojo is sad.
1-15-01 another tricky day
Hi, Mojo here. It's raining a soft tropical rain outside and this seems like a good post to me. Hope the rain helps you sleep - wherever you may be tonight.
One Tree Hill
We turn away to face the cold, enduring chill
As the day begs the night for mercy love
The sun so bright it leaves no shadows
Only scars carved into stone
On the face of earth
The moon is up and over One Tree Hill
We see the sun go down in your eyes
You run like river, on like a sea
You run like a river runs to the sea
And in the world a heart of darkness
A fire zone
Where poets speak their heart
Then bleed for it
Jara sang, his song a weapon
In the hands of love
You know his blood still cries
From the ground
It runs like a river runs to the sea
It runs like a river to the sea
I don't believe in painted roses
Or bleeding hearts
While bullets rape the night of the merciful
I'll see you again
When the stars fall from the sky
And the moon has turned red
Over One Tree Hill
We run like a river
Run to the sea
We run like a river to the sea
And when it's raining
Raining hard
That's when the rain will
Break my heart
Raining...raining in the heart
Raining in your heart
Raining...raining to your heart
Raining, raining...raining
Raining to your heart
Raining...raining in your heart
Raining in your heart..
To the sea
Oh great ocean
Oh great sea
Run to the ocean
Run to the sea
- U2
Now I have got my Mojo workin'
Hi, Mojo here. I had some problems yesterday but I think I am getting the hang of this posting thing. Watch me.
MEDITATIONS AT LAGUNITAS
All the new thinking is about loss.
In this it resembles all the old thinking.
The idea, for example, that each particular erases
the luminous clarity of a general idea. That the clown-
faced woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk
of that black birch is, by his presence,
some tragic falling off from a first world
of undivided light. Or the other notion that,
because there is in this world no one thing
to which the bramble of blackberry corresponds,
a word is elegy to what it signifies.
We talked about it late last night and in the voice
of my friend, there was a thin wire of grief, a tone
almost querulous. After a while I understood that,
talking this way, everything dissolves: justice,
pine, hair, woman, you and I. There was a woman
I made love to and I remembered how, holding
her small shoulders in my hands sometimes,
I felt a violent wonder at her presence
like a thirst for salt, for my childhood river
with its island willows, silly music from the pleasure boat,
muddy places where we caught the little orange-silver fish
called pumpkinseed. It hardly had to do with her.
Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances. I must have been the same to her.
But I remember so much, the way her hands dismantled bread,
the thing her father said that hurt her, what
she dreamed. There are moments when the body is as numinous
as words, days that are the good flesh continuing.
Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings,
saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.
Robert Hass
the monkeys and the monkeys, the followers of chaos out of control
Hi, I am Mojo, Kai's helper monkey, and I am taking over this page while he is on sabbatical. I hope you like my random posts of poems, lyrics and quotes. Kai says he will be back in a couple of weeks. Until then.
TOWN CALLED MALICE
Better stop dreaming of the quiet life -
cos it's the one we'll never know
And quit running for that runaway bus -
cos those rosey days are few
And - stop apologising for the things you've never done,
Cos time is short and life is cruel -
but it's up to us to change
This town called malice.
Rows and rows of disused milk floats
stand dying in the dairy yard
And a hundred lonely housewives clutch empty milk
bottles to their hearts
Hanging out their old love letters on the line to dry
It's enough to make you stop believing when tears come
fast and furious
In a town called malice.
Struggle after struggle - year after year
The atmosphere's a fine blend of ice -
I'm almost stone cold dead
In a town called malice.
A whole street's belief in Sunday's roast beef
gets dashed against the Co-op,
To either cut down on beer or the kids new gear
It's a big decision in a town called malice.
The ghost of a steam train - echoes down my track
It's at the moment bound for nowhere -
just going round and round
Playground kids and creaking swings -
lost laughter in the breeze
I could go on for hours and I probably will -
but I'd sooner put some joy back
In this town called malice.
- Paul Weller
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