Hes promising change. Shes ready to lead.
Hes on top. Now shes on top. He screwed her in Iowa.
She licked him in New Hampshire. He wants a tax cut
to help the middle class. Her husband wants a bj and
a fresh piece of ass. All agree theres no free lunch,
especially the nominee from the other party, the one
who became a hero by getting shot down over the jungles
of Southeast Asia.
Its April. Its May. Hes got more delegates. She accuses
him of inexperience. He calls her callous. She claims his
health plan wont fly. The incumbent President is a
lame duck. His father became President after becoming
a hero by getting shot down over the waters of the South
Pacific.
He was raised by a single mother, so hes got street cred.
Her husband was President, so shes got experience.
His pastor blames white people for black peoples problems.
Shes got blue collar whites who blame black people for
their problems. Would you want one of them sitting in the
Oval Office?
Hes talking off the top of his head. She pulling policies
out of her ass. He says he wants to talk about the issues.
She says he should have dumped his pastor twenty years
ago.
Old time liberals love his progressive patter. Hacks and
bagmen think shes a winner. Hes attracting idealistic
young people. Shes got middle-aged white housewives.
His wife sparkles with womanly energy. Her husbands a
bad-tempered sleazebag who ate too many cheeseburgers.
Hes on a roll, sounding full of confidence. Shes out of gas,
sounding flat and hollow. Hes cleaning up. She refuses
to throw in the towel.

www.tokyopoet.com
Tokyo, Thurs. 05/08/08

I want go
go to the land
the land away from man.

Can you see
see all the lies?
People jockying to get to the front of the line
Trying be the first
Chasing after
Chasing after just one more worldly material prize
I hate to break the news
But you know?
You know--we are all gonna die
die someday.
We are all gonna die
Someday
And then, where you be?
And what will you think
About what you did with your life?
And how does all that fine wine
and caviar taste now?
When you are 6 feet
6 feet under ground.

So I want go
go to the land
the land--the land away from man.

Yesterday morning this guy says to me, a nice guy
from Australia, who knows Im a poet outside the Mr. Donut
in Matsubara Danchi, so I suppose youd like to live in the
country beside the rows of double chocolates and Dutchies
with wild boars and horse manure and I said
no goddamned way I hate the country.

I bet you didnt know its the 25th Anniversary of Tokyo
Disneyland because its full of tightassed old boohoos rolling
up the sidewalks at six oclock, another example of cultural
imperialism just as many claim Tibet is historically part of
China, which is why I don’t like Shakespeare either.

I prefer classical jazz, Bill Evans, Miles Davis, guys not
grandstanding worse than Robert Mugabe or Wayne Newton
and now the Pope just stepped onto the tarmac at Andrews
Air Force Base which reminds me of Julie Andrews who
keeps hanging in like the stock market even though oils
gone through the roof and food is turning into a regular riot.

I hope youre not thinking of getting an abortion, he told
the Presidents oldest daughter, thank God its not raining in
Tokyo this morning so the Prime Minister can smoothly pave
the way for more expressways connecting rural voters to
urban pork barrels even though another Olympic boycotts
looming on the horizon.

I wonder if the Pope eats donuts, not like the present Prime
Minister, another sour apple who really put his foot down
during Sundays NHK singalong from Niigata where rice
farmers fiercely lay down the pavement when it comes to
political road construction because they too speak directly
from God.

I know policemen love donuts with sailors and hot coffee
but so far theyve barely penetrated Chinas booming fastfood
market even though the Chinese have plenty of policemen
with chocolate icing and strawberry sprinkles just like the
Dalai Lama with his permanent equanimity and Mr. Smiley
happy face.

Tokyo, Tuesday, 04/15/08

8am 2-24-08 Reta Lorraine Bowen Taylor

His terrifying roar yanks me from my bed long before
any normal human time for getting up should occur—
his long cold fingers prying like jagged knives
at the once sturdy edges of the shingles above my head—
I listen (trying not to) as he looses yet another rectangle
and flings it into the madness that envelopes his angry lust;
I imagine it swirl, cutting sharp angles, one-winged,
as the curious & terrified birds watch from their hiding places
hoping against hope that they are safe from this wrath.

The sharp fingers pry continuously
and the shingles give way
one after the other
and go
splitting the icy air,
flinging miniscule particles of tiny ancient rock
hazardously from off their surfaces
(just in case someone were crazy enough to poke their eye
outside the safety of their abode for a better look).

The roar crescendos now and then, orchestrated like
the great Leonard Bernstein himself were waving the baton—
and the frigid fingers continue on to a nearby tree
and rake stiffly over each already barren grey branch
to scrape off whatever remains of leaves may yet cling there.

Old and weathered plastic bags
which snap viciously from their tangled branches
twisting against themselves
until wrought into unrecognizable white globs
finally give way now in the force of these ice fingers
which come to hack them loose
and send them plummeting to further doom unknown,
as yet more of them are snatched loose from the open dumpsters nearby —
they hurl themselves in frantic circles of white plastic tornados
itching for a tree, any tree…to cling to desperately in the cold—
they snap loudly against the winds, the force hitting the thin plastic
with a slapping non-stop punishment of power and superiority.

Now and then blasts of water pellets too big to be raindrops
careen like BB’s into my windows at just the precise moment—
(oh, Leonard is good!) and the glass rattles back loudly in protest,
threatens to crack, as the double-paned sliding windows
shake and moan from their worn-down aluminum slots.
The birds are all in hiding, and I don’t blame them one little bit.
I would open my door and invite them in to perch in warmth—
offer them a stale piece of bread of two,
if they would believe me my offered safety.
My voice would (of course) be snatched and obliterated the moment
I would make the offer into the devious and treacherous winds
and truthfully
the only thing I would wind up REALLY hosting, I’m sure
would be a living room full of tangled plastic bag refugees
rattling and quivering from their horrible experience
and probably too
shaking their empty noisy selves for bread.

10pm 4-11-08 Reta loraine Bowen Taylor

Black “Times new Roman” 12 point
aligned left
it spills from the unseen grey microscopic cells
and travels
blue nerve highways
red blood freeways
yellow fat alleys
brown-blotched -no name for this color skin -pavement

It comes and it comes
without invite
or vacation
and never brings desert (let alone a glass of wine)

It tip-toes
it hops
it bangs drums
it whispers rudely in your ear in the night
it comes in dreams

It is sinew
it is twine
it is seashell half buried in glittering beige sand
it is rubber
it is flower petal soft
and it coats the back of your tongue
like cherry cough syrup

It has limbs
leaves
padded toes and suction cups
broken toenails painted purple with silver stars
it tastes like chocolate mint
it burbles
rings
hums
even as you blink—
and it is warm as a puppy’s breath

It comes
it does
without a name
and yells a fresh one in your ear
that you have never heard before
and you will swear you hear it sing then
as it jumps there
just left
12 pointed—
traveled oh so far meticulously
and without blunder along the blue nerve
—and from where
to be YOUR poem?

6pm 4-8-08 Reta Lorraine Bowen Taylor

Her voice—
soft
like fleece
reminds one of the blankets surely she must
cower beneath—
young and pale
blonde thin hair askew between the sheets
as she listens
to the familiar sound
of her father—
nearing
from
down the hall

She
is matter of factly
calm—
now

It’s all only just a fact of life
God’s wishes (according to her Pa)

The footsteps echo off the walls of her memory now
boomerang inside her frail new strength
as they draw nearer —nearer
the steps of her father
coming to pray over her this night like always
and she’ll go inside again
shut her private screen door without letting it bang
(it’s her only safety, that door,
even tho it exists to function merely in the darkness behind her eyelids)

And down the hall the shoes land
planted firmly and with insistence and longing and righteous timing
coming
they are
bringing
they are
Pa
and prayers
when she hasn’t nary a one—
footsteps in the hall
when Nighttime Pa calls
comes a pray’n
over her sinnin’ needs to be cleansed cotton folds
as the sheets even caress her carelessly in foreplay
and she dare not move
or cry out
for her mouth has no purpose here for her
it betrays her in its silence—
this is not her time to pray
but to listen
and to learn
to know the ways of the father
and all the fathers before
and such is the story—
as
the
foot
steps
fall
along
the
hall
and
in
his
way
she’ll
lay.

For the 416+ young girls & women rescued
from a polygamist “cult” in Texas in April 2008.
One woman spoke of her father’s frequent nightly visits
to rape her, as “footsteps in the hall” which would signal
her impending rape in the name of the Lord.
The raid was sparked by a phone call from a 16 year old girl
claiming to be held and abused and raped,
while scores of young girls were forced to “marry” older men
against their will or after lifetimes of brainwashing to “want” the lifestyle.

Beautiful Things

faint hints,
vague touches
quiet looks.

Eyes drip with understanding.
Bodies heave with conversation.

sweet breath,
whispered scent
on pink magnolia wings.

Kissed silence

Beautiful things.

Don't tell me that you are like the rest of the peanut gallery who loves to see big fish like NY Governor Spitzer crash and burn after his being nabbed for his habit of enjoying the company of call girls. Truthfully, would you rather see his hanging around with ego-testical men the likes of Dick Cheney?

The only reason I'm pissed off at all, is that these ladies were $1,000 bucks an hour. But then again I think, the CEO of Exxon is paid some $15,000 an hour or more while we all take it up the keester—oil at $110 bucks a barrel—and no grease.

Back to the $1000 an hour? You know, I could get pretty creative for that kind of dough, At least I'd do my best to get my money's worth. That's the kind of guy I am.

While discussing Spitzer with somebody yesterday, the guy boasted, "I never paid for pussy." Well, I looked at the guy and thought to myself, "You cheap bastard."

The way I look at it, Spitzer was caught after supposedly spending some $80,000 for services from prostitutes. And Americans seemed shocked over what is really a meager amount. What is that $80,000? Less than the money taken in for a fund raising luncheon for any of the three remaining presidential candydates. And all one gets is a friggin' lunch and a lot of bullshit. Meanwhile, the American population is more concerned with their own wallets than the war in Iraq." Shame on you!

Well, I believe ex-Govenor Spitzer was doing his patriotic duty—he was spending. In fact, he was injecting a direct financial surge. One of the prostitutes claimed to have been broke and homeless. So Spitzer in fact was helping the disadvantaged. What a guy!

I'm no economist, but I do believe in "Trickle Down" economics. First, a prostitute should keep an ample supplies of tissues at her disposal at all times. And with remainder of the hard earned cash she has has earned off the sweat on her back, she then goes shopping at the mall--stopping in Victoria Secrets to purchase some crotchless panties. The cashier, working part-time behind the counter, is a college student working her way through school so she won't wind up selling her body to pay for tuition. Then patrolling through the mall, to make sure we are all safe while shopping, is the black security guard. He/she is able to keep his/her job because there are in fact shoppers at the mall even when times are tight. Even the Spanish-speaking maintenance worker is able to have job--cleaning the mall toilets where faggots hang out. And that's how money flows in America.

In this US Presidential election year, where RACE has become an campaign issue, my question is "Was Govenor Spitzer an equal opportunity employer? Cuz, you know, once you go Barack, you never go back.

photo: Danny Woody performing at JZ Club, Shanghai, PRC. March 5. jz
Danny has sung on stage with The Doors and Janis Joplin. He hasn't touched a drink in 28 years.