Categories
My Poetry Poems

Little Night Poem

I don’t care what the foam sea squalls say:
The mountains are made of mint.
Green I spend gliding upon the emotion-
Less ramp besieged by the creepy Count de Bourgie
Of my psyche. The orphaned Queen of my heart will jump
Straight down into her moat and drown
If the adventurer of my soul forgets
To stay on his horse.
A jacketed smoke walk down to the Bourbon wall.
It stretches a few quarters, but the one
Inside, it tunnels inward Universe upon Universe.
A bleek streak.Beaker Street. Jazz blue smokes Bitches Brew
To whites of eyes carved out of stone
Demi-Gods staring back double fisted.
They can take it even pinned to a mountain for centuries.
We (the children still inside me) roll in the dough, little sprinkled whites,
As pigeons of possibility sip cappucino on the departing square.
Someone shuffles down a back alley
Of my heart. A glance, and two dark, soft eyes
Surrender the Yucatan night as the beach waves
Dive in from the hole the Dinosaur asteroid made.
We shriek down to drink the Greek god’s salty blood.
I buy trinkets for her and two dresses embroidered with firebirds,
One for Mum. They will fly us to the shore. The rest, well…we must save some words.
The phone call goes through but I don’t hear her voice.
(Who could in this situation?)
Someone else (the sloucher) whispers a void
That sucks away the beach sunrise sunset dream.
The cats blur in the fiber
Glass behind locked chained links for winter, but the matted Tabby
Of my bewilderment is stuck in the roof of my ego
And moans for food, for a way out.
Oh, how I reach!
Sound gets through, light gets through, all the forces of nature get through
But there is still something else we are waiting for. What is it?
I never forget the freaky blizzard where even the flowing
Fountain turned into block. Don’t tell me life isn’t quantum.
(Even after wave after wave almost drowns me)
Someone, no, not just anyone,
She turns to me laughing gingerly in the cold,
Dark back alley of the warehouse district,
But I let the flashy city’s neon outlines carry me away,
Building upon building seeking the sacred pyramidal top.
Soon enough, though, I’ll be alone in the Pontiac,
Bristling at the bones,
Nestling into the concrete, filling another Weller
With spring water, looking at the gate still not crumble,
Even as the giant hundred year oaks howl at the city’s brick tablets.
My one hand left snakes, and an eye opens the Sun curtain.
One tree and a bounding suspicion race
God knows where but the car’s breath
Roars in the hope that at least it’s somewhere,
Home to someone,
Who might finally have that expression on her face
We’ve been waiting for
Our whole life.

Categories
Uncategorized

Hey Xippy!

Hey Xippy!,

I lost my father on March 1st, ironically enough my birthday. It was a world turning upside down experience. We talked like ten times a day all my life. I’ve always had this phobia of dead bodies, so the day he died I didn’t think I could go into the room. But something carried me there, and it was weird, instead of being a grueling, grotesque experience, it was a spiritual experience in a positive way. I kissed him. My sister was speaking to him. He seemed “there” I almost felt I could bring him back to life if I were just a few more steps along in my spiritual journey. I don’t know how to explain it. But it did give me peace, and I’ve held together surprisingly well ever since.

If I were Jung or Freud analyzing your dream I’d surely say your head symbolized the “Ego” and really the enemy was inside, the Ego wanting to put itself back on, wanting to “fight” Sometimes I think its the dead who are alive and the living who are dead. I don’t know where I get that thought. It just comes to me from time to time. Or at least I feel its some sort of continuum going on. Sometimes I think “How can anyone really die? What happens to their memories?” I think I’ll make this into a blog post, I write such long comments. I’m glad I ran across your topic. It’s prescient for me at this time.

Stephen

Categories
Uncategorized

One Art

You know there’s so much good music out there, good poems, good art, you can just consume it like food. And then you think Art is like a Metaphor for the most innermost part of your being actualized. You know like dancing is a metaphor for effortless motion, and singing a metaphor for exuberance. Art kind of like points us in the direction of , “Hey, Life is over here.”

Art is a symbol for what to do next, except no one ever does it, although they love to “entertain” the idea. And what is more no none will ever do it. The Goddess of the Ancient Temple of Sais says, “No one has yet lifted my veil.”

Update: 12/4/11 – I remember reading recently that Joseph Campbell said that “Art is the clothing of a revelation.” Now, if I’m thinking in terms of mythos, what do the monsters of Fairy Tales and Mythologies stand for? What are they metaphors for? They seem to be metaphors for something that is blocking, disrupting the revelation.

One Art  
by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Categories
Economics

We Need A Gold Standard for Economic Prosperity

gold image

(Two email letters I sent concerning this subject)

March 22nd, 2009

Dear Adam Curry (@adamcurry),

Ending inflation and deflation is very simple. All that has to happen is for the Fed to keep the dollar/gold ratio in a tight range by printing dollars when the price of gold gets too low (ie 1997, $10 barrel oil) and selling bonds when the price of gold gets too high (ie Now!) to soak up the excess liquidity. There was no inflation or deflation until 1971 when Nixon closed the London Gold Window where one could exchange 35 dollars for an ounce of gold. Oil was 3.50 per barrell. When he closed the London gold window, the dollar became a floating currency and the great inflation of the 70’s began. There was no energy crisis. There never has been. We don’t need a Gold Standard per se, where we actually store the stuff, we just need a de facto Gold Standard where the relationship between the paper currency and the metal stays steady. The Fed has the tools to do this easily. Why is it not done? Because the establishment knows how to profit from these wild swings in prices, while the common man gets screwed. If you look at a chart of oil from 1920 until now it basically doesn’t move until 1971, and then the line goes up like Mount Everest. How is this possible during a time when the car and airplane were invented? Its simply because all inflations and deflations are monetary, ie floating currencies, and when the supply and demand of money itself gets out of whack so do the prices of all the commodities. You ask about a World Reserve Currency. We have one. Its called Gold. Everything is ultimately priced in terms of it.

Stephen Pickering (@pickering)

Little Rock, AR, US

Crude Oil Chart 1920 til present:

CRUDEOIL1920Present

March 23rd, 2009

To: Mr. Sergei Perminov, Rye, Man, & Gor Securities, Moscow, Russian Federation

Dear Mr. Perminov

Your quote in the Moscow Times is absurd:

“This is all in the realm of fantasy,” said Sergei Perminov, chief strategist at Rye, Man and Gore. “There was a situation that resembled what they are talking about. It was called the gold standard, and it ended very badly.”

http://www.themoscowtimes.com/article/600/42/375364.htm

The Gold Standard didn’t end badly. Nixon closing the London Gold Window in 1971 is what has ended badly. In other words, getting off the gold standard is what has ended badly. Look at this oil chart from 1920 until today. Look what it did beginning in 1971 when Nixon took the dollar off a de facto gold standard:

Crude1971Present

The only solution to this is having a “de facto” gold standard whereby the Fed keeps the dollar in a stable relationship with the price of gold. It can easily do this by printing currency when the price of Gold starts lower too much and vice versa selling bonds into the open market to soak up excess liquidity when the price of Gold begins to get too high. That’s the only way to end inflation and deflation that never existed before 1971. Keeping things the way they are will only keep the misery going. Look where its got us. The common man gets ruined, businesses can’t plan, and the engine of the economy has a monkey wrench thrown into it without a stable, standardized unit of account.



Categories
My Poetry Poems

Beginning a New Poem (In Beta 1.1)

Dear Father, I love you, what can I say?
These eyes I have can see only little
Sweet Gum covered hills,
But the eye of my soul can see through a million endless
Nights kept alive by the fire of your hearth.
The heart of the mountain that peeks through the clouds
Of our misty laughter has been still for two million years,
But who is freer, us or it?

I’ve fallen into the Ocean
Of Kepler’s fountain, and the whole
Universe has sprung up silver,
Light through water, stars singing.
For silver is the colour of crossing
The ocean, of the Soul meeting its betrothed,
Piercing through the world that says “Life Stops Here”
In Jason’s ship of Destiny.

Since you left my whole
Being seems to be in free
Fall back into the Whale’s belly.
It feels like I’m fleeing the Gods,
Painting the birds their different colors
With my fire
That you lit.

Categories
My Poetry Poems

Poetic Fragment (Version 1.3)

Sometimes you dream so hard
The clocks of your mind begin
To melt inside a Dali painting,
And the continents of your heart collide,
Pushing up mountains on which the hunter inside
You searches for the sacred white deer.
White mountains, white snow, white Buffalo, white sorrow;
The land’s blood is white, and the white moleskin bison skins
Flap in the wind as crystals soak the mountain.
We are sucked through the river’s white pipe.
Tobacco like water, river like smoke,
Our black walnut branches freeze
Fruit into the shadow Mother’s feathered bed.

But when we beat our drums,
To remember what we danced
And sang and the silence glances
Between her shadowy apparition and vapory vanish,
What will happen to those snow ringed owl nights
Darkened by just her eyes,
Blown by grasses and anchored by stone?

The white deer of our spirit was in the mountain
And also rested on her shoulders.
How many generations she will breed
Be run off cliffs
Pierced by the insatiable arrows
Dragged away by a mountain lion mouth?

Then we shall flank the grove of milky white pine
And fill its lungs with Arctic animal spirit.

We will ever dream so intensely,
And love so dearly, our tears
Will become rain and our desire blackened soil,
And golden leafy dreams will spiral down,
Floating through the stars
Giving birth, like an angel,
To the next door we open,
And the path of dreams blossoming in
The dew of the night’s first dawn.

Then our song will never
Be written, but instead,
Be sung.

©2009 Stephen Pickering. All rights reserved.