Here's a collection w/Lennon & Harrison as my muse w/a new piece at the end:
"George Harrison" (trg, 11-30-2001)
concern for balance
free from the bull shit, knowing
that when one's free
the same is still full
of their own bull shit;
quiet gentleman understood
fame and infamy are siblings,
reminiscent of St. Anthony's wisdom
given to the novice -- "praise
those in the grave; curse the same...
what's the difference?"
cheerers can easily
turn, joining the cries,
"Crucify, crucify!"
this silent soul
knew betrayal from lover and friend,
yet knew
the line between them
and him, only
this time he was on
the receiving end -- not
always more blessed to give
than to receive, huh?
My Sweet Lord
is laid to rest, falling asleep
into peace without
this world's warring bull shit;
a waiting friend's Imagine
rocks the guitarist, whispering,
"You'll see your Sweet One
shortly; here comes
the Lady in blue, safely
she'll get you through."
a warm gun put down one,
warm smoke put him down, he said
All things must pass; yet, i pray, that
their cold beds
aid our anticipated recline
with the peace
not of this world.
'Black Friday?' timothy r gates, 11/24/2006
black as sin
snow-white dove
black boy robs yellow person's shop
not p.c. to say the 'n' word,
but it's fine to say, 'the 'n' word,' by saying, 'n'
hip-hop's blurred the colour line,
Elvis did the same with Blues, R&B, and Southern Rock & Roll
eastern orthodox monastic clergy, called, 'black clergy'
their non-monastic clergy, called, 'white clergy'
no such thing as a true colour black,
the absence of light
same with a true colour of white
oxymoron.
to see one sees
shades, hues, blends of the spectrum of true colours
through a prism
rainbow, as good as any metaphor
Martin decried the euphemisms of colour,
but he did not decry the colour
if I do not see your colour,
unless I do not know colour, or am sight challenged,
I have chosen to not see you
Do you see my colour?
Do your children love their own as the best colour?
Do you see mine as metaphor for racist?
Do your children after adolescence see the same?
Do you take the blame for passing on your preference for power or weakness?
pigmentation? Is it truth?
John imagined
Jesus gave the words, 'I am you, you are me, we are all together,'
with
'give water to the thirsty, food to the hungry, friendship to the lonely, love to the hated,
company to the estranged,'
John imagined his words,
Jesus said,
'do this to these, the ones called the least, and you do it to me,'
easy enough.
'don't do to, for, with these, the least able to do for themselves, and you do this to me'
Jesus was a Jew
The 'j' word
Malcolm was the 'm' word
Nietzsche was the 'a' word
Buddha was the, well, 'b' word
white snow has colour when it's urinated upon,
So does black asphalt.
'Religion in three parts' (trg, 7/13/03)
Part I
'Jesus wept.'
His Mother, 'Wept,'
hands cupped catching every drop,
mixing with her own.
Slowly each drop falls through the clouds,
one drop out of millions of rain falling
finds it's home upon a hopeful hopeless soul.
Healed. Delivered. A Miracle.
Yes or no, matters not, still beyond a true scientific analysis.
What of the rest?
Pray for a raindrop.
Part II
'A child shall lead them.'
Adults sin and therefore are sinners.
Children may be found playing on an asp's hole,
with lion cubs, petting a skunk,
calling out, 'Here kitty, here kitty, kitty, kitty.'
They don't understand why adults hit them,
or why they're yelled at just because the adult's having a bad day.
I don't either.
You don't need to tell them Grandpa and Grandma are in heaven.
They know.
Most children before ten years old have seen angels,
nothing to do with a particular religion, they just do.
Maybe we do too,
in those moments that we're children too.
Part III
Death offered a gun to finish the race,
no longer needing to keep up the pace.
sickle in hand the offer still lingers before my face.
A warm gun is all we need, Lennon said.
He was murdered by one.
Death is no one's friend, save for a passage for some.
If caught in its grip you'll find it tuff to get loose,
no comfort will it leave for your children or beloved friends.
Some think of it all the time.
I do.
Today I think of it to remember that all I know I'll have is right now.
When I don't I pray for a raindrop to land on my head.
It often does.
"reflections"(trg, 1-18-01)
not an unusual day in the city
take a walk in central park
kiss Yoko
a few times
enjoy his sons,
the saddened one too
maybe sing and play
with them both, finally
daddy's home, and
the monster's gone
for his beloved ones;
the dreamer helped
many aimless souls
to imagine
love--
"happiness is a warm gun,"
became an epitaph
to an unwitting
healer of broken wings
once tagged on the most wanted
FBI list, for, hell, we certainly
wouldn't want all
weapons to remain cold
imperfect, yes -- not unlike
most
yet, with all his own
darkness, his heart
still couldn't refrain from
hope...
then, this very normal man,
husband, father, lover
fell asleep; and, for a moment
we are lost in screams...
praying for his
imagine.
'Why does she still sing?' (trg, 4/21/03)
Why does she still sing,
like she's anything like John?
One was out of step.
Another played quietly,
stayed behind the scenes,
making the best out of anything.
'My sweet Lord'
is sung next to
'a warm gun' and 'All you need is love!'
Making sense out of it all
learning not to blame,
holding close those you love.
That's enough of this shirt.
Am I manic?' (trg, 3/10/03)
I am not manic.
I am not manic.
I am not manic.
Or, am I manic?
I am not depressed.
I am not depressed.
I am not depressed.
Or, am I depressed.
'They' ask me, 'Do you
think that you're manic?'
More, 'they' ask me, 'Do you
think that you're depressed?
I am neither manic, nor am I depressed.
Or, am I manic depressed?
Come here, a little closer, not
yet close enough, yes just about right,
right within arm's and hand's length,
you with the needle and thermometer,
you who are so quick to know me,
you who, I do believe, should
be at the other end of these instruments,
you who, oops, are now at there mercy.
Nighty-night, sweet dreams,
don't let the bed bugs bite.
Until next time,
was that good for you?
It certainly was for me.
Nighty-night.
'I had a dream' (trg, 4/07/2004)
I had a dream
where all people loved each other,
the Altar was barely an euphemism,
not waiting for heaven or hell; a little late then.
Eros, Agape and Cupid need no introduction or introductions.
You do know that to copulate with a dark-skinned person, once,
was to have sex outside of your species?
Unless you too were dark-skinned.
(This is where tanning products erupted.)
I awoke with my extensive facial hair follicles drenched with love,
knowing that if this was Hell that I'd be glad to stay;
if Heaven, I'll prostrate, the correct word here, gladly,
for eternity.
There were no nocturne contortions; my back wasn't thrown.
There is a certain arch, even if in fantasy, that liberates,
frees the captive fears of being unspent;
here I sing the song of 'From pent up aching rivers,'
Walt's muse in true human experience,
gender was not his bent, such queries are useless
save for the one unwilling to look into the mirror.
He'd blow the minds of those who think
heterosexuality and homosexuality are in fact different, neither
have anything to do with gender, only species;
then he'd blow his too.
Ah, to live in a world where communion is common as choice,
a Chalice to sip the last drops from, with, licking the edge,
making sure that nothing is left wanting.
'God,' and 'Lord have mercy,' communicate,
the Moon and Earth dance all night, giving way to the dawn,
where the dew of the Rain Forrest is delightfully redundant.
Those who know this Beauty
know the egoism that is swallowed up by eroticism;
here's the subject of the dance,
matters not whether it's slow or faster.
You do know that to dance is to anticipate copulation, until recently
only done with the same gender?
Unless you donned drag.
(This is where Rock & Roll was spawned.)
I awoke to find my dream eclipsed by the Sunlight.
Or, I fell asleep.
'On some days' (trg, 1/27/04)
On some days I'm full of myself,
perhaps on all days,
giving into the divinity complex;
I am the arbiter of all things and persons.
Love stands in the way of me placing anyone into hell,
an eternity, whatever that means, of aloneness,
not even the arch nemesis Adolf Hitler deserves this.
There I go again, thinking that I'm the arbiter of truth.
But why would anyone deserve darkness forever?
Some of us would find this redundant.
John's 'Warm gun' enlightens the person ready to use it,
unless you're a good shot, have no second thoughts and luck out
the desired end will only be more of the same.
If I knew you were going to be hit by a drunk driver tomorrow and did nothing
would I share responsibility for your demise?
Divinity I am not, arbiter I am not,
collateral damage from nearsightedness I am, I join the masses.
I know about so much,
yet I know very little,
little enough that I should have little to say about most things.
Then why do I have so much to say about most things?
Because on most days I am full of myself.
'Why do we still sing?' timothy r g, 06/17/2007
nostalgia, easy way out
everyone was at Woodstock, today
but are too damn lazy to vote, today
white panthers,
they proclaimed, 'kill all over thirty,'
until they became thirty;
the magz from my youth
now advertise war,
no longer do they ask us to sing,
'let us learn to do war no more.'
Why do we still sing?
'We shall overcome some day.'
'Give peace a chance.'
'Love not war.'
WWYD?
This is the only appropriate question.
Presidents and Rulers
Are said to weep as they send our children off to war;
Like pedophiles, predators, rapists, violators of persons
Presidents and Rulers do the same,
',Sorry for your loss, Ma-am or Sir.'
Why are there warm guns, still?
Why is it OK to kill their heroes, still?
Why is it OK for them to kill our heroes?
Why don't we say no?
Why do we still sing?
I am not alone, though sometimes I feel this way.
'There are 7,000 prophets who have not bowed,' to those in charge.
Why?
It's better than saying, 'Fuck,' all day.
"George Harrison" (trg, 11-30-2001)
concern for balance
free from the bull shit, knowing
that when one's free
the same is still full
of their own bull shit;
quiet gentleman understood
fame and infamy are siblings,
reminiscent of St. Anthony's wisdom
given to the novice -- "praise
those in the grave; curse the same...
what's the difference?"
cheerers can easily
turn, joining the cries,
"Crucify, crucify!"
this silent soul
knew betrayal from lover and friend,
yet knew
the line between them
and him, only
this time he was on
the receiving end -- not
always more blessed to give
than to receive, huh?
My Sweet Lord
is laid to rest, falling asleep
into peace without
this world's warring bull shit;
a waiting friend's Imagine
rocks the guitarist, whispering,
"You'll see your Sweet One
shortly; here comes
the Lady in blue, safely
she'll get you through."
a warm gun put down one,
warm smoke put him down, he said
All things must pass; yet, i pray, that
their cold beds
aid our anticipated recline
with the peace
not of this world.
'Black Friday?' timothy r gates, 11/24/2006
black as sin
snow-white dove
black boy robs yellow person's shop
not p.c. to say the 'n' word,
but it's fine to say, 'the 'n' word,' by saying, 'n'
hip-hop's blurred the colour line,
Elvis did the same with Blues, R&B, and Southern Rock & Roll
eastern orthodox monastic clergy, called, 'black clergy'
their non-monastic clergy, called, 'white clergy'
no such thing as a true colour black,
the absence of light
same with a true colour of white
oxymoron.
to see one sees
shades, hues, blends of the spectrum of true colours
through a prism
rainbow, as good as any metaphor
Martin decried the euphemisms of colour,
but he did not decry the colour
if I do not see your colour,
unless I do not know colour, or am sight challenged,
I have chosen to not see you
Do you see my colour?
Do your children love their own as the best colour?
Do you see mine as metaphor for racist?
Do your children after adolescence see the same?
Do you take the blame for passing on your preference for power or weakness?
pigmentation? Is it truth?
John imagined
Jesus gave the words, 'I am you, you are me, we are all together,'
with
'give water to the thirsty, food to the hungry, friendship to the lonely, love to the hated,
company to the estranged,'
John imagined his words,
Jesus said,
'do this to these, the ones called the least, and you do it to me,'
easy enough.
'don't do to, for, with these, the least able to do for themselves, and you do this to me'
Jesus was a Jew
The 'j' word
Malcolm was the 'm' word
Nietzsche was the 'a' word
Buddha was the, well, 'b' word
white snow has colour when it's urinated upon,
So does black asphalt.
'Religion in three parts' (trg, 7/13/03)
Part I
'Jesus wept.'
His Mother, 'Wept,'
hands cupped catching every drop,
mixing with her own.
Slowly each drop falls through the clouds,
one drop out of millions of rain falling
finds it's home upon a hopeful hopeless soul.
Healed. Delivered. A Miracle.
Yes or no, matters not, still beyond a true scientific analysis.
What of the rest?
Pray for a raindrop.
Part II
'A child shall lead them.'
Adults sin and therefore are sinners.
Children may be found playing on an asp's hole,
with lion cubs, petting a skunk,
calling out, 'Here kitty, here kitty, kitty, kitty.'
They don't understand why adults hit them,
or why they're yelled at just because the adult's having a bad day.
I don't either.
You don't need to tell them Grandpa and Grandma are in heaven.
They know.
Most children before ten years old have seen angels,
nothing to do with a particular religion, they just do.
Maybe we do too,
in those moments that we're children too.
Part III
Death offered a gun to finish the race,
no longer needing to keep up the pace.
sickle in hand the offer still lingers before my face.
A warm gun is all we need, Lennon said.
He was murdered by one.
Death is no one's friend, save for a passage for some.
If caught in its grip you'll find it tuff to get loose,
no comfort will it leave for your children or beloved friends.
Some think of it all the time.
I do.
Today I think of it to remember that all I know I'll have is right now.
When I don't I pray for a raindrop to land on my head.
It often does.
"reflections"(trg, 1-18-01)
not an unusual day in the city
take a walk in central park
kiss Yoko
a few times
enjoy his sons,
the saddened one too
maybe sing and play
with them both, finally
daddy's home, and
the monster's gone
for his beloved ones;
the dreamer helped
many aimless souls
to imagine
love--
"happiness is a warm gun,"
became an epitaph
to an unwitting
healer of broken wings
once tagged on the most wanted
FBI list, for, hell, we certainly
wouldn't want all
weapons to remain cold
imperfect, yes -- not unlike
most
yet, with all his own
darkness, his heart
still couldn't refrain from
hope...
then, this very normal man,
husband, father, lover
fell asleep; and, for a moment
we are lost in screams...
praying for his
imagine.
'Why does she still sing?' (trg, 4/21/03)
Why does she still sing,
like she's anything like John?
One was out of step.
Another played quietly,
stayed behind the scenes,
making the best out of anything.
'My sweet Lord'
is sung next to
'a warm gun' and 'All you need is love!'
Making sense out of it all
learning not to blame,
holding close those you love.
That's enough of this shirt.
Am I manic?' (trg, 3/10/03)
I am not manic.
I am not manic.
I am not manic.
Or, am I manic?
I am not depressed.
I am not depressed.
I am not depressed.
Or, am I depressed.
'They' ask me, 'Do you
think that you're manic?'
More, 'they' ask me, 'Do you
think that you're depressed?
I am neither manic, nor am I depressed.
Or, am I manic depressed?
Come here, a little closer, not
yet close enough, yes just about right,
right within arm's and hand's length,
you with the needle and thermometer,
you who are so quick to know me,
you who, I do believe, should
be at the other end of these instruments,
you who, oops, are now at there mercy.
Nighty-night, sweet dreams,
don't let the bed bugs bite.
Until next time,
was that good for you?
It certainly was for me.
Nighty-night.
'I had a dream' (trg, 4/07/2004)
I had a dream
where all people loved each other,
the Altar was barely an euphemism,
not waiting for heaven or hell; a little late then.
Eros, Agape and Cupid need no introduction or introductions.
You do know that to copulate with a dark-skinned person, once,
was to have sex outside of your species?
Unless you too were dark-skinned.
(This is where tanning products erupted.)
I awoke with my extensive facial hair follicles drenched with love,
knowing that if this was Hell that I'd be glad to stay;
if Heaven, I'll prostrate, the correct word here, gladly,
for eternity.
There were no nocturne contortions; my back wasn't thrown.
There is a certain arch, even if in fantasy, that liberates,
frees the captive fears of being unspent;
here I sing the song of 'From pent up aching rivers,'
Walt's muse in true human experience,
gender was not his bent, such queries are useless
save for the one unwilling to look into the mirror.
He'd blow the minds of those who think
heterosexuality and homosexuality are in fact different, neither
have anything to do with gender, only species;
then he'd blow his too.
Ah, to live in a world where communion is common as choice,
a Chalice to sip the last drops from, with, licking the edge,
making sure that nothing is left wanting.
'God,' and 'Lord have mercy,' communicate,
the Moon and Earth dance all night, giving way to the dawn,
where the dew of the Rain Forrest is delightfully redundant.
Those who know this Beauty
know the egoism that is swallowed up by eroticism;
here's the subject of the dance,
matters not whether it's slow or faster.
You do know that to dance is to anticipate copulation, until recently
only done with the same gender?
Unless you donned drag.
(This is where Rock & Roll was spawned.)
I awoke to find my dream eclipsed by the Sunlight.
Or, I fell asleep.
'On some days' (trg, 1/27/04)
On some days I'm full of myself,
perhaps on all days,
giving into the divinity complex;
I am the arbiter of all things and persons.
Love stands in the way of me placing anyone into hell,
an eternity, whatever that means, of aloneness,
not even the arch nemesis Adolf Hitler deserves this.
There I go again, thinking that I'm the arbiter of truth.
But why would anyone deserve darkness forever?
Some of us would find this redundant.
John's 'Warm gun' enlightens the person ready to use it,
unless you're a good shot, have no second thoughts and luck out
the desired end will only be more of the same.
If I knew you were going to be hit by a drunk driver tomorrow and did nothing
would I share responsibility for your demise?
Divinity I am not, arbiter I am not,
collateral damage from nearsightedness I am, I join the masses.
I know about so much,
yet I know very little,
little enough that I should have little to say about most things.
Then why do I have so much to say about most things?
Because on most days I am full of myself.
'Why do we still sing?' timothy r g, 06/17/2007
nostalgia, easy way out
everyone was at Woodstock, today
but are too damn lazy to vote, today
white panthers,
they proclaimed, 'kill all over thirty,'
until they became thirty;
the magz from my youth
now advertise war,
no longer do they ask us to sing,
'let us learn to do war no more.'
Why do we still sing?
'We shall overcome some day.'
'Give peace a chance.'
'Love not war.'
WWYD?
This is the only appropriate question.
Presidents and Rulers
Are said to weep as they send our children off to war;
Like pedophiles, predators, rapists, violators of persons
Presidents and Rulers do the same,
',Sorry for your loss, Ma-am or Sir.'
Why are there warm guns, still?
Why is it OK to kill their heroes, still?
Why is it OK for them to kill our heroes?
Why don't we say no?
Why do we still sing?
I am not alone, though sometimes I feel this way.
'There are 7,000 prophets who have not bowed,' to those in charge.
Why?
It's better than saying, 'Fuck,' all day.