Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Metternich, Bismarck and Franco Reveal Reactionary-Conservatism’s Political Struggle with the Rise of Populist, Liberal-Republican Equality
Monday, May 24, 2010
The French in Indochina and the Beginning of Decolonization and the End of Domination by Western Empires in the Third World
Dalloz, Jacques. The War in Indo-China 1945-54. Trans. Josephine Bacon. Savage, Maryland: Barnes and Noble, 1990. Print.
Devillers, Philippe and Jean Lacouture. End of a War: Indochina, 1954. New York: Frederick A. Praeger, Inc., 1969. Print.
Dunn, Peter M. The First Vietnam War. London: C. Hurst & Company, 1985. Print.
Hammer, Ellen J. The Struggle for Indochina 1940-1955. Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1954-1955. Print.
Lawrence, Mark Atwood. Assuming the Burden: Europe and the American Commitment to War in Vietnam. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005. Print.
Stone, David. Dien Bien Phu: Battles in Focus. London: Brassey’s, 2004. Print.
Windrow, Martin. The Last Valley: Dien Bien Phu and the French Defeat in Vietnam. London, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2004. Print.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
“Cinema is most totalitarian of the arts. All
energy and sensation is sucked up into the skull,
a cerebral erection, skull bloated with blood.
Caligula wished a single neck for all his subjects
that he could behead his kingdom with one blow.
Cinema is this transforming agent. The body
exists for the sake of the eyes; becomes a
dry stalk to support these two soft insatiable
w / your insect eyes
w / your wild surprise.
Warm daughter of silence.
Turn your back w / a slither of moaning wisdom.
The unblinking blind eyes
behind walls new histories rise
and wake growling and whining
the weird dawn of dreams.
Dogs lie sleeping.
The wolf howls.
A creature lives out the war.
A rustle of cut words, choking
“- What is connection?
“Leave the rotten towns
of your father
Leave the poisoned wells
and bloodstained streets
Enter now the sweet forest.”
Where a bright sun bakes the sand concrete asphalt into an oven
Yearning a cause for celebration
The ancient Atlantic splashes blue in my reveries
Why does ice cool me from the inside out and freeze me from the outside in
War leaves me crying myself to sleep at night
Love seeps through my fingers like water I try to hold in cupped hands
The world shovels dirt over me as if I already lay in my grave
I’d have toured the royal courts of Europe
Or I might have been illiterate and poor
Expressing universal passion matters
I am like a snail morphing into a butterfly
As a four-year-old I almost drowned in a swimming pool
I keep my mother’s ashes
Commiseration contaminates contemplation
I’m not looking for a “Heart of Gold” just a woman to smile with me
Her rose-petal skin could soothe my aging aches
Let me taste her whispering flesh with my fingers and smell her ecstasy between my teeth
If only a she existed to ignore my faults and find the latent joy
Love seeps through my fingers expressing universal passion
Passion is my raison d’etre
Passion is my undoing
I miss bodysurfing in Malibu in the summer
I miss Sunday morning polo at Will Rogers State Park with champagne, strawberries, sharp cheddar and fresh baked sourdough bread from the Pioneer bakery
I miss smelling my mother’s kitchen
In dreams I hear the Atlantic waves breaking on Montevideo's beaches
In Hawaii, it rains every day. The light rains barely disturb the seemingly constant sunshine. Foliage blooms, and the island is awash in a rainbow of orchids. Stress and tension melt away to the strains of The Beatles and Mozart. My mind now draws blanks at times and cannot recall trivial things, but I remember I once saw palm trees dancing to Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Young, bikini-clad ladies still stroll along beaches, catching the eyes of angst-ridden young men. Children run and play in thick grass, tumbling with glee. Adults sip Mai Tai drinks sharing knowing gazes, oblivious to the strife and poverty at the core of Oz. I lose my train of thought in mid-YellowBrickRoadsentence. Pink Floyd’s “Atom Heart Mother Suite” reeked of Stravinsky as I reeked of marijuana in the wee hours, listening. I wonder where my words come from when I talk; I don’t think of them before they come out of my mouth. Bonfires illuminate hula dancers draped with leis at luaus. Everyone shares in the feast of roasted pig. How the scent of the charred remains of dead animal flesh induces lustful saliva. The most complex ideas cannot survive. I laugh hysterically. Frank Zappa provides the soundtrack to my life. Pollen drifts on the breeze. The Hawaiian tropical storm passes before it is even noticed.
a camera snaps its shutter shut on toothless, ungreased gears.
A field mouse lying motionless blends into his landscape
until incendiary bombs lay waste to quick escape.
A village wraps itself within a net-webbed fishing weir
catching all the floating nothing passing a hushed cashier.
The morning kissing rays of summer curves upon noon napes
shimmer ground gold into russet, autumn-ripened rain-drapes.
Lost locks of amber cascade hues head-first hurtle, diving;
divining, sage pyres, filled with dew and death call arriving.
Corruption spilled from rotting, fleshy, bloody clogged debris
blow strewn upon serenity's once ordered pedigree.
Unkempt, unshaven, blind, unwashed, a powderkeg pump ticks
moments away, one by one, for consternating cynics.
Gladhanding politicians smirk behind their ally's backs
as courtyard countrymen recline they’re shaded by smokestacks.
Under flaming sunset skies, eon's current slowly drifts,
the setting of an era’s sun spans past bridged chasms' rifts.