Frog(the)Bulletin!: News & Issues from our pond

My separate new politics, domestic, and international issues blog, since January '08. Frog(the)Bulletin!

Topic #1: Obama or Clinton for President..?.er, I mean Democratic nominee. Let's keep to their ISSUES and QUALIFICATIONS for prez please. Let's keep our pond clean. // Topic #2: Healthcare Solutions // Topic #3: China's human rights abuses

mid-Mountain

1.

Rolling, one
wants a jam
stopping, spread out
to know that there was meaning to all of this
not just a rolling from the top of the hill to the bottom.

2.

Bullshit!
One wants the
hillside to be a smoothside
jagged aches too painful
leave one broken to pieces no one wants bloody mess on the bottom.

the scientific end of the world as we've never known it

the problem is that scientific method and habits became labeled as an inherent "good"--the more the better--and became the assumed approach of all aspects and components of society, including values, mental/cognitive experience (i.e. every news article about social phenomenon littered with statistical somehow psychological studies), all decision-making (i.e. self-help industry), the man-woman dichotomy applied to completely everything (again, the news articles and of-course included studies), the meaning of life, the meaning of money and industry, national health, humanity's health, relevance of efforts, relevance of experience, relevance of a life, and one could go on and on if one thought of it. and that is the point.

scientific method has worked accurately for those working within science; but for all the rest, the language is all confused, and therefore the approach, the processes of experience, and the assessment are likewise askew--but no one knows that we have inherited a fallacy, and are using the wrong dimension. most often, that is.

--
A different article with the centerpiece, a study, that actually goes for accuracy instead of conventional acceptance. Despite, note the acknowledged undercurrent throughout that there is the pressure to "prove" "something" through scientific method, and acknowledged are the audience and the structure that seek the science-lens panacea.

Old people (relative to the young 21st century) adjust to change, but change came at a constant pace.

So when the pace of change itself speeds up, old people are not used to this acceleration and are fascinated by it. The change no longer seems one of their own environment--the kind of change that used to move along *with* them--and instead the change takes the form of some static foreign entity, like an artifact of some other country, whose culture was previously unknown. They satisfy their curiosity on the newfound object, pointing to any familiar aspects or architecture that was theirs, jutting out of the convolution, then retreat back to the familiar home.

Are we reaching a point where a generation's familiarity with acceleration (mine), itself is changing, moving in different contours not before described in the parameters of change: a 3rd dimension?

A mollusk is 0th dimension. An inchworm inching forward is 1 dimension. We, human beings, are the 2nd dimension. Birds and the fish occupy the third.

Alive

He taught me for the year nearly before his life ended, and after his death, for five years, he taught me. I read him more than I had, I thought of him more in reflection to make up for the time with him I spent, in living; and then some. I developed more of myself in this thought, to speed up myself, to catch a bus or something that had arrived or to have begun to start arriving after I met him, and it was always in reach, always just out of sight after he had gone. I listened to him. He read his poetry, it had been on a recorded album done in studio. There was that one with jazz collaboration, he gave me that time, just, without any prompting, he had made a copy, Xeroxed its CD cover, stapled the ends of paper for a jewel case. He said, "You'll like this," or something like that. Today, I heard his voice again, just like in that class of ours, trailing in, trailing out, going on and on like he was always bound to do, etc., etc. On an iPod, I had uploaded his lectures, an innumerous recorded list of them, and turned one on, and I haven't been so happy for days. No, maybe not for years, since he died.

Blinking Awake

see life as very uncomfortable space

see life as place to tumble, fall down bumpy chute

see life as scrapes and bruises, punctured juices

not as cotton clouds of avoidance

of feelingless joy, of selfless dances of void

irresolute, noncommittal spoiled brute

meaningless nuisance, go find the noose

get it over with, son, or don’t, come join the fun

down this stone, gravel road.

Monday/Tuesday East Village: And It Went On...

These sliding glass doors I look upon
this midnight on the top floor, lights all off
(computer screen glow), I might as well be
on the rooftop, except the wind is not present
and outside is less still than it seems here. There’re

bars on the doors, to keep the nextdoors
whose rooftops are conjoined out
and safe at seeming distance, like as far away as
the orange-red glow on that tip of that tower
two miles away in this dark deep sleep City.

I remember at noon today, could hear the whistle
from the basketball game constantly chirping, and I
once climbed to the next building, walked to the edge
close as I could the wall of next building,
where situated that Boys’ Club gymnasium

its own window, 30 feet above nice hardwood with bars
as I peeked in on the empty courts from above.
Then later today, hilarious!, the door that won’t shut
for death, heavy, metal, and knife stubborn, I heard a man
while I sat right here, pound up the stairs tired of the noise attempt

with rages of door slams, to silence the whirring alarm of
“EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY”. Dysfunctional.
SLAM! SLAM! SLAM! Silence. Contented footsteps came down—

whir-whir-whirrr-WHIRRR-WHIRRR—footsteps pounding back up
SLAM! SLAM SLAM! SLAM SLAM! SLAM!! Silence. Next time around,
I knew it was the sound of a hammer he had retreated home to collect,
deathly irritated. CLANK! CLANK PINK PINK PINK CLANK CLANK!
Silence, ahhh silence. Footsteps down, and what do you know.

He had dogma, plenty of it,
it comes with wisdom.

But the rub is:
' where was his voice--
' or, more accurately where
' ' did his voice live?

And we choose, and that,
I have just come to realize,
is the maturity of the poet.

There's plenty always to
' talk about, the brain
' ' is big: but: what to say?

When the voice truly leads,
' not the mind of the voice--
' ' which might precede--
' ' ' but the voice itself, like
' ' ' ' the proverbial, alive muse,
' ' ' ' ' without leash,

' ' ' ' there the song, a song.

The Olds

The olds

Are the baits for the new,

Becomes the old,

Renewed.

.

Far from

The meat is the flesh

To chew,--

.

From afar--

Is the sustenance

To tell us the view

From there.

It’s 12:28 AM, it’s almost december—no, it is december, and the globe is warming, because it’s been 60 degree days and nights, here in New York City, and I hear over on the west coast, San Jose, they’re reaching record lows—record lows, not of the past years, or decades, but of recording’s beginnings low—in the 20s. and my balance is all shook off

my world turns, like the world turns, and I can’t feel if I’m off or the world’s wobbly.