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essay: #070: Confessions of a Dangerous Mind


Damn this confessional.
Dragging it all to the surface.
The flaws.
The vulnerability.
The ambition...

"Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean - except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean, if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy...." - Catcher In The Rye

Damn this confessional.
For leaving footprints in the sand....

# transmission ends #


essay: #069: The Size of Houston.

North Korea Military

North Korea is a gulag,the size of Houston.

Says Mr President.
When all I see, is.
Little boys with nuclear toys.
Of a nation living in Dark Ages.

Of plutonium, more prized, than electricity.
Of a North and South.
Always at war.
Of people's starved.
And leader's plump.

Sanctions forthcoming.
For provocative acts.
From Toy soldier regime.
Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang and goodnight....

# transmission ends #


essay: #068: In memorial

moon scape

Obsessed by the moon.
And all that it illuminates.
War on terror.
And terror of war.

Of a sombre silence.
So deep.
So penetrating.

In memorial.
184 beams of light.
To commemorate.
The day the world stopped...
We still are....

# transmission ends #


essay: #067: fairytales for the modern age.

surfs up

My son adores the world.
Of Roald Dahl.
Reveres him, like a God.
Land of friendly giants.
And fairytales, for the modern age.

How do I tell him.
People fall like leaves.
From planes in the sky.
And plot with malice.
Yet, when we love.
We understand the meaning of life...

So, I wrap him in my arms.
And write for a better future.
Letters to him.
And his own.
A million miles from now.

# transmission ends #


essay: #065: Dresden of Ruins

Lebanon, 2006, AFP Photo
AFP photo.

If Gus Van Sant's camera was rolling.
There would be silence, right now.
In the aftermath of violence.
As a man surveys.
Where once there was life.
Now, there is only ruin.
And all he can ask.
Is why?

# transmission ends #


essay: #064: i still dream in color


My name is borg #775433.
And I work for a Corporation.
Slave to consumerism.
Rat in a cage...

And yet, all I see.
Is this...
Endless beach.
Crystalline and virgin.
Tropical rainforests, not yet vanished.
Great Barrier Reef, eye candy for the mind.
So damn breathtaking, it hurts.
And it will, I know.

death by tropical paradise.
i dream in color, every day.

# transmission ends #


essay: #062: Romance Strangely

Mount Merapi, Indonesia, 2006

I think of...
Intravenous drips, hanging from trees.
Indonesia, 2006, post 6.3 quake.
Mount Merapi, meanwhile.
Rumbles discontentedly.
In the distance.

I think of...
US-hurricane season's about to begin.
Predictions grim, sorry to say.
Drills, for all kinds of eventuality.

I think of...
A suicide vest.
Constructed, for maximum fatality.
Impact, of the worst kind.

I think of...
Being the accidental tourist.
Romance strangely, with a point in time.

And then, as always.
I think of...
Tenderness, of a fleeting second.
Fabulous, to the last...

# transmission ends #


essay:#061: Tatooine Tomorrow

Tatooine Tomorrow

Saw a biblical spectacle, recently.
Beautiful and breathtaking.
Nature, at her most sublime.
Sandstorm, on the verge of Sudan.
Rise up, red and grainy.
Swallowing city, whole.

In a galaxy.
Not, far, far away...


Chinese weather specialists used chemicals to engineer Beijing's heaviest rainfall of the year. Technicians fired seven rocket shells containing 163-cigarette-size sticks of silver iodide into city skies. China has been tinkering with artificial rainmaking for decades, using it frequently in the drought-plagued North. Last month, another artificial rainfall was generated to clear Beijing after city suffered some of the fiercest dust storms this decade. Whether cloud seedling actually works is subject of debate...

# transmission ends #


essay: #060: eat me

eat me jaivin

Found a book, of erotica.
In Young, Adult Fiction, today.
Thought about, all the sorts of people.
It takes, to make this world, go round.

From the boy, in the window.
Who lives, opposite me.
Front lit, by the naked glow, of a computer screen.
Framed in such, a beautiful way.

And Not.
As we all, are.
In the end.

To a 7-year-old-child.
Who makes his momma, proud..
What you should know about me...
The question, on his textbook page.
I’m a nice kid…
He writes.
And, he is.

Eat Me.
That, was the name of the book.
Connotations, aplenty.
Secrets, within secrets.
Magnitudes, of light.
In these here, febrile times...

# transmission ends #


essay: #059: Incendiary


A word, befitting, our times.
Within, a split second, of itself.

Chris Cleave, author.
Incendiary: A Novel of Unbearable Devastation And Unbounded Love.
A mood, I slip into.
Like a pre-9/11, cocktail.
That's no longer, on the menu.

Freak tornado, sandstorm and 9ft-waves, occur in Israel.
Apocalypse, notwithstanding.
And a literary plea, to Osama.
Punctures holes, in my world.
Breaks my heart.
And says, so much.
About the here.
About, the now.

# #

My man says:
Power to the people…
When, what he really means, is:
How can one person, make a difference?

# #

Cleve says:
The last thing I wrote was N/A on an income support form that wanted NAME OF SPOUSE OR PARTNER. So you see I'll do my best but you'll have to bear with me beause I'm not a big writer. I'm going to write to you about the emptiness that was left when you took my boy away. I'm going to write so you can look into my empty life and see what a human boy really is from the shape of the hole he leaves behind.

I say:
I rest my case...

# transmission ends #


essay: #058: Suspended Animation

Just swell

Cyclone season, commences.
Second, in two weeks.
Global warming is reversible.
Says, an optimist, of sorts.
Meteorologists, say nay.
More, on the way....

Gods, be angry.
Whichever way, you look at it.
Total eclipses, blackout our sun.
While mutiny erupts, down below.

Violently happy.
Small cog, in big wheel.
An editor says:
Your work is original fiction…
I say: Honey, snap out of it...
Into it.

New era, demands the bloodshed.
Of words, previously unspoken.
I am a tree, that grows color.
Says the lyrics.

Suspended animation.
A state of beauty, and grace.
The drowned World.
A book, close to my heart.
A reunion, with nostalgia.
To future cities.
Buried deep beneath.
Triassic tomorrows.

# transmission ends #


essay: #057: Russian Roulette

Pretty nasty.
This TGN1412, business.
Hey, Mr Pharmaceutical.
Run, come, inject me.
Inflate my head.
To three times, its normal size.
Intensive Care sabbatical.
Courtesy, of The Corporation.
For the little lab rats, in Cubicle #9.

c. cbs news

Trying to save a population.
That sometimes, resists.
Cyclones roar across eastern shores.
Dead dictators are laid out.
Like slabs of meat.
And six men float, critically.
Through TeGenero stasis.

Experiment on primal cousins.
Experiment on the highly-evolved.
What’s the difference?
Sacrifice the few.
For the masses.
Isn’t that, the way it goes?

For the sake of science.
And, the human race.
Foolish people commit unfathomable acts.
Whores, on both sides.

Human life.
All, too cheap.
"I feel bad, I had the placebo," sniffed one survivor.
It was like Russian Roulette.
I was doing it, for the money.
But 2000 pounds, is not worth your life.”

Enough said...

# transmission ends #


essay: #056: Transatlanticism

Billy's Sunset
c. William S. Turchyn II

Fragile eco-system, this world.
All pulp fiction.
Plasmadelic, wide-screen porn.
Space tourism could soon be affordable.
Say the experts.
Not a second, too soon.
Comes, my reply.

I dream of Skyscraper Escape Pods.
For the hi-rise, in distress.
Israeli invention.
Lifeboat, for the inevitable.
Lest we forget.
Though, we never shall.

I dream of humanity.
Carved into a cliff face.
And of Philippine landslides, that bury people whole.
But mostly, I see a man.
With a catatonic stare.
A stranger, with nowhere to go.

Like someone's turned down the volume.
Swimming through fog.
Amnesia, of tomorrow.

And the lifeboats?
No, not interested.
Said the City of New York.
When offered a test drive.

Peace of mind, in an expandable cabin.
Or simply, just a Sign O’The Times?
Ground Zero for progression.

Cushion our world with airbags.
Numb us.
So there’s nothing left to feel, in the end.
Just like the stranger.
The boy, with the sad, sad.
Columbine stare...

# transmission ends #


essay: #055: Mightier than the Sword

Escher, Tower of Babel
Escher's Tower of Babel

The ink, it seems.
Is still mightier, than the sword.
Reaction to satirical depictions.
Of Prophet Muhammad.
Reaches hysterical proportions.

"In Iran, the thirst for revenge has even lead the government-controlled media to announce a gruesome contest to draw the most offensive Holocaust cartoon possible in order to avenge the lampooning of Islam.

"In Gaza, a Muslim cleric has called for the beheading of those European
editors who published the anti-Islamic cartoons, while others are demanding
that the hands of the cartoonists be amputated
Cameron Stewart, The Australian Newspaper.

Savage words of indictment.
From the enraged.
And growing, in numbers.

Ideology and fanaticism.
Thirst, that is never quenched.
Drives planes into buildings.
Bombs into backpacks.
Flames to the cloth.

Bloodshed is bloodshed.
Hypocrisy, the same color, in any tongue.
Tower of Babel.
That’s how it looks, right now.
Everyone’s shouting.
But no one’s listening…

# #


essay: #054: Complicit in Fiction

By the melancholy beauty, of it all.
Of how the camera lies.
Complicit in the fiction.
Of our own making.

Ferries sink in sandstorms, in the Red Sea.
1400 people depart.
Only 324 return...

# #

Thinking about.
A body of ocean.
8,000 miles wide.
About, what separates.
And what unites us.

Thinking of United Colors.
Of this Benetton world.
Of Syrians, torching embassies.
Over caricatures, of the Prophet Muhammad.

Of dialogue, burning with hatred.
Across continents.
And throughout history.
Broadcasting, via the newswire.
And beyond.

# transmission ends #


essay: #053: Breakfast on Pluto

< Breakfast on Pluto> 
Breakfast on Pluto.
Nirvana of solitude.
Space station.
Somewhere, stateline California.

Skimming the rim.
Of desert.
Of time.
Of space.
Of changing worlds.

"Your words are disjointed, sometimes."
My baby says.
Flitting here and there.
Strokes of softness.
Between the harsh.

Diving between the headlines.
Lost in the landslides.
And H5N1 computer-simulations of pandemic.
Only ever, a plane ride away.

Lost, in tasting love.
Intimate and not.
Sharing it all.
With this.
Letter to a future.
Already here.

# transmission ends #


essay: #052 Possibility of an Island


We build our monuments tall.
All masculine.
All erect.
Up, out of the ground.
To the heavens above.
Stairways to a better place.
Some believe.

The arrogance of it all.


My baby holds the ashes of a dear friend, in his hands.
"It has bone in it ,,," he says.
I want to hold him close.
So I do.


How long does it take a body to burn?
Disintegrate into ashes.
To be scattered on the four winds.
Back from where it came.

Will it seem fleeting, in the end?
Life presented as a car-crash of memory.
Of images.
Of body.
Of words.

Possibility of an Island.
Within each and every one of us.
Potential, to leave our mark.
Potential to check-out, way before our time.
Potential to color all that we touch.

# transmission ends #