THE BRAIN BASIN
THOUGHTS, POETRY, RANTINGS, INSANE MUMBLINGS AND REVIEWS...
MUTED LOVE SONG (unfinished poem...)
her face was tracked
with dried tear lines,
her eyes were swollen
from her crying,
she spoke low tones
only he heard,
about the deeds
she’d kept from words.
She said she knew
He’d been offended,
And she wanted to
Amend it,
So as he slept
She’d gone back
And laid the gang out.
Her attack
Was swift and deadly, as a fact.
She’d taken them down
One two three,
And made them know
They couldn’t be
Ridiculing of
Their new love
And she’d shove back,
Push come to shove,
With screams and shouts,
With fists and sticks,
With straight attacks
And dirty tricks,
She’d broken bones,
She’d opened skin,
She’d tasted blood, and
She’d do it again,
To let him know her as true friend.
He asked why she
Hadn’t come back,
She told him after
The attack,
Covered in blood,
Knowing the scene
She had to go
Make herself clean…
Things are not always as they seem…
Through iron bars
She told her tale,
Her time she’d spent
In living hell,
A young girl
In an all male world,
Subject to things
No little girl
Should have to endure
Just to live,
She’d given all
She had to give,
Her mother drunk,
Her dad a freak,
Took her through things
She couldn’t speak.
She used to think herself as ‘weak’.
Innocence lost
In tears and pain,
Dad, uncles, cousins,
Time, again,
She fought back tears
After awhile,
Damned if they’d make her
Cry or smile,
Given up on love
Long ago,
Endured their each and
Every blow
And every rape
Until the time
She saw him sweeping,
In her mind…
For him she’d waited all this time…
She wanted love
To heal her pain
And then, the gang
Brought it again,
To make the man
She loved seem less
Was all that she could
Take, she guessed.
…and with a killer’s skills, she’s blessed…
as she’d done to
Her father’s kin
And father also
She put in
The effort to
Remove the threat
And as violent
As things get
She’d done the deeds
They thought he’d done
and to clear away blood
she’d run,
and heard they had him
locked away,
and to her surprise
couldn’t say
why in this jail she’d let him stay.
He thought about it,
How his own
Adventure ran close
To her own,
And how, in fact,
Instead of grief
He felt some strange form
Of relief.
You’ve got to go,
He told her now,
I’m getting out of
This somehow,
I’m going to be free
Soon enough,
Stop crying;
Things are not that tough.
Just like you, woman; I’ve seen rough.
I just want you
To know right now
I love you more
Than love allows,
I’m going to marry you
Real soon,
And we will own
The stars and moon…
Just trust me, you’re my greatest boon.
Their fingers grazed
Through bars of steel,
And then she left
Against her will,
The lights gone out,
He sat and smiled,
And figured it out,
After while,
In court, next day,
He copped a plea,
And told the judge
‘yes, it was me,
I beat them boys,
And killed a few,
And if challenged again
I’d do
The same damn thing, I tell you true.’
His lawyer squawked,
The cops just smiled,
The magistrate
Pondered awhile,
Said ‘Son, your story
Changed so quick,
I’m still not certain
It will stick.
‘if, in fact, you
Did in that crew,
I’d like to know
From me to you,
Why did you feel
The need to slay
The couple that are
Dead today?’
To that, he had nothing to say.
‘the time for confessing
Is done,
The time to sentence me
Has come,
And I stand ready
As accused
To hear the charge
And pay the dues
…and in his heart, he sang the blues…
A juvenile,
They gave him all
The time for which
His age could call,
Hard time
In hard security
Until 19 years old
Was he,
A juvenile
Facility
The incorrigible
Debris
Of a harsh, cruel
Society
They sentenced him
Due to his plea
And he went with it willingly…
His reason?
That should be quite plain,
To spare his love
This kind of pain,
No way out
They would find her sin
And he’d be out
But she’d be in,
Through enough shit
They both had been
This was their only chance
To win,
He’d see the place
And think it through
And soon he’d know just
What to do.
And when he told her, she’d know too.
So with head down
He did some time,
And checked to see
Weakness to find,
And she’d visit him
Right as rain,
Though touches few
Increased his pain…
But soon enough, he found the drain.
Not shawshank drain
By any means
A drain like a
Way down and out,
A misstep in
A guard routine,
A delivery
On the route,
A quick run through
A waiting ride,
A fence to jump
And freedom, yes…
If one were only
Quick enough
To follow through
And pass the test…
He knew he’d be out of this mess.
he told the girl
in simple terms,
she got the drift
right off the bat,
two weeks at noon
the changing guards
did not see him
run through the slack.
Out of the gate,
Behind the truck,
On bumper and
Quick over wall,
Through bramble patch
Out to the road,
A waiting car,
Sure not to stall,
One quick move, and they’d did it all…
And on the road,
He shed his blues,
Got in fresh clothes
And changed his shoes,
And there they rode
Full tank of gas,
To secret place,
Still moving fast…
And of them, we’ve not heard the last…
Back in the city
Past the hill,
A sheriff with a
Tainted smile
And deputies who
Shot to kill
Pondered their failure
For awhile.
A house burned down,
A man left dead,
A friend and what
A way to die,
His son’s body
Never retrieved,
Seemed as if foul play
Had arrived…
But no sign that he had survived.
Not worth a thought
Except the stain
Upon a spotless
Record. Still,
There should be some
Reward or gain
Should that boy
End up on Boot Hill.
The sheriff thought,
With brains to spare,
But no clue was there
To be found
Until a southern
Officer
Came with a snap
To show around.
A fugitive, from their home town…
Well now, thought sheriff,
Light indeed,
The tunnel, now
Not dark at all,
The little bastard
Still alive,
Perhaps it’s time
To make some calls…
Nothing to lose, no way to fall…
His deputies
He gathered and
He deputized
A hundred more
To search the whole
Communities,
The outlays and,
Same as before,
To scan the clues,
The evidence,
The crime scene photos,
And all that,
To find the boy
And apprehend
Or bring his lifeless
Body back…
It made no difference to this pack.
They searched the city
And the towns,
The suburbs and
Villages all,
They ran with dogs
And guns and cars,
And in the woods
And in the malls.
They crept across
Square mile by mile,
The dust thick where
Their tracks were laid,
But still their hands
Remained empty
Of that dark prize
Born in a haze…
Like some enchanted game was played…
The sheriff thought
Hard, like before,
Perhaps his approach
Was all wrong,
Looking for a
Boy, all this time
Passed, a man would
Have come along…
Sketch artist changed their searching song.
her face was tracked
with dried tear lines,
her eyes were swollen
from her crying,
she spoke low tones
only he heard,
about the deeds
she’d kept from words.
She said she knew
He’d been offended,
And she wanted to
Amend it,
So as he slept
She’d gone back
And laid the gang out.
Her attack
Was swift and deadly, as a fact.
She’d taken them down
One two three,
And made them know
They couldn’t be
Ridiculing of
Their new love
And she’d shove back,
Push come to shove,
With screams and shouts,
With fists and sticks,
With straight attacks
And dirty tricks,
She’d broken bones,
She’d opened skin,
She’d tasted blood, and
She’d do it again,
To let him know her as true friend.
He asked why she
Hadn’t come back,
She told him after
The attack,
Covered in blood,
Knowing the scene
She had to go
Make herself clean…
Things are not always as they seem…
Through iron bars
She told her tale,
Her time she’d spent
In living hell,
A young girl
In an all male world,
Subject to things
No little girl
Should have to endure
Just to live,
She’d given all
She had to give,
Her mother drunk,
Her dad a freak,
Took her through things
She couldn’t speak.
She used to think herself as ‘weak’.
Innocence lost
In tears and pain,
Dad, uncles, cousins,
Time, again,
She fought back tears
After awhile,
Damned if they’d make her
Cry or smile,
Given up on love
Long ago,
Endured their each and
Every blow
And every rape
Until the time
She saw him sweeping,
In her mind…
For him she’d waited all this time…
She wanted love
To heal her pain
And then, the gang
Brought it again,
To make the man
She loved seem less
Was all that she could
Take, she guessed.
…and with a killer’s skills, she’s blessed…
as she’d done to
Her father’s kin
And father also
She put in
The effort to
Remove the threat
And as violent
As things get
She’d done the deeds
They thought he’d done
and to clear away blood
she’d run,
and heard they had him
locked away,
and to her surprise
couldn’t say
why in this jail she’d let him stay.
He thought about it,
How his own
Adventure ran close
To her own,
And how, in fact,
Instead of grief
He felt some strange form
Of relief.
You’ve got to go,
He told her now,
I’m getting out of
This somehow,
I’m going to be free
Soon enough,
Stop crying;
Things are not that tough.
Just like you, woman; I’ve seen rough.
I just want you
To know right now
I love you more
Than love allows,
I’m going to marry you
Real soon,
And we will own
The stars and moon…
Just trust me, you’re my greatest boon.
Their fingers grazed
Through bars of steel,
And then she left
Against her will,
The lights gone out,
He sat and smiled,
And figured it out,
After while,
In court, next day,
He copped a plea,
And told the judge
‘yes, it was me,
I beat them boys,
And killed a few,
And if challenged again
I’d do
The same damn thing, I tell you true.’
His lawyer squawked,
The cops just smiled,
The magistrate
Pondered awhile,
Said ‘Son, your story
Changed so quick,
I’m still not certain
It will stick.
‘if, in fact, you
Did in that crew,
I’d like to know
From me to you,
Why did you feel
The need to slay
The couple that are
Dead today?’
To that, he had nothing to say.
‘the time for confessing
Is done,
The time to sentence me
Has come,
And I stand ready
As accused
To hear the charge
And pay the dues
…and in his heart, he sang the blues…
A juvenile,
They gave him all
The time for which
His age could call,
Hard time
In hard security
Until 19 years old
Was he,
A juvenile
Facility
The incorrigible
Debris
Of a harsh, cruel
Society
They sentenced him
Due to his plea
And he went with it willingly…
His reason?
That should be quite plain,
To spare his love
This kind of pain,
No way out
They would find her sin
And he’d be out
But she’d be in,
Through enough shit
They both had been
This was their only chance
To win,
He’d see the place
And think it through
And soon he’d know just
What to do.
And when he told her, she’d know too.
So with head down
He did some time,
And checked to see
Weakness to find,
And she’d visit him
Right as rain,
Though touches few
Increased his pain…
But soon enough, he found the drain.
Not shawshank drain
By any means
A drain like a
Way down and out,
A misstep in
A guard routine,
A delivery
On the route,
A quick run through
A waiting ride,
A fence to jump
And freedom, yes…
If one were only
Quick enough
To follow through
And pass the test…
He knew he’d be out of this mess.
he told the girl
in simple terms,
she got the drift
right off the bat,
two weeks at noon
the changing guards
did not see him
run through the slack.
Out of the gate,
Behind the truck,
On bumper and
Quick over wall,
Through bramble patch
Out to the road,
A waiting car,
Sure not to stall,
One quick move, and they’d did it all…
And on the road,
He shed his blues,
Got in fresh clothes
And changed his shoes,
And there they rode
Full tank of gas,
To secret place,
Still moving fast…
And of them, we’ve not heard the last…
Back in the city
Past the hill,
A sheriff with a
Tainted smile
And deputies who
Shot to kill
Pondered their failure
For awhile.
A house burned down,
A man left dead,
A friend and what
A way to die,
His son’s body
Never retrieved,
Seemed as if foul play
Had arrived…
But no sign that he had survived.
Not worth a thought
Except the stain
Upon a spotless
Record. Still,
There should be some
Reward or gain
Should that boy
End up on Boot Hill.
The sheriff thought,
With brains to spare,
But no clue was there
To be found
Until a southern
Officer
Came with a snap
To show around.
A fugitive, from their home town…
Well now, thought sheriff,
Light indeed,
The tunnel, now
Not dark at all,
The little bastard
Still alive,
Perhaps it’s time
To make some calls…
Nothing to lose, no way to fall…
His deputies
He gathered and
He deputized
A hundred more
To search the whole
Communities,
The outlays and,
Same as before,
To scan the clues,
The evidence,
The crime scene photos,
And all that,
To find the boy
And apprehend
Or bring his lifeless
Body back…
It made no difference to this pack.
They searched the city
And the towns,
The suburbs and
Villages all,
They ran with dogs
And guns and cars,
And in the woods
And in the malls.
They crept across
Square mile by mile,
The dust thick where
Their tracks were laid,
But still their hands
Remained empty
Of that dark prize
Born in a haze…
Like some enchanted game was played…
The sheriff thought
Hard, like before,
Perhaps his approach
Was all wrong,
Looking for a
Boy, all this time
Passed, a man would
Have come along…
Sketch artist changed their searching song.
WAITING FOR JESUS Review by Leslie Cole
Waiting for Jesus is Timothy Thomas' latest book, exploring a scenario in which Jesus Christ appears to unsuspecting residents of an urban city. The epic poem features every character you would expect to find in a great crime/suspense novel: A Prostitute, pimp, thief, homeless man, drug-addicted married couple and police officer. But what sets the book apart from the typical inner city vice drama (Other than Satan cast as the antagonist) is the dialogue, which accomplishes the very arduous task of presenting the central figure of Jesus Christ in a present day situation. Poverty takes center stage as the ravenous swallower of hopes and dreams when Old Lazarus reveals how he became a homeless man. "'If you be Jesus, then you know already', Lazarus replied, 'how I been to the very top, had money, power, all the things that this ignorant pimp would show, but my whole world came to a stop when my wife and my children died...'" It was not long ago that I was at a gas station filling up my tank when a man, looking half crazed and unkempt, pulled his vehicle along side mine to let the horses under his hood also drink. As he pumped gas into his car he was talking to himself in a cryptic manner, searching for a clarity that seemed elusive and unattainable. He turned to me and began to talk about IBM and the stock market. He asked me questions that I couldn't answer. I smiled politely. Most of us are one paycheck away from becoming homeless ourselves, and this man looked as if he could have been on the streets. But as Thomas' poem reminds us, homeless people aren't just bums, they're people with stories. And Messiahs aren't just holy men; they're divine beings ready to listen to our stories. They even have a sense of humor and appreciation for festivities, as is the case when Jesus turns water into wine at a wedding in the Bible. But present day Jesus miraculously fills Old Lazarus' beer bottle with the 'finest ale' in this story. The ale is passed around the cast of characters as they try to work through their grievances and solve the neighborhood's ills, much like the Beer Summit that was held at the White House at President Barack Obama's behest to iron out differences between police sergeant James Crowley and Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates, Jr. What's better than listening to the savior of humanity preach on love and peace with a frosty mug in your hand? Lord turn my hatred into forgiveness...and I'll have a Great Lakes Eliot Ness draught please! The narrative takes a turn for the prophetic when Old Lazarus expresses his gratification for the miracle he's just witnessed; "'Why, this is finer than the best of ales I have tasted before...I think that I will share the rest, to let these others bridge that fiord, finding their way to your true door...'" Jesus' benevolence leads in turn to Old Lazarus' generosity in sharing his drink with his neighbors. Check out the word that Lazarus uses to describe the gap that exists between humanity and divinity; fiord. The word fiord is Norwegian in origin. It is a timely metaphor considering what happened in Norway just last month in July, when a gunman horrifically massacred scores of young people. Can we not make a bridge out of compassion to extend over the waters of separation to arrive at what Lazarus calls the "true door" of Christ? And what more is that true door than love? Nikos Kazantzakis' examination of the duel nature of Jesus was brought to the silver screen in Martin Scorsese's The Last Temptation of Christ (Titled after Kazantzakis' novel). Though controversial, the film allowed us to see what it would have been like for Jesus to experience humanity in all it's complexity; from lust to longing, from fear to betrayal. Timothy Thomas' Waiting for Jesus similarly is calling out for a director, perhaps a short film director, to give this cast of characters a third dimension in which to arrive at resolution. His Jesus is just as tormented by the suffering of humanity, and just as driven to show us the way. And for this reason Waiting for Jesus is more than worth the short time it takes to download.
visit Leslie Cole at The Tempo, http://lesliecole.wordpress.com/
visit Leslie Cole at The Tempo, http://lesliecole.wordpress.com/
...WITHIN ME WITHIN YOU... (inspired by Billy Cobham's 'you within me within you'
...secret places
secrete faces upon
satin sheets damp with
the anticipation of
love,
not to be made
but shared equally...
eyes cannot contain
all the visions you bring
to my mind,
sullen summer heat
dancer in fountains
of violet water,
smiles above me
that melt into
lust as you take
your rightful due
from my body,
dreams in which we
both share the same
soliloquies in
skin sheathes as the
time around us slows...
and stops,
and leaves us gasping at
the way reality seems
to arrange itself to fit
our love...
within you
is the secret i wish
to keep,
those days when
tears were the flavor
of your beverage and
wishes on dandelion
spores were carried upon
hurricane winds,
far too far away
to be answered or
even acknowledged...
you've let me in
that far that i can hear
the way your sigh is
connected to your heart,
a single strand
that holds the pieces together,
and i understand,
as my own heart is still
under repair,
as i look at the
crumbled remnants of
every love i ever thought
i had,
every time i ever
fucked and called it
making love,
every time i lied
and called it honesty,
and i realize
worthiness comes
from within,
to change the foundation
is to give the structure
longer life,
and the willingness to be
what i am in the presence
of what you are is
the sharing of
life's water,
the breathing of
love's air,
the washing the feet
of the believer in both of us,
to create a new
reality,
once more,
to find me
within you,
in a dream we can share,
when sleep steals over
flesh and the spiritual
copulation runs
the gamut that
flesh limits,
finding you within me,
where your skills
with needle and thread
do more repair work
than all the false starts
and stops
could ever take away
from me...
i am in awe
of your goddess-ness,
for your establish
my kingdom
in every kiss
you bestow upon
these hungry lips...
you
within me
within
you...
secrete faces upon
satin sheets damp with
the anticipation of
love,
not to be made
but shared equally...
eyes cannot contain
all the visions you bring
to my mind,
sullen summer heat
dancer in fountains
of violet water,
smiles above me
that melt into
lust as you take
your rightful due
from my body,
dreams in which we
both share the same
soliloquies in
skin sheathes as the
time around us slows...
and stops,
and leaves us gasping at
the way reality seems
to arrange itself to fit
our love...
within you
is the secret i wish
to keep,
those days when
tears were the flavor
of your beverage and
wishes on dandelion
spores were carried upon
hurricane winds,
far too far away
to be answered or
even acknowledged...
you've let me in
that far that i can hear
the way your sigh is
connected to your heart,
a single strand
that holds the pieces together,
and i understand,
as my own heart is still
under repair,
as i look at the
crumbled remnants of
every love i ever thought
i had,
every time i ever
fucked and called it
making love,
every time i lied
and called it honesty,
and i realize
worthiness comes
from within,
to change the foundation
is to give the structure
longer life,
and the willingness to be
what i am in the presence
of what you are is
the sharing of
life's water,
the breathing of
love's air,
the washing the feet
of the believer in both of us,
to create a new
reality,
once more,
to find me
within you,
in a dream we can share,
when sleep steals over
flesh and the spiritual
copulation runs
the gamut that
flesh limits,
finding you within me,
where your skills
with needle and thread
do more repair work
than all the false starts
and stops
could ever take away
from me...
i am in awe
of your goddess-ness,
for your establish
my kingdom
in every kiss
you bestow upon
these hungry lips...
you
within me
within
you...
...ONCE UPON A MEMORY...
strength alone won't change a thing, heartbreak sings and teardrops rain, dying to be born again, just to escape all this pain, black rose for my diseased brain, slain like Abel fell to Cain, God asking for meat again, rare steak sure to leave a stain, once upon a memory, will you sing a song for me? something with a clever hook? something stolen from some book of spells and incantations, words that sound both profound and absurd? or will it be cold, mundane, and given me to feel disdain...yes, i need to know these things, i need to know what gifts you bring, i need to feel your arms in mine, your body and mine intertwined, with kisses that exchange our souls and forever our lofty goal...but when i wake, i'm all alone, and your a queen on some black throne and no petition, no new lines will make you check your watch for time to give me, so i weep and sleep, the walls too high, the cliff too deep, and pray to hungry gods that be to end my furtive misery, just once upon a memory...
the poet's dilemma...
where to start and end this tale,
where to end, where to begin?
where do i put thoughts and rhymes
against prosaic skein and skin?
where should i go with this thought
this idea that sifts in my brain
and what would you think of my tale
that i consume and write again?
an oroborous, that is i,
an artist who consumes himself
for nourishment for my fair muse
who'd kill me to amuse herself,
i'm no more than a common fool,
a dreamer who lacks true intrigue,
a rapper who can't hold the beat,
a bard with no musical skills,
so labors hard to pay the bills.
he eats himself,
he tastes of tears,
of sadness for the things
he's done,
he opens wide
his hinged, fanged maw
and bites and chews
upon his ass,
and then the words begin to flow
he knows, it's time
to put it down,
and let the world see his insane,
the way it cooks up in his brain,
upon himself he's going down...
the poet's dilemma is this:
his own lips
he must learn to kiss.
where to end, where to begin?
where do i put thoughts and rhymes
against prosaic skein and skin?
where should i go with this thought
this idea that sifts in my brain
and what would you think of my tale
that i consume and write again?
an oroborous, that is i,
an artist who consumes himself
for nourishment for my fair muse
who'd kill me to amuse herself,
i'm no more than a common fool,
a dreamer who lacks true intrigue,
a rapper who can't hold the beat,
a bard with no musical skills,
so labors hard to pay the bills.
he eats himself,
he tastes of tears,
of sadness for the things
he's done,
he opens wide
his hinged, fanged maw
and bites and chews
upon his ass,
and then the words begin to flow
he knows, it's time
to put it down,
and let the world see his insane,
the way it cooks up in his brain,
upon himself he's going down...
the poet's dilemma is this:
his own lips
he must learn to kiss.