delusion

i've heard people saying we're not responsible for what's happening in Iraq,

that you can't force people to embrace democracy when they don't want it.

imagine that.  bomb them into oblivion, raid their homes in the middle of

the night, bury Fallujah in depleted uranium, and they don't magically decide

to embrace our form of government.  what ingrates!

if anyone needs to be doing some evolving, surely it is us.

it wouldn't hurt us to embrace democracy, while we're at it.

rich selfish white men vetting politicians who look after corporate interests

(at the expense of all other interests), while their speech writers flatter the

public, while they routinely bully and subvert other nations, while the media

arranges diversions and assures us everything is being done for our protection,

and that we are free (to purchase whatever we want),

is NOT democracy.  it's delusion.


"It is not just that American soldiers come and kill. That is horrible enough. You have to ask what will happen to the children growing up around this violence. Iraq has been destroyed. The Iraqi soul has been disfigured.”
- Hassan Blasim

off-season elves

when Christmas day has come gone and no presents are left to unwrap,
and the stores have stopped blaring their endlessly regurgitated sap;
when the snow has lost its magic as you contemplate graying bleakness,
and the sight of turkey leftovers brings on waves of stomach weakness;
when trash bins are overflowing with tree corpses and wrinkled paper,
and the TV set's been stored away to avoid Frank Capra's caper;
Santa's band of elves will close up shop, and put away their bell-trimmed suits,
and resume their haunts in forests, and their accustomed sprightly pursuits.

like teaching trills to robins and larks for summoning summer's birth,
and folding the petals of flowers, still concealed in the frozen earth.
taking dictation from forest folk, and sage advice from bumblebees,
and practicing walking soundlessly while absconding with people's keys.
obscuring marks on measuring tape, to confound the assessments of girth,
undermining the self-important with distracting cackles of mirth.
comparing notes with fairies and gnomes, or tickling pixies on their knees,
getting high on fermented berries, and sleeping it off in the trees.

attending soirées in swanky dens, and teas in well-appointed lairs,
sneaking into laundries late at night and estranging socks from their pairs.
mixing the colors used in rainbows with naturally pigmented dyes,
tripping up pride just before it falls, and entangling the webbing of lies.
releasing springs in people's footsteps, and thawing their ice-laden stares,
flinging resentments out of windows, or slinging slippers under chairs.
kindling hopes in hardened hearts, and placing sparkles in children's eyes,
and disarming alarming nightmares with discretely secreted sighs.

but out of all these elfin doings what really sets their souls to flight
is throwing in their lot with nature and singing out with all their might,
harmonizing with the shadows, and the various layers of light,
caroling with their animal friends in voices both clear and bright,
inventing songs to sing to the moon and to comfort the starry night.

to accompany their melodies they lend their breath to oboes and flutes,
and flexing their nimble fingers play arpeggios on harps and lutes.
some are adept at coaxing rhythm with silver bells and castanets,
while others evoke watery sounds from the throats of their clarinets.
the goblins are rock'n'rollers favoring tunes they learned in bars
but lacking electricity make do with acoustic guitars.
the imps have taken a shine to rap, and spend whole nights beneath the stars,
throbbing and grooving to the beat from their perches on the roofs of cars.

but most fairy folk prefer forests and companionship with creatures,
and music which awakens minds to the span of their better features.
their lyrics are calculated to make truth and compassion ignite,
and they carry on till dawn arrives and their mirages fade from sight.
so if you hear magical sounds emerge from the edge of awareness,
and visions appear which tug at your heart, and your inborn sense of fairness,
don't worry whether you've lost your mind or stumbled on something scary,
for chances are you've happened upon off-season elves making merry.

WWJB

he might be an emergency worker in Bahrain
locked up in an overcrowded cell
for many years to come
for having rescued victims of governmental repression,
shot by American-trained police
with American-made weapons
but never getting mentioned on American-made TV.

or perhaps an orphaned girl in Haiti
sprouting up like a weed,
except for where her arms used to be,
who still walks around and wonders
why nothing is fixed yet
after all those NGOs
availed themselves of photo opportunities,
and when President Aristide
will finally be allowed by the Americans
to lead the country that elected him.

or a pot smoker of color
caught with half an ounce,
rotting in the US prison assembly line
built by its burgeoning drug obsession,
that misses the far worse problem of alcohol
and blinds itself to almost all of the users
who happen to possess pale skin,
as it provides the weapons
that wiped out half of Mexico.

she could be a battered and bartered woman
who finally stood up to her oppressor
and is wasting away in solitary confinement
for the crime of defending herself
and her child
while being black.

or a future mother in Uganda
being raped by a child soldier,
one of the lost legions of forsaken youth
in the ultimate pay of the corporate elite
and sheltered from censor,
since Paul Kagame is such a friend
to the agents of empire
while the coffers are overflowing
and the coffins so dispensable.

or else an emaciated skeleton
desiccating in a desolate desert
in pitiless and wasted Arizona,
still holding out his slender thumb,
or rising from the bottom
of the murky Mediterranean,
bobbing against uncounted companions,
somewhere south of Italy.

perhaps he's one of the indecipherable smudges
staining the marble steps of some temple
in Hiroshima or Nagasaki,
a dab of color telling a story
that cannot be fully grasped
or comprehensibly forgiven.

his features might be distorted,
lost amongst the gruesome crop of strange fruit
that swayed silently back and forth
as it hung from a southern gospel oak.

or he could be tied up with Matthew Shepard
on a forgotten fence in the American west.

or simply a man at the end of his rope,
dangling beyond his last relinquished hopes,
one of the gathering of abandoned souls
who form the nameless and indigent congregation
of a dingy downtown church.

if the man known to the world as Jesus,
who came to fame fighting the establishment,
and based his unrivaled reputation
on unstinting love for outcasts,
and solidarity with the poor,
was to grace the earth with his presence
in these modern, miraculous times,
i can't help but wonder just who he might turn out to be.

with apologies to Mr. Shakespeare (a cycle of nine haiku)

yearning chants your name
breathless dusk waits motionless
the wild loon beckons.
====
dusky outlines blur
darkness merges everything
mystery enfolds.
====
ancient light travels
form born in frozen distance
starlight awakens.
====
patterns enlighten
owls profess ancient wisdom
magic approaches.
====
trees part for meadows
fireflies flitter and sparkle
mirth lifts every heart.
====
gathered fire kindles
revelers spin in circles
loving hands entwine.
====
transfixing embers
sleep encounters one by one
moonshine glances back.
====
visions submerge all
fairies play their horns and flutes
deer dance secret rites.
====
vanishing matter
spirits melted into air
midsummer night's dream.

the spectacle

pulmonary arteries and the hemispheres of brains
ventricles and vertebrae and the valves contained in veins
cherished hopes which deflated, best laid plans that went down drains
preconceived misconceptions and thoughts traveling in trains
anxiety disorders and assorted aches and pains
weariness that is weighted by accumulated strains
trepidation for the future, regret for where we've been
the yearning for approval that feeds the desire to win
obsessive-compulsive disorder and anguish over sin
uncertainties arising when self-confidence wears thin
the feeling someone was watching or something went unsaid
the wish you'd simply stayed at home and never left your bed
imagined imperfections shrouding sleepless nights with dread
the happiness that wells up with the smell of baking bread
memories of kisses gently blessing an inclined head
sweet dreams of conversations shared with loved ones who are dead
the knowledge that a friend would face your sorrows in your stead
joining chums that sing off-key, and joyfully chiming in
discovering your lover has the yang that fits your yin
communing with a kitten as you scratch beneath its chin
howling with wolves in moonlight, adding a voice to the din
we're virtually identical with all our earthly kin
sharing in the spectacle that sparkles under the skin.

heretical musings on the nature of the Abrahamist god

if God can be understood

by his
appearances
in the
Old Testament

then he is a sacrament
of
self-involvement,

the progenitor
of
profit seeking pillage,

and the
earliest indited excuse
for
exceptionalism,
enslavement,
and
privilege.

in short this god

that rises in wrath

from the tribal tallies
of
chattel,
concubines,
and carnage

is the
embodiment of evil
and the bad example
par excellence.

*

if God can be understood

from the proscriptions
ascribed to him
by the apostle Paul

then his existence essentially,
conveniently
and
coincidentally

provides
the
self-fulfilling justifications
for the
projected self hate
of that
misogynistic closet case,

and the
rabidly reactionary
and
ranting religious right.

Poor Paul!

his nanny
must have abused him
while wearing
a red dress.

*

if God can be understood

from his appearances
as
"only begotten son"
found in the
Holy-See-sanctioned Gospels™

then his existence
posits more questions
than it answers.

for why does it matter
that Joseph carried the genes
passed down
in all those
blessed begettings

from the loins of Abraham
and
conquering King David

if he wasn't really
the father of Jesus?

or are we to take that

as metaphor?

and while we're
on the
subject of begetting,

who did Adam and Eve's children

do their begetting with

and from whence did they come?

*

and what of the
adultery

between this god and Mary?

it's true that the Greeks
looked the other way
when Zeus and Apollo
knocked up
their earthbound wenches

but no one thought of calling
unwed mothers
holy virgins™
back then.

that was certainly
a brilliant stroke
in the early annals
of public relations.

but still
this adultery broke
one of his own
commandments.

if this god can be forgiven
for violating
the holy vows of matrimony

then why not
extend such
compassionate understanding
to those
purportedly created
in his image?

for whether Mary
or anyone else
declared her paramour
a god,
or a succubus,
or a thief in the night

is surely beside the point.

each gave birth
to a child,

which is to say

to a sacredness

always
evident
in
every
life.

*

the sanctioned narrative
has it that
this god
absolved all the sins of mankind,

surely numbering
in the hundreds of trillions,

including genocides,
and infanticides,
and the purposeful
spreading of diseases,
and wholesale
destruction of cultures,
and rape and pillage
of the earth itself,

with one simple crucifixion
that lasted
only
three hours.

one
out of the
thousands of crucifixions,
and other more horrible
and
lingering deaths,
meted out
in that year alone

mostly to innocent people
who had no one
waiting
for them

and no tomb to go to

with
or
without
a revolving door.

*

the sanctioned narrative
would have us believe
that Jesus was both
his father
and himself

and completely without sin

and that only
his own
immaculate death

could bring about forgiveness.

so this god
who had
created

all of existence,

this perfect being
who
somehow
managed
to
create imperfect ones,

having grown displeased
with his creations

(doubtless for their imperfections)

masqueraded
as one of them

in order to
enable
his death
at their hands

so he could
find the
wherewithal in his heart

to forgive them everything else?

these self-imposed
limitations
and lapses in logic

cry out for psychological analysis.

but then a voice
in a burning bush
claiming to be
an
omnipotent being
and
sole progenitor
of
the universe

that displays such a
desperate need
to be worshiped,

while forbidding the worship
of other gods
and
simultaneously
denying
their
existence

has no dearth
of self-image issues
and conflicts
to resolve.

*

the failure of the commandments
to require honesty
is
quite telling.

but the missed opportunity
of forbidding war
is not to be
wondered at

in a god who so carefully

allotted the
women and children
to be
granted in slavery
to his
"chosen" victors,

and those to be
summarily
eliminated,

as they wiped out
all traces
of their neighbors,

providing the precedent
for the occupation of Palestine.

*

and what did the

sacrifice
and
reanimation
of
Jesus change?

has mankind stopped sinning?

is the earth no longer
ravaged by greed?

have children
stopped
stepping
on
land mines?

has the wholesale destruction
of
human life

relentlessly demanded
by
corporate interests

and so
expertly excused
by the media

come to an end?

or did the
righteous
god-fearing folk

simply take this to mean

that their covenant

with their
strange
and
vengeful god

could only be achieved
through the
murder
of
holy innocents?

is that how they
have been justifying
their terror-laden tradition

of laying waste
to cities
teeming with civilians
in their
state-sanctioned wars?

are they simply trying
to be
nearer
their
god?

and what of the
little children
who were surely

beaten to death
by one of their parents
on the
very day
that Jesus
was crucified?

were none of them innocent?

did none of their
sacrifices
warrant salvation?

*

if you must insist
on giving
your children bibles,

please remember
to remind them
that the
whole point
of the thing

is to teach them
how not to behave.

* ******* *** ******* *** ******* *
- Evan Hawthorn, the 13^th of October, 2013

the dragon queen

once upon a linear time in the mystical middle ages
there lived a knight named Percival who hankered after squires and pages.
he was fond of donning dresses, and eked out his meager wages
by lip-syncing bawdy ballads on medieval wooden stages
while handsome lads in leotards danced lithesome jigs in cages.

the legends of his licentiousness were spread widely throughout the land
while fables of feats of bravery got simply dismissed out of hand.
but it must be said when damsels were distressed he'd always made a stand
and he could spill the goods on the sort of hoods who smuggled contraband.

Percy arrived on market day in the provincial town of Nacken
on a tour of one night stands, not permitting his prowess to slacken,
having joined the Loyal Order for Quelling Beasties in the Bracken,
wanting to see the lay of the land for which he was always packin'.

but things were amiss in the countryside, the townsfolk were all in a flutter.
something was churning the landscape up and turning the farmers to butter.
the town crier took to whimpering and could only manage a stutter.
the village idiot was so disturbed he'd sunk to neighborhood nutter.

well tongues were wagging at the local inn as they quaffed their mead-filled flagons
relating how flames were billowing from the nostrils of ferocious dragons
who were breathing on the windswept peasants, and toasting them in their wagons
a sight more galling than any befalling the vaunted Bilbo Baggins.

it happened that his majesty's entourage ran smack into the scene
when a feisty dragon with rose tinted scales absconded with the queen.
the lizard alit on the shore of a lake to gaze at himself and preen
while the king gave vent to a stream of invective verging on the obscene.

Percival stumbled upon the fray as he sought out his latest trick
and seeing where desire had brought him he was chastened to the quick.
perhaps he should seek a steady companion to trim his unruly wick
for what was the point when he gave it some thought of this nightly errant shtick?

all at once they were caught in a whirlwind, twirling broadcloth, flesh and leather.
without a sound they stopped spinning around and were gently settled on the heather.
well you could have knocked poor Percival down with the tiniest flimsy feather
for the lizard and the monarch had now become one person welded together.

though dizzy at first things could have been worse, the melding did not harm her
and Percival winked his most winning smile, intending not to alarm her.
then an awful clanging clamour arose as he shed his pink-linked armor
and he flew away with his dragon queen, an iridescent charmer.