on Amahamor

Hear now of the splendid goddess, she who heals those deep love-wounds, she who cares for saddened brides and likewise for heart-broken grooms. Hers are many charges, she works day and night, to mend and to bandage, to put things back right, to help lovelorn people find solace and pride, to get them back on their feet, looking alive. Find comfort in knowing that things aren't so bad, that you are worth loving (not hopelessly sad), that love comes to all of us, wealthy or poor, that one of its victors is Amahamor. So light her a candle and send up a prayer, and ask that Amahamor always be there, to lift and to shelter you from high above, while you play the treacherous game we call love.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

grigs own aprodit

There is an old story, I know just a bit, about an old goddess, Grig's own Aprodit. Brought up in a valley immune to stray gazing she'd learned about friendship and animal grazing from an older shepherd-girl who stealthily could run across rockfall and swiftly climb trees. (This older companion could easily be, her shape-shifting highness, the fair Athene.) While seeking a lamb-chop swept off in a gale, our young Aprodit left her protective vale, got waylaid by wood-fellers, knotted and roped, abused with foul language and sat on and groped. 'Enough,' she said calmly, 'release me anon.' Her captors they jeered though, made laughter, and fun. She gave no more warnings, she'd treated them fair, she summoned her courage and focused her glare, then with a quick gesture she cut through her ropes while grasping a tiny blade found in her coats, then leaped up and threw off her mantles and norms, revealing to mankind her beautiful forms. So awestruck and smitten were all the men there, that past and amongst them she moved without care. Taking in her new-found station she uttered a proclamation: 'There you tremble, little shits, amazed and awed at Aprodit, she whom you tried to rape and torture, kill and maim, feed to the vultures, who now stands before you strong, cursing you to love her form while night is long and days are warm – know no love from any other, not from sister, friend, or mother.' Cursed they were the foolish fellers to short lives consumed by fits, lost in amour, pining always, for radiant Aprodit.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

consider now Dah'zhou

Consider now Dah'zhou, who tends to the fate, of persons who snooze a lot and sleep in late. Her role is not major, she mostly stays in, for we in Grigovia find it a sin, to lounge and to slumber, to waste away days, to wake up hung-over, all curdled and dazed. Her culture is friendly, as is her one rite (perform it alone, just before bed, at night): clean up your area, tidy the room, then set aside cellphone and worry and broom, and take a few moments to calm yourself down, and start breathing deeply from anus to crown. While breathing and sitting then think of your day, of all of the labor and comfort and play, be thankful and grateful and say then aloud, with countenance lifted and voice strong and proud: 'Today is now over, tomorrow awaits, I'll spend it quite happily manning the gates, defending the homeland and neighbor alike, from mountain to valley, from rooftop to dike, or painting a picture, or writing a song, please help me, oh Dah'zhou, to wake up 'ere long, to welcome her majesty, rose-fingered Dawn, to spring to my labors and never complain, until to my slumbers I return again.”

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on Kloacarla

Kloacarla was her own name, no one knows from where she came, just that she fouled a public pool with yellow squirts and solid stool. Many days have not gone by, since Kloacarla – neither shy nor slow to act – had emptied out her nether tract into a peasant's pleasant hut, with silent moans and door wide shut. Should she wander back again, to shit on us, our town and friends, we'll ambush her from hidden boat and strangle her in foetid moat.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

head held high

It is often that I find that happiness springs from the mind, that slowing down and breathing twice can transport me to paradise; that then I'm filled with oxygen – which buoys hopes and uplifts men – to live in peace then I'm allowed, with head held high and straight and proud, without much need or carnal yearning, abandoning theretofore learning.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

ours is hope

Greetings on this frigid morning, welcome now these solar rays, ours is hope and happy thinking, ours is confidence today. Gone are all the fears that plagued us, they can reach us nevermore, gone as well is discontentment and such things that hurt and bore. May the goddess Nuuzstathena shelter you and yours and ours, basked in morning's golden fingers she calls forth the Springtime flowers as well as bees that hum and sting, keeping balance is her thing. Light tonight at sun's departure many flames – a candelabra – say a word and keep in mind, her highness, lovely Nuuzstathena.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on common goal

Come wander in ocher, come bask in our sol, come join in our culture and share in our goal. It is monumental, enormous, and vast, it is a confounding and difficult task, that we take upon us through daytime and night, that we see as worthwhile and proper and right. We want independence, from intrigue and stress, from envoys and spies coming from the US, from unions and currencies destined to fail, from outside influence and petty hate-mail. We could seal our borders, imprison dissenters, turn into tormentors of soul and body, instead we'll stay open, keep welcoming strangers, while sounding this heartfelt decree: Do now unto others as you'd t'yourself do, get rid of possession but pant shirt and shoe, keep breathing and reading and chew up your food, stay moving, speak kindly, be helpful not rude; a torment is coming, shelter it with us, we mind our own business and don't make much fuss, if though invaded we'll rise up in synch, much faster than even computers can think, and drive out the forces that cause us all harm – our midwives are lethal, our grandmothers armed, our people are ready to fight to the death, until of our foes there are but few shreds left. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

today in BKK

Soaring towers all around, my feet are weary of the ground that punished them all morning long, the tuktuk drivers – how they thronged – enticing me to take a ride while just today the PM cried when high court rulings sent her sprawling, these mean streets may yet see brawling. I know not the creed or god of any pro-regime death squad that roams about this sweaty place, that waves its flags and yellow kerchief, here the mood is thick with mischief. Roadside stands serve the best food although the seating can be crude, broken stools and shaky tables but the cooks are quick and able, serving up thick beef-broth stew that dribbles down and stains my shoe. Bright possessions dot my room, my heart is clear of dross and gloom, for I now learn to love myself, which trumps dollar, yen, bhat – all wealth. A German maiden helped me hope, encouraged me back up the slope which I had slipped and skidded down, soon vagabond reclaims the crown that he'd abandoned long ago, with ruddiness his cheeks now glow. In Lombok she rejected me, her friendship now is all I see, but that is something I will cherish until such time as I shall perish, liberate of life's blood, face-down in cold and frozen mud. There is a blister on my toe, my pace won't be slowed for I shall wander, taking stock, of this great city, olde Bangkok. Maddening, her headlong pace, who shelters millions in her bosom, what a fierce but gentle race that sprawls from Bearing west to Chit Lom.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on leaving Kuta

I hold fast till the last day, refusing kids who beg and pray and badger me both day and night to buy a bracelet – brown, black, white? Then comes Mary, eight years young, whose pitch is crass, incessant, fun, who won't believe I'll buy one soon, whose mushrooms, “Take you to the moon”. I give her less than she asks for, I claim that I am very poor, I take her small and flimsy thing, she says “OK, better than nothing”. We leave fair Kuta before nine, our engines haul and buck and whine and drag us through the darkened hills, we take much care and do not spill. A storm has slicked our moon-lit path – great burst of light, a booming wrath – but now the night is calm and cool, a taxi driver hits his brights, can't seem to pass us on the right, we slow way down, give up the fight, I curse and yell that he's a fool. Great mounds of dirt cover the lanes, force us to slow way down again, as if from nowhere they appear, with naught to warn that they are near. Then I spy a red barrow whose owner causes me much fright, who interrupts our steady flow, out in the street – no warning light. We get waylaid by crafty men; they sneak us past the ticket pen; they bribe police and harbor boss; ours is not sting or pang or loss, for they defraud their government to feed their kids and pay the rent. No berth awaits us once aboard, no slightly bowing deck steward, we settle down right on the deck, avoiding many sticky flecks. Bali greets us pleasantly when something drops down from a tree and hits me square upon the head; I don't complain for I'm not dead. We make good time and maintain speed, for hurry there is never need, a road-side cop tells us to slow, I speak his tongue – he lets us go. I climb in through the side window, where only weeds and gravel grow, I have no keys for the front door, we settle down upon the floor, sleep for one hour, then awake, as violent screams the walls do shake. There's spitting blood, hurled accusations, this has been a strange vacation, full of laughs but violence too, oh fair Indo – I love you.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on highest hopes

Nearly home but barely there my hopes are highest in the morning, when the thoughts of yesteryear descend on me without fair warning. Swiftly they transport me back to times when I thought myself great, hide from me the brutal truth of what I have become of late. Such is life and such is longing, for the things that cannot be, stay the hand and still the sadness, born anew each day is me, there's no fun in self-destruction or in hanging from a tree. Quick to laugh and swift to punish, is the goddess of the mind, she but asks that I abandon all the things I've left behind – all the moments, dreams, and fancies; all the want and broken trust; all the greatness, heartbreak, beauty; gluttony and complex scheming; petty hatred, wanton lust. Raise the spirit, send it soaring, to the gates that never close, sing about it, paint a picture, craft a poem, write some prose – this one life is swiftly fleeting toward things that cannot be grasped, I must learn to be here – present – to let go and not to clasp. Holding on can deepen worry, strangle life, and breastfeed Fear, I prefer to keep the moment, focused just on what is near. Here now ends this solemn poem, writ for me and me alone, now I sit with heart unshielded, contemplating rock and stone, studying each moment's breaking, deep in blood and nail and bone.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥