Tallon Fassi

The dirty faces… the dirty little face

of the tiny hand races of children

standing in the burnt out rubble

paint over the dark children’s trouble

and sip on that latte and read your Emile Bronte

and complain about the price of gas.

CNN paints what we see.

 Have you ever stared in the green eyes of a baby Iraqi?

Picked the shrapnel from the nursery and thought

what is the difference between that of your child’s dying screams

and as for me I can’t get clean?

I’m filthy with guilt equal to the blood split so

watch that Sweet Sixteen, buy right into the scene.

No one wants to watch pot belly children scream.

So ignore it, how historic, and let the government decide how to score it.

And if you don’t feel, and if you don’t care

take a look and the dirt and remember soon you’ll be there.

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Have I changed so rapidly or is it the world?

Trying to keep my eye on the goal while riding the Tiltawhirl.

Caught up in gender identites; not standing in line can have the side affect of enemies.

I’m trying to be the type of women that doesn’t bow down

to the mass of asses in Prada glasses that scuff from their crystal tower

until the final hour when the flames engulf freedom. 

YOU! Listen to the television, then you’ll know what to feed’em.

First its that Coco Crisp then its a Camel smoked brisk,

Don’t you dare take a risk, live through others, hide under your covers

and smother the voice of opposition.

Launch a inquisition, make it your mission to understand every condition because

now YOU are always right, there aren’t any omissions to your knowledge!

No Dear God! You went to college which makes you a Star Bellied Sneetch;

So sorry to preach but these height won’t be reached

while laying down letting your nertons clot.

Smell the stench and the rot from the top.

The Revolution won’t be televised if so we could devise merchendises. 

Come roll the dice and buy a toddler popping land mine

and there will be quiet the fine if

YOU don’t panic for the oil we believe in.

 But what I’m trying to say is you can’t get ahead

while your getting even.

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Dear Friend,

There was a brief instance in time, us still on the break wall, the ocean sublime. 

When symmetry of souls combined with intellectual burning coals to soutter together solidarity

(that’s when you tossed my cell in to the sea, setting me free.). 

On the brief occasion that your vocation allowed for the frolicking of two minds into one nation,

 Poetry would break free (the rhyming over the beat box while floating in the sea.)  and riot on Disco.

 Maimed it, thought we killed it only to flame the fire of what Hunter S. compared to herpes.

 So after the treatment ended I sat with hands braced on knees and listened to the never ending four four beat disease.

 Glitter and hot pants will not defeat our new frontier.

 (So let me make this clear.)

 Kurt Cobain is dead,

Hunter S lost his head.  

Bradley Knoll had it right, but heroin called it an early night.

 Where are the Prophet wearing red, green and gold?  

This MTV generation will mortgage your soul.

 As far as these globes of sight can see its down to You or me

to take a machete to this literary bureaucracy.

 If you make it to Oprah’s couch before me.

 Remember the break-wall, the boat and sea.  

The bottle of stolen Bacardi razz (split between you and me).  

Remember:

Don’t make that dash for cash, sit and hash through the hypocrisy, drop in with soul-flow, and no matter where you go there will always be a mind of simpatico that is waiting for the day that some one will really slay disco.  

love

Tallon

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It’s getting cold on the island and the weather is meant to say,

“leave before its biter, you know you only came here to play.”

But I’ve loved on this island, and cried on this island

and picked up trash on the way home from the bars.

I’ve stared up at the stars and planned a ultimate future then forgotten .

  I’ve been a day tripper, soul flipper and stepped on my pride. 

 Been eaten alive and

seen scenes contrived.  Hurt beautiful people and tried

to live life in harmony with the trees and breeze and seas.

Played up empathy and had multiple epiphanies about the way

I view life and strife.  I have strived to do right.

My island will stand and plan adventures strange and queer

for yet another time. 

Until then I will practice Zen and the art of all sublime.

Reflect on how being here seems a crime to the grind. 

And remind myself not every poem needs to end with a rhyme.

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Getting Away From It All…

            The Pressures of life are increasing for all of us.  To remain strong, sensitive, able to love and create, we need a vital center that remains clam.  A place away from cell phones, the internet, radios and television. 

            Antoine De St. Exupery found it among North African desert sands and the stars.  The Japanese build a special niche, Tokonoma, to hold one poem on a calligraphic scroll and a spray of rum blossoms.  We all seek a private place that makes contemplation, mediation and love more possible.

            Where to go alone ( or with one other) to think, to talk, to listen to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons or to hear Corneils Vreeswick’s Saskia or La Flute Des Andeas? 

            A place for seeing nature, burning joss and candles, reading poems, playing flute.

            In our societies places like this have ceased to exist-> To remain sane, we must make some…

            You may be lucky enough to look out your window at the bottle-green sky meeting the sea and the tundra.  Sled dogs barking and howling through your village and your own hands are busy with the mending of fishing spears and nets.

            Or you may lie back against the sun drenched wall of your pueblo.  Your son drills the center of Turquoise and Chalchihuitl and the steady beats of the dancers comes from the square.

            The wind rustles through the pine trees as you look at the moon above the lake at night.  You sit in sound completely at peace, with the smell of birch – whisks in your nose.  Soon you’ll race streaming to the lake, to be embraced by the icy water. 

            Sunlight breaks over the desert.  It is still cool as you hitch up your robes for the day’s journey.  The camels snort and the air is so clear that you can hear a village dog barking from miles away. 

            It is late at night.  You return to the village.  There you find the love of the people you know and there are none that you do not know.  There is only a long “Today”, a time-continuum of births and deaths, marriages and rituals, rain and earthquakes. 

            But most of us who read this have never lived these lives, or only for a few years at most.  Lacking nature, lacking close connection to a life-cycle, we need a place for being at peace.  But in this area, needs will be radically different.  You must invent for yourself.

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This just can’t be summer love

It must be summer lust,

 with all of my good intentions

this can’t be the last of us. 

The heat is slowly dying

My sensitive skin fried

Its about time to pick up my pride

and realized this is old and dried

time to revitalize with open eyes.

For tomorrow I spy a cozy fall tryst.

It started with a kiss

and under jackets through cool mist

we will fall in love.

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