Poetry
I Sing To My Wild Biology – by Krista Schwimmer
Sleep – by Humberto Gomez Sequeira-HuGos
False Hope- by Mary Getlein
My Great Religion – by Daniel J. Kaufman
Rattle Moon – by Aryn Youngless
Moonlight Porch – by Majid Naficy
Old in Venice –  by Lynette
Monday, January 28 – by Roger Houston
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I Sing To My Wild Biology
(For Walt Whitman)
by krista schwimmer
i sing to my wild biology –
to the beautiful DNA strands
turning & twirling in
their perfect double helixes –
to the wild mitochondria
powerhouses of my cells –
to the robust ribosomes
with their messengers
binding, binding.
i sing to them all
in their hidden stations
as they work their ways
& give me life.
i sing to my wild biology –
to my unique DNA
with its perfect symmetry & templates
that allow copies of my ancestors
to pass into & through me.
i sing to these ancestors, too –
whose genes whisper their unsung desires
through me, while still my own DNA
turns in its perfect double helix.
i sing to these few emissaries
of the total sum of my wild biology –
and to their smaller parts, too –
the neutrons & protons & electrons
created by the dance of the 6 quarks –
those charmed & strange gods
who remind me that even scientists
when naming their discoveries
bow down to the imaginative soul.
i sing to them all –
my tiny, sufi masters
swirling & burning inside me
so that i can make my way out
into the Kingdom of Animalia
where – startled – i find
i do belong.
———————————————-
Sleep
For the Beachhead Collective Staff
Disentangle the obstinate mind
from the grindstone of time
and place it on the portal
where the winds of awareness
disperse the remains of memory.
Empty your eyes of fear
and burn the sense of self
like a ship of red cellophane
on the waves of white light
filtering through your body.
Sleep without your head
in the emptiness of dreaming.
Awake when you understand
that your being is a soluble idea
in the chemistry of galaxies.
—Humberto Gómez Sequeira-HuGóS
Los Angeles, 18 January 2013
———————————————–
False Hopes
She: talks too much, endlessly,
a verbal salad – lots of stuff thrown in
none of it really meaning anything
just keeps going, on and on and on
He:  sits quietly, calmly, waiting it out
She: got her car towed away
the car they were living in
now they are literally on the streets
they are desperate, they look hunted
He:  tells you of articles he’s read in the library
is calm, beautiful, with huge brown eyes
is polite, waits, endlessly waits
She: talks more and more
trying to talk her way out of it
tries to talk her way into your life
hoping you will rescue her, and him
He:  is waiting, to one day fly away
will give up the role of caretaker
give up the role of parent
role reversal: he’s had to parent her
instead of the other way around
She: wears you out, wears you down
leaves you empty, drained of all compassion
He:  is quiet, polite, grateful
accepts the gifts you give with dignity and thanks
You: wish you could do more
get them off the streets, give them a home
feel guilty, but know you have to take
care of yourself
It’s a train wreck waiting to happen,
and it’s getting closer all the time.
– Mary Getlein
*There are 51,000 men, women and children living on the streets of L.A.
—————————————————————————————-
My Great Religion
by Daniel J. Kaufman
I have a great religion
Based on beauty.
Somnambulant colors
Of the aurora borealis,
Curvaceous youth, dappled
Sunlight on a summer lawn,
The flower’s abstract bliss.
Beauty of line and curve
Beauty of shape and form
Beauty of bird songs
Laughter of babies
Celestial music of the spheres.
My mystical religion
Unveils itself in shooting stars
Sprayed against the black sky,
In luminescent surf,
In fractal patterns
Through crystal prism
Raindrops and oil slicks
On wet asphalt roads.
I have a great religion
Based on beauty,
Indigo buds, lilies of the alley
The horizon’s hardly perceptible
curve at the oceans edge,
the seagulls plaintive caw,
the post-storm morning air
awash with angels.
The evanescent morning star
Submerged in powder blue,
Slipping glimpses
Of the eternal.
I have a great religion
Based on beauty.
—Daniel J Kaufman
———————————
Rattle Moan
By Aryn Youngless
I need to stop
To stop the noises in my head
The thoughts that rattle
Shake & moan, pulling me
From the tasks at hand
From the writing & the chores
& the hugs & the kisses
& the words & the music
& the laughs & the love
& the life
I need to stop
Stop the over analyzing
How I look & what I say
& the people near me
& those in my life
& the subtext, underlining
& the subtitles never pop up
until it’s too late
Stop ignoring the feelings in my gut
& my heart
how I hate them, just to spite me
I need to stop
Stop absorbing others thoughts
Out of fear & isolation
As if they create some impervious curtain
& behind, I am naked, naked, naked
I need, I need, I need
I need to stop – being so needy
Yes, I need to stop
Stop myself – & let go
Of the past, of the future
In this moment, in my words
In everything, everything, everything
In my wants, & my needs, & duties
I need to stop – I need to enjoy
For the whole world has gone crazy
& instead of embracing the madness
I sit here, yelling at myself
And I don’t f—–g care
But I do, so much
And it’s sinking me
& I can’t stop, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t
& the thoughts rattle, & shake,
& moan, & consume me so much
that I forget what I was doing
in the first place
———————————————–
Moonlight Porch
By Majid Naficy
For Kelly Edwards
Should I call it “veranda” or “spring terrace”?
But “moonlight porch” is more beautiful:
This newly-budding breast
Which has leaned back charmingly
To the stone chest of each house,
This open, inviting  hand
Which has stretched out near each window
Longing for something lost.
In the evening in Kelar Abad
I sit in the veranda
And share my tea
With tea bushes,
And at night, in Isfahanak
I go to the spring terrace
To find my intimate cricket.
But now in Venice Beach
Let me sit in this moonlight porch
And smoke a cigarette with you.
——————————————-
Old in Venice
Grey hair,
Wrinkled skin,
Knobby joints,
Wobbling gait,
You’ve passed your prime,
A testament of advancing age,
You’ve exchanged your tiny grocery – your brainchild
for the government hand-out,
For the social security check that was stolen
as you boarded a noonday bus,
You’ve chosen Fear,
Golden padlocks glisten on your front door,
Sunlight streams diffused through grated windows,
Your cane became the beating stick
for muggers possessing twice your sinews
for burglars with pistols,
You’ve become the prisoner,
Forsaking your youth,
Growing old in Venice.
– Lynette
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02:22 Monday, January 28th, 2013, Adullam ….. A silent moon wept beams up in the sky, Imprisoned in her exile, flying by. Held in a gravitational malaise, With endless stays, occasional delays Afforded her,could not acquittal bring. On chill nights such as this, I hear her sing A song of longing, never to know love. She has no children, giving all they have To her design. Her barren craters ring. A severe case of acne, forbearing, To make her hide one side,
avoid always, So Earth cannot stare at her sad, dark rays. No veil of nitrogen to shield her eye. She hasn’t breath to even heave a sigh ….. Yours in lunacy,
– Roger Houston

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