Monthly Archives: May 2014


She loved me once. Then … she loved me not. The former, I often heard; the latter … not ever.
But actions … and omissions to act speak volumes … deafeningly.
And so my sick heart now hurts less; for romantic declarations aside, aside from our Creator,
nothing’s forever … but Him … or Her; and that’s comforting … most definitely.


Poetry, albeit belatedly, resonates within Arthur’s soul. His memories, and the poetically
rendered memories of others, profoundly reverberate within him, loudly,
albeit, inaudibly. Wordsmiths, (wo)men of peace, are his heroes and heroines; Ovid, Willy,
Emily, Khalil and Maya, et. al., eloquently teach us, albeit … sublimely.

Oh, what a specious species are we! We relegate our very real humanity to a status effectively
below that of abstractly surreal identities of nationality and spirituality.
Wordsmiths, (wo)men of peace, ought be our heroes and heroines; Ovid, Willy, Emily,
Khalil and Maya, via their poetry … might teach us … albeit, sublimely.


Poetry, albeit belatedly, resonates within Arthur’s soul. His memories, and the poetically
rendered memories of others, profoundly reverberate within him, loudly,
albeit, inaudibly. Wordsmiths, (wo)men of peace, are his heroes and heroines; Ovid, Willy,
Emily, Khalil and Maya, et. al., eloquently teach us, albeit … sublimely.


There’s a bullet with my name on it.
It may be in the magazine.
It may be in the chamber. Or … it
may be … in the air … unseen.

How long until romantic notions of seeing the world and being all you can be
surrender to the unbearable reality of PTSD’s insanity?
How long, if ever, until the romantic notion of the glory of being a warrior be
relegated to the dust bin… of history?


Arthur’s manuscript means to be … a clarion call. Its poetically rendered Roll Call of the nations
and territories is an ethereal snapshot in time. It is purposefully, and timely, meant to be;
capturing the ebbing and flowing, of really surreal, states. But from Mt. King’s surreal Bohemian
summit, a brightly painted yellow-bricked road … points forward … toward our destiny.


No public official Arthur has ever written to has ever dignified this co-author
with a response; not a one … ever. No wonder though, for no living
(wo)man is a prophet in his or her own land. Reasonable minds may differ
on whether this nation-state paradigm is working …

… for … or against us. But isn’t it reasonable to believe that what’s worked previously
may need to be tweaked, going forward? Ought we not have a plan
to do so? And so, the co-authors live for a writing, proposing, most politically
incorrectly, that we move toward a global plan … Bohemian.


Billi “Buzz” Ard, the Fly,

The proverbial fly on the wall is near everywhere. What’s the all-seeing, all-hearing,
Buzz Ard seen, and heard, over … archaeological … ages?
Kisses, hugs, sighs, merciless eviscerations, beheadings, rapes and shrill, blood-curdling,
screams. Buzz the fly’s been … on all … (wo)man’s stages.

Hung “Kong” King, the Ape,

Kong, the ape; as dysfunctional as necessary to ruin whatever’s thoughtfully
planned; an ardent fan of royalty and all its trappings, King Kong
abhors change, revels in political incorrectness and limits what’s needlessly
planned, to TV-dinners, TV Guide … wine … she-apes … and song.

Lou “The Lip” Lippi, the Lemming,

Lou the lemming is the Arthur Everman of animal worlds. He is filled with terminal sorrow;
best being all things … to all men … as convenient.
He’s heard the Word, and of the opiates of masses; fate’s loneliness and his sad morrows,
fuel … a paralyzing … and powerless … irrelevance.

Imso “Job” Stateless, the Chupacabra,

Job, the chupacabra is a shy, God only, knows what. He is afraid of ubiquitous shadows,
of good doctors, whom might yet help; of life, love … and dreams.
If anything (save blood-sucking) needs gettin’ done, what better day then, than tomorrow?
For dreams … lose steam … when stymied … are dream teams.

Abraham Solomon “Nerd” al-Nerdi, the Sheep,

Abe, the sheep: Abe is surely the geekiest sheep alive; missing links, albeit rare, are.
But from Abe to Art, not a clue to review. Dreams are
like that. Of course, getting credit matters not to those whom seek where treasures are.
What matters is … that treasures are … where hearts are.

and, Arthur “Art”, Everman,

Ah, Arthur: Less than heroic looking, nonetheless, Art, like some heroes, is a dreamer;
alas, like all too many dreamers, he’s a dreamer of pipes;
for dreams, being dreamy, oft dissipate before life’s onslaught, as if, they never were.
Yet timely visions … in time … may become … ripe.


Ever look for a hat, already invisibly, on your head? Or spectacles, on bridges, just under your
eyes? Or otherwise, not clearly observe what you look
for? A change of perspective often brings into view what’s unsuccessfully sought for.
In looking for hats … don’t God … overlook.


What if, in surreal, real-time nonfiction, the five hundred thousand strong Yala Young leaders
simultaneously tweeted @netanyahu? That’d be, by itself … newsworthy!
The Yala Young Leaders are convening Sunday. Why not use social media, including Twitter … to deliver 500,000 tweets … overwhelmingly!


This post, a poetic treatment of the dilemma posed by the title, i.e., On
Celebrity and Anonymity … Prison … Vis A Vis … Freedom,
is, for the co-authors, a uniquely fascinating one;
the irony in … freedom … from … prison.

Arthur, a wannabe co-author, adds a verse daily to the tweet-suite, blog-log that’s a joyful labor
-of-love-manuscript in the excruciating … making. See
blog logs at and tweet-suites @chachomanopapa on Twitter,
(its analog) … a how to … save the planet … wannabe.

How excruciating is it? Painfully, yet blissfully, so. The co-authors once drank to forget.
Now they don’t … to remember. They traded their jackets and ties for
knee pads and slip-resistant shoes, in exchange for an impossible mission … to get
a deaf, dumb and blind planet to hear … hard knocking … at the door.

Alas, NaPoWriMo is over. However, there’s an exceedingly brilliant bright side to its termination;
for there is no good reason not to go on writing poetry, so emotive.
Accordingly, Arthur and his inter-galactic critter pals may continue on their impossible mission;
a mission … so creatively … palliative.

In prayer, Art has asked God if he’s gone freaking mad? He’s asked about you too. Really,
who’s sane? Was only he, mad? Or, alternatively, are all of you, too?
Really surreal ironies, across the ages, are clues. Nazca, Casee, eerie
ancient lore … and more; all … are clues.

It’d all begun dreamily; a precursor plan, unceremoniously panned, was an event
that led to Art’s asking God for a sure Way to a movement, invent.
His spiritual intervention came nightly in Arthur’s dreams and meant
that a Crew, in dreams, easily … came … and went.

A wretch fully as wretched as Paul and as regretful as Augustine, Arthur’s dreams
implausibly brought him some critter friends to make a silk purse out of a
sow’s ear. With the help of His spiritual intervention, in nightly dreams,
they conjured there … chachomanopapa.

Who, or what, is chachomanopapa? Chachomanopapa’s a means to an eminently desirable end.
Viral, not physical, it is less a who, than
a what. Moreover, it’s many things. One is a symbol of an idea whose time is at hand,
amongst them questions like, “What’s the plan … Stan?”

Chachomanopapa’s every two syllables are the Spanish diminutives for, boy, brother
and father, fashioned into an evocatively provocative single
word. The transcendences we undergo from boys to fathers and from girls to mothers,
mirror our lives… our challenge-laden crucibles.

Chachomanopapa’s meant to both noun and verb be; to be both that place on the net
where we’re reborn, learn, earn, and transcend to views that come
into view, from atop the mountaintop from atop which Dr. King (who can forget),
dreamt of a world … more like … His Kingdom … come.

Notwithstanding implausibility, the Crew knew exactly what to do, when to timely
do it, and how best to do it. Art gaped … dumbfounded. “See …”
they said, “… what you’ve done is good; for very good, expand it artfully, into epic poetry.
Write something honoring our Almighty … to forge … (wo)man’s destiny.”

Given a preference for the order in which to become apprised of mixed news, one
often opts for the bad first in the hope that the first
news will be mooted or mitigated by the latter. So what, when all’s said and done,
shall be … our good news … and what news … our worst?

The Yala Young Leaders facebook group is convening Sunday. Uri Savir, a former Israeli peace
negotiator, and the founder of the movement, has them,
for the third straight year, in a forum focusing on reconciliation online, and an elusive peace;
for only the online young may forge a new … nonfiction.

That is, for modern (wo)man some very good news for it is of the utmost importance
that all remember: “It’s not about me … It’s not about you. It’s only
about Him, or, as the case may be … Her. No one’s free until all, in transcendence,
live in peace … as (S)He … shall … in time … have it be.