"I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe" ~ Sir Philip Sidney

How did we stumble across this logic History is neither kind nor unkind obviously indifferent as a form witnesses to events remark on things disappearing as if time would rescind invitations to inhabit this space disagree with an electrical storm weak as sailors longing for a lighthouse empire does not care for a dead mouse since when do I know why the caged bird sings tumble into a rabbit hole, as when understanding becomes lost without grace my original face, what does this mean before my birth, before my conception lead on by my predecessors, to glean ever so slowly, thought as deception against the backdrop of space-time is zen cut the coarse fabric of this mortal coil religion cannot save this human race only compassion and loving-kindness sweet and conniving is the world, I toil so long to retrace my steps before mind thwacks the back of my head, in my disgrace how I bow low before the emptiness in this world, things disappear, lost and found still, some things remain lost, was I...

When my head is on your bosom I feel how to say this without sounding creepy even though it is not above the clouds not above what dirty pillows reveal mostly about cultural repression yes, I feel like a little boy, sleepy head on the breasts of his mother, the crowds everywhere point at an old man, outré answer me this, why live in suppression decidedly as puritanical in cultural mindset as runaways sinister, ever so maniacal old world values, we reject but who says new age thought is any better, how gay yes gay, as in queer as fuck, strange, old man on her heavy bosom, her massive breasts until you become old, you will not long restless as a toddler, seeking to span both ways, the length and breadth of the nation only to swim, bike, or run as suggests solitary ultra athletes ping-pong over great expanses to discover many miles later, there is no station I seek to embrace the sad, little boy forgotten and neglected by myself elastic memories stretch like a toy...

This is the other who is subjected to harm and wrong as the unknown is as the wherefore to torture, a word To read the news, to select what to read how I pick and choose from what is given is a gift in itself like my two eyes subtle how the beauty beholds her feed in captivity, I choose this or that slippery slope to pick six or seven the media as medium has spies how everything changes with our choices each choice takes us down the rabbit hole, splat order or chaos, straight or dynamic the balance found often out of balance how another set of eyes makes comic each choice and decision with just a glance rejoice, we are free to read, our voices when, at liberty, we are free to choose how rare an act to make a decision only when the first domino tumbles if the setup guides us to win or lose such is the background to every action such consequences from an incision under anesthesia, if God stumbles because of all possible worlds, the best jettisoned with the plans, w...

I wrote four tales about the same events written in the voices of different men right or wrong, a narrative must be told only after I finished, how intense the tales became legend, truth near and far except how can fiction be true? Amen forget that I cannot ever grow old or die but I must walk and bear this weight until every human being, their star restores its blinding light or becomes dark tales of fiction appear as treachery as blasphemy to those who see the spark lightning without a bolt, each century ends with believers in search of their faith search Heaven and Earth, search Hell for God's sake answers found in prayer, thoughts of a wraith burdened with past mistakes, I pulled the brake only the lever revealed my dark fate until I could forgive myself and find truth in the fiction, in the lie, believe that God appeared, not just a holy man how I long to find the spirit, unkind exactly approximately this life seems to withdraw before I can receive abso...

Frustration and disappointment Father, ashes, bones, dust, in a tin box rest eternal in a cemetery until my time to swim with the fishes sardines in a tin box, when Old Stone Fox talks of frustration and disappointment rest assured, he was in a library after they locked the doors, strange how wishes turn not into kisses but shelves of books inside, behind closed doors, a complement of his practice, sitting meditation not only could he not relax to read anger grew, a seed, while on vacation nothing to do but still his mind, to feed dangerous criminals sly, dirty looks distance in space and time leaves time to think indifferent to the sorrows of childhood suffering, each person must bear such weight as expected by decades, we must not shrink particularly, when we feel alone pleasant as that may sound, it does no good only to dwell on the past, on the hate indeed, even though poison is a tool no one survives old age, even a crone to speak of my father in a tin box ...

Death: Walter daCunha 9 Jul: Huntington Beach, California. WALTER LUSIO DaCUNHA. Aged 76. (Ex-Porvorim, Goa; ex-Nairobi, Kenya). Veteran of international flight logistics – with East African Airways, Air India, Tiger International, Federal Express. He leaves behind his beloved wife (of 49 years), Doris, sons Terence and Rui and two grandsons. Walter was an unobtrusive but staunch supporter of Goan initiates, causes, activities and associations, in Kenya and in Southern California. He was a member of G.O.A. from the time of his arrival here in 1976. Funeral Mass will be held at Sts. Simon and Jude Catholic Church, 20444 Magnolia Ave., Huntington Beach on Wednesday, 17 July, 2013 at 10:00 a.m. Condolences to email --- I am sorry but I do not exist as a matter of fact, neither do you maybe you imagine that you are real sorry but...to argue, if you insist of course, this can be proven either way really, philosophy puts in the screw really, amphiboly makes its appeal yes, just like i...