White Ballance
will bight you every time
  Why do you suppose that it was that 
"LA was too much for the man?"  And really, who was
'the man'.  Ah meaningless trivialities of thought
all documented here for your amusement.
One of my favorite views in a 
favorite direction 
at a favored time 
on a favored day



I was had a dark minded encounter with someone
who could only see what they imagined a certain entertainer
(who died last week, no, now it's two weeks ago) did that
was improper and sinful as a reason to feel for that now
dead (overdosed) person.
We could weep for Bean who died in a truck (on OxyCoton is
the rumor) who probably left a few or more line-dog kids
somewhere.  He'd been waiting for family money, someone
died, they were selling a lot of land.  We could weep for
Jimmy T who died much to young of a heart attack.  Were
drugs involved?  We can even weep for all the ex hippy 
heros (the real heros) like Ken Keasey because they
died of liver failure from too many years of experimentation
and recreational intake.  Or Hunter.  I can cry about Hunter
because I wanted to meet him once I realized that he had
an authentic voice and wasn't just a drugged up parady like
Gary Trudou made him out to be.  And, ya, of course, I
weep in sad nesses of great outpouring for any dissipant
like a Bouldelar or a Rombault or Elvis or Jack L. Kerouac
(Te Jean).

So now Micheal Jackson rests with them.  Too young to die.
Too talented for words.  Very idiosyncratic.  Very much
an enigma.  Just wanting to be loved.  Did he do some things
wrong?  who doesn't?

So, those of you who can only see some bad intention about
this guy, you really ought to go back and remember that
Jesus touched the leper.  Jesus counsciled the Samarantine
Woman,  One of the apostle ran away from the Garden of
Gasthemene nacked (naked).  So what was really going on?
Eat my flesh, drink my blood.  This is the body . . .

So forgiveness is something that we need to have.  No credible
person has ever come forth to say anything more than Jackson
was good to them.  And he was not convicted of that of which
he had been accused.

Are we a nation of hypocrites?  Do we not believe
innocent until proven guilty?  Did not the State of California
have many many means with which to show what they accused
Mr. Jackson of to be . . . well . . . they couldn't show it.
So I don't believe it either.  
Ya the guy was stupid for being so child-like as to 
think that it was OK to be in the room with these kids.
And in my life I've known a bunch of folks, none of whom
are famous, who have their own delusional hopes.  They
think they have talent.  They want to be famous.  They 
aren't famous.  Do they have talent?
Micheal was famous and he had talent.  And being a little
bit eccentric, isn't it clear that he was living out as
an adult what he could not do as a child?

Wasn't he an amazing dancer?  Did you know that there
has been a dance craze at weddings where teenage girls
do a group 'Thriller' dance?  
Details off site here:
Article by Jim Shearer from Dec 2008
or that there are folks who have written out every move of the
Thriller dance? here: 
how-to for Thriller
choreography.
Also there are giant group dance events where
thousands of people preform the Thriller dance
(I didn't save a link for that one.  You can
web-search for it and find it easily enough)

So . . . anyone who doesn't get it that sadness but
also joy for a life that gave such talented presentation
of human rythmic joy, a person who, though flawed as we
all are, was someone who we watched grow up and saw 
become a beautiful flower of a man.  And then we watched 
as he seemed to pick the petals of himself off of himself.  We
saw his unease with his own form.  Why couldn't he see
himself as beautiful when everyone else so obviously did?
Didn't he get it that we loved him no matter what he 
looked like.
Ah, but he did get it.  He could totally change his look
and he was still the same gentle and frightened soul.
Afraid of not being loved.  Fearing that he didn't look
good enough, was some how not yet good enough, that
he wouldn't have the moves anymore.
Michael, if you don't think you had it you did.  And you
could have showed up on stage in a wheel chair on your
90th birthday and people that matter still would love
you and cheer for you.  You didn't have to die.  You 
didn't have to live your life with heavy drugs.

So who am I talking to?  All of you living . . . you
with great talent and you without it.  People do love you.
You don't have to feel alone or afraid.  You have more
blooms of life to come.

When I was but a lad and hanging around in clubs that
none of my friends would ever have admitted to going to
I remember one night in Boston being in an all-male dance
club somewhere near the theatre district (not in the zone,
all of you old time Boston folks know where that was).
This was a club like the old clubs used to be, the old
gay dance clubs.  And I was an in-the-closet guy living a
double life of sorts.  I would go to these clubs and be
a wall-flower (more like a wall-weed) and be scared and
not sure and afraid and have a beer andhave another beer
and not really get why guys have to act all affeminent
when that isn't what I liked (I didn't get it then, 
I was so afraid of life and love and couldn't even be real
about things to myself let alone strangers in a bar).
And then . . . (a drum roll)
And there I was, it was a seminal moment, when I first saw
Judy on stage (in an old crappy video tape on an old
style color television).
There was Judy at the Stonewall, I think it was the Stonewall,
and she looks high on something.  And she is weeping at the
microphone with her mascara running down her face and you
see how is ripped in two.  Her ruby heart is showing trough.
This is her in all the anquish of heartache and failure.

But the irony is, the total irony of it all, is that she
was at her very best right there and then.  She was like
Jesus with the lepers.  The gays back then were akin
to lepers as far as a lot of people saw it.  And Judy,
Queen of the Stage, was there at the Stonewall for them.

I left that bar that night and I don't remember if I went
home with anyone.  I don't remember if I went to another 
bar or drove back to Natick, or what I did.  I was probably 
21 that year.  Thought I was all grown up.  My double life
went on for years until finally I admitted it not
just to myself but to everyone else, Including my mom, that
ya, ma, I'm not getting married and you won't see me with any
kids.

It was hard.  But remembering Judy, and remembering Michael,
gives me strentgh.  What troubles do I have really?
Unemployed?  Well, so are a lot of people.  No vacation
this year? Life is a vacation in some ways.
No money for a new roof?  It doesn't rain all the time.
No money for a new car. . . well that does suck.

And to all of you who don't feel sad about the loss
of a great talent, and a true lover of life, a 
joyous soul who loved everyone . . . well . . .
I guess I have to just learn to get you now too.
And when I say 'get' I mean 'understand'.

So God Bless.


Here are links 
to The Coder's Edge (my software blog):

Linux Sound Enable One
Linux Sound Enable Two
Linux Sound Enable Three
Linux Sound Enable Four



Here are two poles waiting for a transfer.
 Location somewhere in greater Boston

Here is the waterfall at the South Natick Dam
The Beacon Free Library.

the artist, John Barents





July 5, 2009

B.P. 
the author, Bill Perilli



raw poems:
second poems third poems Michelle's poem fifth poems sixth poems

still blank:
poems 1 poems # 7 eighth poems
Psalm 18  from the King James Bible
Emmet Fox explains this psalm so brilliently!
10th poems 11th poems 
12th poems 13th poems

here are some grudge poems that maybe aren't for all eyes
typed in from the reflective blue star-covered notebook:
14th poems 15th poems
still blank pages to be filled later:
17th poems 18th poems 19th poems
20th poems
 more poemss, some still unused:
21st poems 22nd poems 23rd poems 24th poems 25th poems
26th poems 27th poems 28th poems 29th poems 30th poems
31st poems 32nd poems 33rd poems 34th poems 35th poems
36th poems 37th poems "I'm special" 38th poems 39th poems 40th poems

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