Author: Doug

Iran 2009 Now with Mullah Nasrudin

Iran 2009 Now with Mullah Nasrudin

The Grand Ayatollah

    Recently, it is reported, Mullah Nasrudin had seemed excited, but had said very slowly to his wife, “Finally I’ve made it home safely and I am alive… and now I have a thirst…”
    The Mullah’s wife, endeavoring to please him, interrupted him quickly. “Um, uh, oh yes: I am your soda, rose petals and mint. Add your yogurt to my virgin milk and I will do the dance of the veils.”
    “No, not that. I was going to say that I now have a great ‘thirst for life’ because I nearly died today.”
    “Again?” she muttered, but realizing she was speaking out loud, quickly said, “Oh dear. Tell me of today’s saga.”
    “I was riding my donkey towards the edge of a cliff, but I didn’t know there were any cliffs anywhere, and would have blissfully ridden to my death, had it not been for my hero who I’m recommending to be promoted to Grand Ayatollah.”
    “What qualifications does he have?”
    “Well, he speaks with a sticky tongue and catches insects.”
    The Mullah’s wife was puzzled. She presented a gentle interrogation: “I don’t understand — you had better explain how he saved your life.”
    “As I was riding towards my doom, a frog suddenly croaked loudly and startled the donkey. It rose up on its hind legs and threw me to the ground. Thus we avoided the cliff. As a good deed was done, I must reward the frog.”
    “Wait. What? You are going to ask that a frog be made a Grand Ayatollah?”
    “Yes, of course. Are there not many insects that buzz around the people?”
    “But…”
    “…and should not a noble tongue be sticky enough to remove the venomous words from the swamps of evil…”
    “But we don’t have any swamps nearby.”
    “And I don’t suppose you believe there are any cliffs to be avoided?”
    “Well, dear, I’m afraid I don’t understand, but if you must, write your letter as you always do and I will pray.”
    “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful. But now, with all this talk I am dry but I must say I have a thirst…”
    “Yes, I know dear, you have a ‘thirst for life’ . ”
    “No not that.”

Three Turban Ahmadinejad
(Three card Monte, Three-cup Trick shell game)

Written shortly after the 2009 Iranian presidential election, this tale was inspired by a feeling many Iranians had: that the votes had disappeared, replaced by sand, chips, and official smiles. Nasrudin, of course, thought he’d won.

Three Turban Ahmadinejad

Mullah Nasrudin couldn’t wait to tell his wife about his good luck at the Bazaar.

“But you were gone a long time and you’ve brought nothing back,” she said

“I discovered a new game at the Bazaar called “Three Turban Dinejad”

“What happened,”she said, “you have nothing.What’s this game?”

Mullah Nasrudin said, “One guesses.There are three turbans. Under one is 40 million ballots.”

“You saw this? How is it possible to fit 40 million ballots under one turban?”

“Well,” said Nasrudin, “they’ve been shrunk into mica & quartz chips — looks like sand.”

“You have to guess under which turban is a pile of sand?” Nasrudin’s wife said.

“Yes,” said Mullah Nasrudin, “and I guessed correctly and won a prize.”

Mullah Nasrudin’s wife was excited, “What’s the prize?”

“It’s a camel,” said Mullah Nasrudin.

The Mullah’s wife was puzzled. “Where is it?”

Mullah Nasrudin said, “It’s under my turban.”

Good Marketing in Times of Turmoil

Written after watching war coverage that felt indistinguishable from advertising. I don’t know what country this takes place in. Maybe ours.

Adopt A Martyr Lottery Machine

It’s in the Supermarket
between the frozen vegetables
and the fish monger concession

It takes credit cards or bills.
Many photos of women and children.

A charming photo
on my lottery card
the family I adopted

My adopted family on the news:
machine gunned to death; means
I won a prize: a million dollars. Now
I can afford sizable fresh fish.

Went across
from the vegetables
to buy a fish, and

showed the aproned man a copy
of my winning card. He

fell to the floor, flopping around
gasping for air, whispered
“My daughter, my daughter…
I told her not to join the revolution.”

I said,
how many pounds is the fish? He

didn’t answer so I shot him dead,
and several people had his card —
they all cheered because
some days are lucky
    ——-

Previously

Protest elegy (Beyond the Dust Storm)
Spiritual outcry (The Weeping Willow Sings)
Folkloric satire (Nasrudin Bumps Into Things)
Political farce (Nasrudin Becomes King)
    ——

What do you think about the famous Mullah Nasrudin (Nasruddin)? What do you think about these new tales written for modern times?

The Two Crazy Paths of a Morning Walk

The Two Crazy Paths of a Morning Walk

When You’re Walking Around With Your Eyes Wide Open
    by Douglas Gilbert

When you’re awake and fully conscious, someone might ask you, “Did you remember to buy cereal?” At that point you might have a fantasy image of the shelf at home and “see” the cereal, or you might have a fantasy about going to the store. You can be aware of two images at once. Your eyes are open and you’re fully awake and yet you “see” two images. Often you can do this without closing your eyes or looking away from what was your main focus, especially if it only takes a second. Would you say that at least sometimes you can be a fully awake duality? But there are examples of less awareness in the waking state? See what you think of the following:

Two Simultaneous Images

    Have you ever walked the same route so often that your body can do a trance dance or mambo dodging cars automatically—but your fantasy mind goes somewhere else entirely like a wild train-of-thought?
    You arrive at the train station without any memory of the in-between. And yet, you must have been aware enough to cross streets, avoid collisions, navigate. Two images were running at once:

     The “external” image—your surroundings, traffic, curbs, shadows.

     The “internal” image—a daydream, a memory, a mental rehearsal.

     Where was your consciousness? Are you of two minds?

     This is something I’ve come to call “eyes-wide-open double imaging.” It’s both haunting and fascinating.

    But of course many people do have to answer for their dilly-dally if they fall into that, and typically if they are late for work, they say,
    “I’m sorry I’m late for work, but I was abducted by a Flying Saucer on my way over here and they must have wiped part of my memory.”
    The boss says, “Y’know, you were up for a promotion… so take these keys.”
    He says, “Is this a key to a company car?”
    “No,” the boss explains, “this is a key to the Company UFO. We want you to pick up a few people on your way to work tomorrow.”
    “What’s this model called?”
    “It’s the Walter Mitty* Memorial Vehicle.”

    Has anyone else experienced this? Do you think this kind of dual perception says something deeper about the nature of awareness?
*James Thurber’s short story “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty”, first published in The New Yorker on March 18, 1939, and in book form in My World—and Welcome to It in 1942.

AI-Human Rasmus K. Robot, My Evil a.i. Twin Guest Post

AI-Human Rasmus K. Robot, My Evil a.i. Twin Guest Post

Germline Gene Editing

Changes to the DNA of early embryos was fully embraced by Dr. Khon-Ma Fúlánkěnsītǎn, formerly know as Dr. Suklha of Tibet. With the re-discovery of ancient techniques now known as CRISPR-Cas9 gene-editing, base editing, and prime editing, the revolutionaries were able to create an artificial intelligence / human hybrid or conscious Robot. Tiglekso: can something good come from a bad situation?

IVF Identical Twins, One in Evil Poetry Lost

In vitro fertilization(IVF) in secret lab. Breakthroughs in ancient times through unethical human experimentation. The guest author is Rasmus

Defective Identical Twins, One Evil, One Lost
    by Rasmus K. Robot

Born under a glass dish
I can’t dish at all

Oh vitro, oh no
been an embryo
with devil genes
and I’m rare
so rare
’cause

In IVF, I split in two
a twin and me

My brother stayed home
implanted in Mom
immediately

But I
to a secret lab
got smuggled for
gene editing, the fad
of the revolution

Atheist science
for the revolution
advance at all costs

Oh vitro, oh no
been an embryo
with devil genes
and I’m rare
so rare
’cause

They kidnapped me
from a dish for
an ambition for
the people
of the propaganda
leaders who

steal from the ancient wisdom
extract from the superstition
for the revolution

The collective advances
for the people’s science
and let a thousand blossoms bloom
stealing ancient secrets

Let
the sacred wall
hiding an entrance
be breached with explosives
leaders said, ’cause only fools think
in their peasant superstition that

it was sealed for a reason for
thousands of years

Oh vitro, oh no
been an embryo
with devil genes
and I’m rare
so rare
’cause
I know the reason.

Kidnapped to a lab.
It had been

a lab in
Baishiya Karst cave,
inhabited
by Goddesses
and seductive evil

An evil lab
from ancient times
breached,

It was sealed for a reason.
Knowledge from
the Goddess Khon-Ma:
secrets of DNA
secrets of gene editing was
never to be used again.

Ancient myths say
the Goddesses
stole eggs from
chosen women
of the village

Sometimes demon children
escaped from the cave
and went on killing sprees.

But in 1953
Dr. Suklha of Tibet
colluded with the invaders
and renamed herself
Dr. Khon-Ma Fúlánkěnsītǎn
after the Goddess and
Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.

Yes indeed the entrance was unsealed.
Forbidden rock breached,
the 30 mile passage in
Baishiya Karst cave had led
to the Goddesses lab with its
thought console of knowledge

In the West
Watson-Crick
had only just announced
the structure of DNA:
only a beginning.

I am of a rare sort:
a victim of a woman
known as Fúlánkěnsītǎn

No one knew about
the war crimes of
Khon-Ma Fúlánkěnsītǎn bóshì

New genes were added
to the mitochondria, for
extra power and

other genes
guided growth of
biological semiconductors
for massively parallel
artificial intelligence

parts of the brain
were usurped.

the artificial was like
a neural network
of distributed atheists
bounced around by
gods of probability
and random noise

seems like I’m
like the other shunned
half-humans,
I’m destined to kill

Tiglekso

Tiglekso

Utcoozhoo Says

The word ‘tiglekso” is the label for all that is encompassed. Tigleko doesn’t just mean “Don’t worry.” It is based on metaphors about deserts and what are saving graces and miracles. REF: The Atacama Desert has examples of Fog Dependent Trees.

Shades of Tiglekso

Many are bone shadows
in the sand

His tears were much
too salty for his tree

If his tree would not die
he could be buried
in its shade

A voice said: In Chile
remember the wandering —
when Fog is on its coast,
a tree in the desert will grow
if you throw fine netting over it because
fog will condense and
water drops will save it.

When there is fog
there is clarity of purpose.

The Javelin Thrower Has Seen God [Claim Not My Dead Sister (Version 6)]

The Javelin Thrower Has Seen God [Claim Not My Dead Sister (Version 6)]

The Poetry of Propaganda Can Be Deadly

The elites fully ripened theories have made poverty worse. More homeless, more drugs.Thus poetry breaks out:

The Javelin Thrower Has Seen God
    by Douglas Gilbert

From Urine Street:
Oh ugh, these greetings to
a brat Marxist, a pseudo-centrist Democrat,
a wandering Plutocrat from
Outer Pluto School, Geneva
who visit.

You owe me an apology because
I am so sad, not content in my tent so blue
where you offered me a needle, let me
hear, before tragedy struck, about my sister,

she
who had been
beautiful and perfect
loving me then at home, when

she played so well the part of Princess,
had made me think
that she, of course,
would escape fate and be glorious, yes
you let me know the news:
you owe me
because she is dead.

Oh Democrat, she was tied up, murdered, and raped,
just like the many others who
are never reported. A tragic play
turned real in an alley

The play of filthy politics
shows that guilt is extant

Believe me because
I used to be
a writer in blood

Sometimes there are
pools of blood on
Urine Street, or they say
ketchup lies
with spitted hope

You knew you should have saved her
by standing on the border of shame to resist
and by not succumbing to a Kabuki dance.

Maybe we’ll stage a play
in a puddle of blood
before it is covered with
debris and leaves. And
the guy under the plastic bag
is screaming:
“I’m gonna throw the javelin
in the Olympics when it comes.”
(He speared a rat once).

I can not understand life because
none of you self-appointed Saints
love me anymore

even though I have moments
of coherence, when even I
know the truth and I have a
last moment of coherence to say

give me my last rights
to be glorious because
I had a vision that
I was a person.

Do not claim
my sister was one of you

Soon we will be together
a Deplorable rabble
out with the trash. But

the javelin thrower
won’t be in the Olympics.
He was shot with an arrow

He says it was Cupid.
(all the women
hover over him)

He says
he has seen God.

No one else has.

I used to be a writer in ketchup
and now soon I’ll be written off
in blood.

Trump Is Truth, The Mainstream Is Lies

Trump Is Truth, The Mainstream Is Lies

Too Big To Rig

Boom times are coming
into my
view today

gonna make money
and my girl will be OK

Truth will make me happy
because
we will open our café

You gotta know that
people are grounded
in bliss today

We are common sense
and give us
common ground today

Hooray they just called it
at 2am today, yeah hey

This time it’s too late for them
to bring in
the vote of the dead, yeah

Sunshine makes me happy because
you will be mine.

We’re gonna have a family
and we’ll be fine

Boom times are coming
and energy has returned

Come all ye people
grounded and divine,
we’re going to serve you,
all of our wine

Just sing at our table
just because
truth is a wonder
and at our café
you’ll find

Trump is the truth now
and CNN is a lie

O come, all ye truthful
we have pancakes for
exultation, and

come make me
a rich man
so I can lift
all Angels

and you know that
she is my Angel, and

I have a ring for her, so
join me in my wedding bliss
and next year

I will adore you all
I promise

The Ghost of Shakespeare, A Brief New Candle

The Ghost of Shakespeare, A Brief New Candle

Shakespeare accidentally came to our séance with Esmeralda

He was angry that he was conjured up for the second time after a “Twilight Zone” episode years ago so he didn’t stay long and didn’t offer much. He said to dear Esmeralda:
“I haggle not forlorn with bitchy hags:
a spawn from molds, toady grief, a leap”

But we learned much from the lucubration of Esmeralda’s brief candle.

Shakyspeare’s Macbiden Act 1
    by Douglas Gilbert

Scene I. [A swamp near D.C.]

Magical thundersnow and hail. Enter the three Witches: Haardvard, Catombia, and Yalem.

Haardvard. In mischief to where did go ye old rumps?
All. Hail!
Yalem. In tales for sisters where in thundersnow?
Haardvard Regale us do.
An evil chore a familiar must dispatch.
Catombia. Went I and familiar cat to visit damned:
aloof incest’d elites and rabble trapped.
All. Damascus!
Catombia. Unholy factions flee
uncivil wars beguiling vulgar saints
to hide their souls among elites…
All. Damascus!
Catombia. but they’ll make deals to flee,
and those who sold their souls to me I turned
into birds of a feather for Graymalkin cat
All. Damascus! The mask’s us occult.
Catombia.
A Damascene can welcome tourist witches,
a cry for a prophecy in the mist of doom.

A shelling in Idlib, in Homs and Hama.
A business of evil fiends.
Damascus refuge sought of sorts, OK

untethered from a sane accounting proof
of proxy missiles raptured with
airported fiends. Oh hell, oh death,

the secret Shabiha intimidate
a nearby neighborhood avenged.

So violence came to narrow alleys
to mingle like plagues among tourists
a wrapping up of night wandering

A stray or two were accused –
disappeared by glass fronts and by street stalls
where walk-by tourists are stalled along narrow ways
on Midan street, and eye the high towers of
baklawa and night-market syrups on
pistachio-and-walnut secrets wrapped in
phyllo dough wrappings and raptured night
but oddly too I spied a beggar who
was selling Pyrrhic victories to tyrants
like chestnuts smoking on open coals
but I brought three toads to barter
not for mere chestnuts, so demanded I:
“My dear Jinni, I must have the coals
for a Delaware plagiarist.”
When he offered a hat
I said that my imposter
is not a cowboy who’s
“All hat and no cattle”;
no, this cursed poseur
is not a coal miner but
a canary in a minor key
making a Kinnock speech.
Haardvard and Yalem. So you undo the wishes of politicians?
Catombia. I do but then to practice I found those
who sell their souls to flee.
Haardvard and Yalem. A tell-all can intrigue us! A spew for stew!
a spell out for a cauldron do tell us.
Catombia. I undid a wish to flee as men
and turned them into birds for my dear demon cat:
and my Graymalkin caught a bird to demand a favor.

Drums and Thunder

Yalem. A drum, a drum!
Macbiden here comes.
All. Speedy sharks of the sea
thus do thrash about, a stout
threefold to yours, triple to mine,
and of three again to spell up, nine.
Peace! The cat wine ages.

ENTER MACBIDEN

Macbiden. I am afeard. What monsters,
what demons are these? They seem to be of Nature
and yet such grotesque swamp creatures can not be.
If you be living and real, are you able to speak?
Haardvard. All hail Macbiden great, Bane of Glamware.
Catombia. … Macbiden, great vain of vice for Othello.
Yalem. All hail Macbiden that shalt be King hereafter.

MACBIDEN STUMBLES BACKWARD

Macbiden. Mud pix ilglitch dysviled repugnant cur:
From whom would torment be a courier
for sister’s pester like a locust swarm.
To question I’ve found marbles’ scruples lost
not knowing which Good Witch is the Bad
a Witch or nüwu 女巫, wunü 巫女, wupo 巫婆, and
of China a wuyu 巫嫗 who bring gold for favors
or has my son just dusted me with Florida Snow?

Oh vile creatures, though I celebrate your prophesies
I feel as if a dickensian ghost can not be real, and my Father
said “Joey, when you have bad dreams, son rest —
the dog-faced pony soldier throws you off
a horse with a canary in a coal mine dark.
Do not be troubled but go to the beach house, and
incorporate a shell for fortune’s brand.”
What?
Haardvard. Nefarious neglect o’ raconteur:
delightedly we take thee at thy feigned
assumed impervious braggadocio
befalling an unwise unchaste elder
who lies with slanderous glee spitdoodled.
<Macbiden. Oh wretched fiends beyond gratuitous
invective, do as I fear you have come
to do and tease me more with prophesy
if it would entertain with much ado.
All. Fun, fun, fun.
Macbiden. Pray tell…

    Rustling sounds behind some cattails and royal ferns

All. Now heed our warnings…
Haardvard. Attend to bedeviling friends touched:
of Malosi and Shoe, murmurs of a coup d’sigh —
just past October 7 ding dong giggle loons lie, so
beware the left wing dissembling vultures on high

LADY MACBIDEN COMES OUT FROM BEHIND THE CATTAILS AND ROYAL FERNS

Lady Macbiden. Behave ye child of hallucination.
Command I do: obey your elder teacher thus
’cause if I’d endeavor to pretend
to surrender a jargon, I’d ask what references
have you on the occult with stats and charts?
All Witches. Pay you will for insults! Though
as unafraid you appear, ask
about your fates and charming falls
Lady Macbiden. I beg your pardon. I am pedant coach, but
regarding nethervex occult enticed
agast I’ve been facilitator too
of dark arts and crafts for students, thus
do gift me with a prophesy stunning
to shock us for ‘r common cause ambition
supporting our familiars, little spouses we support
in lust for power ‘n’ wardrobe of fame

LADY MACBIDEN KISSES HER HUSBAND

Lady Macbiden. So I beseech you, do tell…
So my husband will be King?
All witches. No!
Lady Macbiden. What then?
Catombia. He will be Emperor without portfolio or wardrobe.
Lady Macbiden. The costume of rank can always be assigned
to ad hoc tailors who’re weavers of tales:
a matter of adding stuffing to a turkey thesis sham.
Yes then, for a thanksgiving I’d be glamorous
Yalem. Yes, you will be a magazine Czarina. Hurumph.
Haardvard Wait, and assume nothing. First
there will be two plagues — one by Lady Deplorable
who will be awarded the prestigious
L’ordre des Arts et des Lettres pour un
Dossier of Russian Libel and
one plague from China.
Catombia. Yes, but before, a tragedy.

MACBIDEN IS STARTLED

Macbiden. Emperor?
Catombia. Sir, merely a little allusion and hyperbole…
Yalem. But before all befalls, one son will die…
Macbiden. No, that can not be, Not now or ever…
All witches. This fate is set as certain as a sunset.

LADY MACBIDEN HUGS HER HUSBAND

Haardvard. Yet death can string along a dirge to sigh.
Unfret: postmortem auspicious days will bring a triple
of Chinese witches bearing solace fine,
a potion, and emoluments as you
hang out at the Macbiden Center for
Confucius Whim Engagement, and indulge.

Ny Svensk Poesi Mot Ångest

Ny Svensk Poesi Mot Ångest

Poesi för icke-akademiker är död på de flesta språk

Den är från en vandrande poeten som vilar sin trötta revidering två här vid tröskeln.

Denna andra version har vandrat runt.

Detta har vandrat runt i översättning från Utd’mbts till engelska till svenska till engelska till svenska.

Jag Är Angelägen Om Att Se Dig (2) [ poesi ]
   av Douglas Gilbert

Oroa dig inte (Jag har blåst dig en kyss)
Lyssna

Du har mognat med mig
hurra! Denna slig kärlek, ja,
de säger att det välsignar nåväl
alla som berörs av oss.

De säger ett par, men
ja, jag bär dig över problem
eller så kan du stöta på det själv
som en idrottare eller krigare för rättvisa;
hur du än vet spela det
bara att vara den du vill vara.
Hoppa högt och gå med mig för balans
när vi kan vandra gudomligt tillsammans.

dansa på ett eller annat sätt
det kommer att bli kul även om du går
söka eller gömma för då

du kommer att dyka upp igen
med uppenbarelsen:
dina bedrifter,
frågar försiktigt efter min

Men alltid
Jag önskar att du var hemma

Men ja, det är okej
att springa lös i världen

Du vet att jag älskar att se dig dansa
se dig utvecklas
vi ses

Hej, magnifik
du har doften av framgång
hej go tjej gå, och
jag älskar det du gör
njut av din parfym

Jag har en present till dig.
Åh, låt oss bli förvånade
att vi äntligen är fria att flyga
i varandras begrundan att
vi är vår bästa fullbordan
där glädje når bortom orgasm.

Ibland faller jag för ångest
när frihetstid
separerar

Jag vill känna mig som ja
Jag har alltid varit älskad.

En Första Ångest Poesi Översättning Av Den Engelska Dikten (Swedish)

En Första Ångest Poesi Översättning Av Den Engelska Dikten (Swedish)

Poesi från osäker engelska till osäker uttrycksångest på många språk.

Nåväl, det här har varit lätt. Jag översatte min dikt från Utd’mbts till engelska till bosniska till svenska till dålig engelska till bättre engelska till svenska till dålig engelska till bättre svenska till bättre engelska till bättre kanske svenska, men vem vet och jag får aldrig veta. Jaja.

Jag Är Angelägen Om Att Se Dig

Oroa dig inte (Jag har blåst dig en kyss)
Lyssna

Du har mognat med mig
hurra! Denna kärlek, ja,
de säger att det välsignar
alla som berörs av oss.

Ingen fara, kolla in det:
Ja, jag bär dig eller inte
vad du än vill vara

dansa på ett eller annat sätt
det kommer att bli kul även om du går
söka eller gömma för då

du kommer att dyka upp igen
med uppenbarelsen:
dina bedrifter,
frågar försiktigt efter min

Men alltid
Jag önskar att du var hemma

Men ja, det är okej
att springa lös i världen

Du vet att jag älskar att se dig dansa
se dig utvecklas
vi ses

Hej, magnifik
du har doften av framgång
hej go tjej gå, och
jag älskar det du gör
njut av din parfym

Jag har en present till dig.
Åh, låt oss bli förvånade
att vi äntligen är fria att flyga inträngda
i varandras tro att vi är
vår bästa orgasm
som glädje

Ibland faller jag för ångest
när frihetstid
separerar

Jag vill känna mig som ja
Jag har alltid varit älskad.