These are the facts, nothing here but the facts. I was on the road to Damascus via a street in the West Village in New York City, when, in an instant, barometric pressure had dropped 100 MB. Darkness enveloped an eleven-o’clock-morning sun. It may have been a trick of the mind, or some kind of serious panic disorder. Although I could no longer see, I pictured myself a child on a visit to my great grandmother's house in La Salle, Illinois. In my head I felt as though a tornado was approaching...
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I saw clouds beneath me. Above me stars shinned. They had an intensity ten times the brightness Of any star I have ever seen from earth. I was fifteeen leagues from the moon. And my swans began to slow. They were panting and blowing, Grasping for breath.
Part 3. fromOH, CHICAGO, White City Suite 3. River View, the amusement park, sat down the block From my first high school, its Ferris Wheel dominated That side of the North Branch of the Chicago River. Readers, please, excuse the free thinking. I go to the time, The year my great grandfather, John, Came the one hundred miles from La Salle, Illinois, To Chicago, he wanted to see the lights, the World's Fair, The white city, magic, and when he returned, home, He told tales about the town on Lake Michigan, How great and many its marvels twenty-years after the Fire. He, my great grandfather, he returned home, Home to the dark of the Illinois River valley, To gas-lit streets, to a wife and children, Who lit the wicks of single candles Or kerosene, hurricane lamps to climb The steps to their bedrooms at night. When he told the family about alternating current, Chicago ablaze in the middle of the night, He ignited in my grandmother lust. She wanted a part, She sought the grandeur; She was no longer happy at home, What darkness, the narrow, a woman’s common lot, The drudgery of hand laundry, the knowledge that, As often she had openly lamented, “Yes, I was born too soon.” No easy task, ironing the household’s apparel With an implement heated atop a wood-fired stove, Early to bed, early to arise, the great bore, Small town life, it was said she would bed the devil -- And some claimed she had -- she wanted out, escape. She married my grandfather, an itinerant painter, Who went from town to town painting church murals. And following the grand cliche, Grandpa drank his liquor as others might milk from a jar. And he added to his cocktail’s already heady mix, The family’s romance says, he had bad habit, He moistened the stylist between his lips; And we know, the paint those days had lead for its base. Her husband, my grandfather promised my grandmother Life, incandescent, excitement, magic, And the possibility of dreams come true, Right there on the flat lands off the shore of the Lake. Remember, the new town rose up from the old, Up from the ashes, why, it was a resurrection! Please! Do not tell me there was not real truth to the story, Had not the Whites been rescued? Was it not a miracle? They had escaped from the Indians, The massacre at Fort Dearborn. My grandmother sought energy, electric, the moment, She wanted a big-time story, no small-town idyll. She desired city burning, burning bright, resplendent. Oh Chicago! It is from you that I have my life
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TweetAs of this date my YOUTUBE Channel registers 253,000 + Single Page Visits, Video Views! A Google Search of the termsStanley Pacion YouTubeyields a result count of thousands. Please SUBSCRIBE BUTTON TO SEE HER AGAIN, April 2015* And never, never more to see her form, Not even a glimpse of her, Not in the nights filled with trembling stars, Or at noon when the Creator's bright Feeds and graces every living thing, How do I believe that I may never see her again? Never, never, again, to witness her walking, Her walking with me on the hard, fast dirt of the bridle path, Along the river, underneath the shadow of trees, Her leaping up over the embankment Then hastening away upon The white-washed stones of the causeway, How now might I accept that I may never see her again? I wonder if she remembers the bridge, the one Topping the low-rise concrete dam there at New Hope? I told her as we looked to the river below That nothing had sufficient strength, That no material exists to control the overflow, Is there nothing to contain my flood of feelings for her? How else might I relate my mood? Ask the pertinent question? Never, never, again, to eye her fleshly presence, Entangled, standing in the tresses of the forest, Or stooped, gathering strawberries, picking them One by one from the plants, her, the image of her, Her out between the raised earth rows And inbetween the shallow in the farm garden fields, That now and forever such vision is no more, How am I ever to conclude so terrible a destiny? And here at home I walk the big-city sidewalks, Remain alone while the night, the late hours envelop me. My cries echo, repeat my anguish. Through the empty parking lots and off the brick walls, Against building after building, My voice carries, yet seemingly I am not heard, Though occasionally some one person may look, Shake a head from side to side at my sorry spectacle, Most people hurry past, eyes down, as if I do not exist, But what about the reality of my situation? Over and over, I hear myself implore her to return to me. Should I not, and is it not better to forget her? Oh, no! To see her again, It does not matter when Not important, makes no difference, where. Were I to tilt my head upwards and behold, If today should I have glimpse her in the daylight heavens, Her smile, her eyes upon me, And then to watch her again as she flashes The moment of her wonderous gait, see her again before She disappears lost in a sky configured within magic wisps Which move her, wheel her along Against a deep, blue patch of sky, Until she vanishes against the vastness of the heaven's vault. Mercy grant my wish! Or perhaps tomorrow I chance a vision. Imagine a ship going down, and all its glory sinks, Down, down into the Sailors’ Locker, Would it be possible that she still surfaces, That I have sight of her, no matter what all else disappears? Yes! She rises above a whirlpool force, I see her again over a watery vortex, yes, She above a swirling ocean power, unsinkable, Albeit now the sun has set, And moon's light is the scene's sole illuminate? Oh, no! To see her again, and to view her in the moment When the volcano opens And I am on the edge before the lurid, red hell-mouth, And witness its demons’ roaring spew of steam and ash, Yet even though such terror-instant befalls me, I do not flinch. I am steadfast. I have no fear of misadventure. I look into the conflagration. I do not plug my ears, I listen, And from within earth’s deep, far-away core, Amidst the Hurley burly of all the explosions, Within the lightning claps and clamor, The mad noise of boulders being thrown, I hear it! I hear her name, Etta, Etta! I see her face and lovely shape, She, she dances above the fires! Yes, I admit her deviltry besets me. And to be with her in all the spring times, And in all the winters, Entwined in paroxysm of mighty-muscle clench, While I suck up the blood from her neck, And spot her flesh all over, Make it black and blue with the power of my caresses, Should I ever hold her in my arms, Might Hope let me see her again.
*After Gabriela Mistral's Love Poem -- The Chilean and Noble Prize for Literature, poet, Gabriela Mistral had entitled her poem, Volverlo a Ver, or To See Him Again. I do not hope to translate her great verse. Rather its spirit was the inspiration for my own.
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LOVE
WISH*
I
see the light coming out from your eyes. What
sacred wonder illuminates your face? Wish
I had the time and nothing else to do, But
while away the hours adoring you.
*A
original love poem which I modelled after a verse by Jalāl ad-Dīn
Muhammad Balkhī, also known as Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī, and
more popularly in the English-speaking world simply as Rumi. He was
a 13th-century Persian poet.
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MOST EXCELLENT OF WOMEN She was a Lady who never choose to quit me. I can not count one bad word, Not so much as a moment of ill humor between us. At the stroke of the hour marking the time Precisely two years after we had been married, She gave me the birth to a son, Whose good name was the same as my own. The baby survived his mother, And he became my sole devotion. I nursed him insistantly, never leaving his side. In the whole-wide-world no ayah could ever be found: No one matched the ministry of me, this boy's father. Praise God, Your Will not ours be done. Within the month of my child's arrival a bad fever killed him.
Mericifull Almighty! Thank you for the joy and the glory of your bounty, For everything You have brought me each day. She was a lady who never choose to quit me. I can not count one bad word, Not so much as a moment of ill humor between us.
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ONSLAUGHT Too much history, Decade after decade, year after year, With me subject to the merciless attack of the clock. Last night and into the dawn, wide-awake, Sleepless, watching the walls record the extending bright, Feeling that I have begun to crack all over, like an antique jar. Then at noon at last a nap, I arise again as the magnified voice of a late-day Call to prayer increasingly pours over the open window sill And fills the room. “We all owe death a life.”
And
never, never more to see her form, Not
even a glimpse of her, Not
in the nights filled with trembling stars, Or
at noon when the bright light Feeds
and graces every living thing, How
do I believe that I may never see her again?
Never,
never, again, to witness her walking, Her
walking with me on the hard, fast dirt of the bridle path, Along
the river, underneath the shadow of trees, Her
leaping up over the embankment Then
hastening away upon The
white-washed stones of the causeway, How
now might I accept that I may never see her again?
I
wonder if she remembers the bridge, the one Topping
the low-rise concrete dam there at New Hope? I
told her as we looked to the river below That
nothing had sufficient strength, That
no material exists to control the overflow, Is
there nothing to contain my flood of feelings for her?
How
else might I relate my mood? Ask
the pertinent question?
Never,
never, again, to eye her fleshly presence, Entangled,
standing in the tresses of the forest, Or
stooped, gathering strawberries, picking them One
by one from the plants, her, the image of her, Her
out between the raised earth rows And
the troughs in the field of the farm garden, That
now and forever such visions are no more, How
am I ever to conclude so terrible a destiny?
And
here at home I walk the big-city sidewalks, Remain
alone while the night, the late hours envelop me. My
cries echo, repeat my anguish.
Through
the empty parking lots and off the brick walls, Against
building after building, My
voice carries, yet seemingly I am not heard, Though
occasionally some one person may look, Shake
a head from side to side at my sorry spectacle, Most
people hurry past, eyes down, as if I do not exist, But
what about the reality of my situation?
Over
and over, I hear myself implore her to return to me.
Should
I not, and is it not better to forget her?
Oh,
no! To see her again, It
does not matter when Not
important, makes no difference, where, If
today should I glimpse her in the heavens, Were
I to tilt my head upwards and behold Her
smile, her eyes upon me, watch again her wonderful walk, Up
there before me configured within a magic wisp of cloud, Moving,
wheeling along against a deep, blue patch of sky,
Mercy
grant my wish!
Or
perhaps tomorrow I chance a vision. Imagine
a ship going down, and all its glory sinks, Down,
down into the Sailors’ Locker, Would
it be possible that she still surfaces, That
I have sight of her, no matter what all else disappears, She
rises above a whirlpool force, I
see her again over a watery vortex, yes, She
above a swirling ocean power, unsinkable, Albeit
sun has set, And
moon's light is the scene's sole illuminate?
Oh,
no! To see her again, and to view her in the moment When
the volcano opens And
I am on the edge before the lurid, red hell-mouth, And
witness its demons’ roaring spew of steam and ash, Yet
even though such terror-instant befalls me, I
do not flinch. I am steadfast. I
have no fear of misadventure. I
look into the conflagration. I
do not plug my ears, I listen, And
from within earth’s deep, far-away core, Amidst
the Hurley burly of all the explosions, Within
the lightning claps and clamor, The
mad noise of boulders being thrown, I
hear it! I hear her name, Etta, Etta! I
see her face and lovely shape, She,
she dances above the fires!
Yes,
I admit her deviltry besets me.
And
to be with her in all the spring times, And
in all the winters, Entwined
in paroxysm of mighty-muscle clench, While
I suck up the blood from her neck, And
spot her flesh all over, Make
it black and blue with the power of my caresses, Should
I ever hold her in my arms,
Might
Hope let me see her again. *After
Gabriela Mistral's Love Poem -- The Chilean and Noble Prize for
Literature, poet, Gabriela Mistral had entitled her poem, "Volverlo a
Ver," or, "To See Him Again." I do not hope to translate her great verse.
Rather its spirit was the inspiration for my own.
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KISS ME ONCE, Kiss Me Twice… I sing tonight. It's the ol' Babalu. Though tired and drawn, I am called. I hear the knock at the door. The prophecy takes hold. The school lessons progress. The command of language strengthens. The student seems eager. Dimension gains hold. Dreams of tomorrow grow. Wishes come true. New life looms on the horizon. Fantasy becomes reality. The promises burgeon. There is pregnancy of parts; Ocean of delight lies before us! Hello! Darling, hello! “Kiss me once, kiss me twice. Then kiss me once again.” I want your lips on mine. “It's been a long, long time.”
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FIRE IN THE BRAIN Children watch me run through the streets, And wonder, what is it all about, my hurrying. My eyes push forward, Cause me to squint. Then all at once I break into a smile. And night after night in steady flow Ideas collect, press fierce, Hard against my brow. The pressure makes for heat; There is fire in the brain. I hear words march with noise Akin to soldiers' boots slapping on pavement. I see your gaze upon me. The beauty of your large brown eyes Engulfs my neural circuitry. Oh I smell wheat grass! It's being blended with fresh strawberries and oranges. I love the juices' heady odor, When ever I breathe it in -- I am reminded of you. We looked out the window. We sat upon stools at a Formica bar, A long, plate-glass window provided unobstructed view, And we people watched the intersection, Corners at avenue and street, the sidewalk before us, They became our theater, and we agreed; It was pleasant evening's entertainment. Pressed, cardboard cartons contained our suppers. We ate our meals with plastic forks and knives; The napkins were brown, recycled paper. Believe me, no irony intended. Honest! Every memory, every instant My being with you, every occasion was lovely! I shall die a happy man. Die a happy man? Here's my defense. However I may wonder, Whether ultimately I write fact or fiction. Do I possess truth or fall to illusion? I know that those two forces bind me, As is the case with Siamese Twins, Who are born to share common cerebrum.
In a language plain, common to us all, Here I stand and bear witness, Though that I am mere flesh and born to perish, Spirit informs me and grants me friends, Friends who are awaiting worship, And friends of friends who celebrate the light, A priesthood of all believers who patiently gather Filling the rows of benches in the meeting hall. And one by one this church affirms a new covenant -- God is love and death has no power, The kingdom lives within us, our souls eternal.
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LOVE POETRY, Lost Without You How about some love poetry? Right now I am so desperate for your touch That I can barely speak, let alone write a thing. I could walk out the door into the hallway And scream with such ferocity The neighbors might think I have taken leave of my senses. When I think of food, Nothing compares to how I savor you. When I contemplate delightful vision, You are the only vision in my eyes. I love all music, But no sound is better than your voice. I await every telephone call, And lead you with questions, Just to hear the timbre of your talk, which I adore. Nothing makes me sadder than a bad connection. Oh! Baby! I love your smell. Intoxicated and pathetic, I make the bed, And fluff the pillows, I do so expecting the redolence of you. And when you are gone, Even after a day or two, And your aroma is lost, I am lost, too. At wits end, I circle the bed, And pace the bedroom floor, like some pet Whose master has not returned home. I am frantic without the fresh smell of you.
Monday, July 21, 2014
Allow me to use my Google Blog to congratulate to my son, Alexander Pacion, for his MTV 2014 Video Music Award nomination --
BEST ART DIRECTION EMINEM "Rap God" Alex Pacion, art director
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A DREAM OF YOU, Desert Vision, Parts 3, 4 & 5 3. I remember Central Avenue, Phoenix, Arizona, Danny’s store packed with Native American silver, All properly displayed: bracelets, necklaces and rings, On racks, in trays, locked within showcases, And on clear glass shelves, velvet pads, and boxed trays, Hosting jewelry of turquoise, coral, and black onyx Along with mother of pearl, abalone, Plus agates mined and cut to display their fire, And Alexander, my son, maybe eight, no more than ten, His years of age at the time, playing behind the counters, Next to the shotguns, diagonally propped, On the floor twelve-gauge shells in open boxes, Ready, should there be an extended engagement. I share with you the times when, flying in From Dallas, the grand noise, engines’ reversal To land at Sky Harbor, the ground crew, How they scrambled, and then, Wheeled up the staircase, The platform for debarkation, and me, I would descend The steps full-tilt straight onto the tarmac, Fahrenheit, ninety-five degrees in early morning, A rental car awaited me, and I was off over to Dog Track, To the swap meet that was unfolding and I sought The cowboy named, Roadrunner, who always had Tons of loot, the goods, every Sunday he brought a haul. Though at his point, it, more dream than reality, I recall the very special meeting, when traders Lined up, raised hands, and one after the other, Volunteered to say that jewelry great here and Declared that whosoever is welcomed into The lounge camper, who greets the Navajo, Both the man and wife and acts with propriety, Slights his eyes and keeps in camera in the holster, And the traders at the meeting continued their delaration Saying that the person who watches the children playing, Their running across the white gravel parking lot, Left and right, up and down, then unto the asphalt sidewalk, Who enjoys those moments When the young ones stop And form a line to refresh themselves from The water-cooled, stainless steel, floor-pedal fountain, (It stood next to the right side of the pari-mutuel windows) Who knows that the bright-sparkling, that eye of the desert, Quenches every human thirst and brings joy to the moment,
Upon that person, who has witnessed design, Who has abstracted anagram from within All the children’s scurry, who traces, Out upon the open parking space, meaning, Who divines new vision, Who is able to see within the minds’ eye, the dance, The dance the holy ones once danced in godly regalia, That person, who hears within the youngsters' feet The drums, the rhythms which ancestors had orchestrated, So to let go, leave this material world, And find entrance to separate reality, The traders at the meeting, in-order, one-by-one, Both arms raised up on high, heads flung back, Palms stretched and fingers spread wide apart, As though they reached and pressed upon the sky, Called upon Great Talking God to sanctify their wish. It was at that moment, the glory of it all, They stopped and asked if one such person was present, There at assembly of Sunday traders at the swap meet The question became would there be any one to step forward, Would anyone acknowledge the gift? And when I answered, yeah They bestowed their most precious title upon me, And between the ghosts and the human beings The word rang and cemented the union, ‘Friend’. 4. Later that Sunday morning, I felt good magic When a child ran up behind me, He quickly, then, touched the back of my hand, and laughing aloud he scurried away. At noon, I met a Mexican friend up on South Mountain. His house was painted a bright, distinctive blue. I bought more jewelry and got into my car, I took the Express Way North, exited at Bell Road, And headed to way out west of the city. At one point, I passed the shopping mall, I thought about Monday’s appointments, How a salesman's lot means he sits, Marks time to wait his turn with buyers. Late that afternoon on the concrete patio, The one surrounding The big swimming pool at the Community Center, I buck-danced to the beat, which played On the rock an’ roll, radio station. Although it was already that Sunday’s dusk, And the day’s high temperature had receded, It still was ninety, over ninety degrees, When I pulled up a lounge chair, sat back And watched Alexander practice dives off the high board. 5. Even then, it was long ago, and in Phoenix, It was you! Darling, I had been waiting for you; The desert air brought me a waking vision, The shimmering, the uplifts, the vertical lines, Up, upward, shafts of heat rising Out across the desert vista, Now I recognize it was a dream of you, And this, my verse was racing, I flashed on a fast and mighty steed; I road atop a beast, it galloped through my mind, Yet I had command -- I managed to pull in the reins, Halted its furious run, tied the horse up to the rail at the tip, I hitched the reins to the post at the tip of my tongue. While I watched the colors of the sunset, as I heard The splash of the practiced head-first dives, I was reciting poetry, not out loud, but to myself, Though I knew not its power, no idea of the prophecy, I knew not the meaning of that woman, Who I glimpsed, Whose image I caught from from the corner of my eye, Who walked out among the columns of earth fever, And stood next to the Saguaros in the twilight, Who appeared in an instant out on the horizon, Seemingly, her feet upon the hard scrub of the desert, Yet before she disappeared, she nodded, It was as if she had sanctioned the voice, The true heart of these lines, The cadences and syntax I repeat from once upon a time And now so long ago, she blessed me And today at the keyboard, she grants me These words, this lyric I use to describe a dream of you. Long before I had ever made your actual acquaintance, A figure in the landscape, I saw you, your form, at a time prior to when you were born. At the airport, upon my once-again departure From the Valley of the Sun to my New-York-City market, Security stopped me, I stood In a booth whose sliding curtains dropped to the floor, The jewelry I carried in my on-board luggage, X ray showed a concentrated jumble of metal, And as I awaited the woos and ahs of personnel, When they inspected my bags before I boarded the aircraft, It was then that I began to wonder, and it remains Fresh today, as clear in my mind as events Which might have happened only yesterday. It was then I began to wonder, when you, When your love might saunter in, and make life complete.
