Poem for a Palindromic Bro

A December 21st Poem

for My Dear Brother Eddie

My brother’s fifty-two.
So here’s a little rhyme.
His birthday’s ten days past.
But today’s even more sublime.

For if there’s any little thing.
To give his aging engines charge.
It’s a palindrome of numbers.
On calendar writ large.

Now what’s a vice prez wannabe…
…have to do with Ed? you ask.
No, no! Not that Palin,silly.
He’s in Cleveland, not Alask.

No, we’re talking about a word.
Line, sentence, number or verse.
That means the very self same thing.
Read forward or in reverse.

From earliest memory ’till present.
My big brother’s shown me the path.
To seeing funny patterns in things.
And playing games with math.

I remember when he showed me at 8.
That numbers sometimes lie.
Hey, Eddie himself would be a palindrome.
But for that pesky little “i”.

And so in 09′s final days.
With his birthday past by 10.
And my own recent birthay.
A multiple of ee-lev-EN.

I give this gift of poem.
To my beloved mother’s son.
I wish him a happy birthday.
But even more, a happy twelve twenty-one!!!

© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon

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Ad in back of…

Tabloid. Newsletter with insights. One subscriber. Letter to editor. Falls in love over correspondence. Turns out to be his unsupportive step sister, and she knew and loved him all along.
Sent on the Now Network™ from my Sprint® BlackBerry

© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon

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Da Parness Pour Tansey

The parness pour tansey
Up ultimate
Go dansey

fettered all the while
basie and goodman
ellington style

phillys do but jenny don’t
neither knows over
the ways that won’t.

Be it do it set it free
axes of ultimate
gobbledee glee

© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon

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Radial Rusty

The lessson was born back in the day when certain schoolkids thought it good sport to step a vicious ball-of-foot on the back of another’s shoe. Sneaking up from behind these naredowells would deliver the dreaded flat tire, an affront — or aback it should be better said — more to the ego than to flesh and bone. Not to say that many a bone leadingg to the heel wasn’t bruised or skin risen like ruffled feathers beneath a newly pinking sock. But the wound was more to the ego. It was just after suffering my fifth such attack in less than two school days that a plan I now consider dreadful was delivered to my unprotected brain. I say “delivered” because I accept no blame for the idea. It just popped up, really. I know that I am guilty for having acted on it, and I live with my fate.

Having served my time in Juvi Hall and been released with two promises — one overt and the other silently understood — I bear the cross of a thousand Jesuses, though the flesh wounds of holy nails are not mine. The overt promise was that I would not do such a thing again as had brought me there. As my first go round at fighting back had earned me a reputation as someone not to be trifled with, such an action wasn’t necessary in any case, so there was no skin off my heel on account of that guarantee. It was the second promise, the unsaid, that has doomed me to the thousand pound weight of unendingly painful restraint.

I was made to understand, you see, that a good fellow would portray contrition constantly and without armor crack. Contrition and contrition alone would do if I was to be regarded as rehabilitated. It matters not that the regarding was only in the eyes of the one time jailers, none of whom would be with me to regard any further. Nevertheless, their imprint on my psyche was — and was known by them to be — ultimate. So profound indeed was their steel bootprint that it compelled me from the inside out all the days of my life to play the obligitory promethean pentitence as if they, like a panel of gods, looked down from the curtain tracks as humorless, harsh critics, curtain to curtain, day after oppressively theatrical day.

But just beneath the reach of the boot track of my one time all time jailers, somewhere near soul’s edge, remained the everlastingly ignightable evil glee, glowing steadfastly. Eternally. Sweet, sweet revenge knows no limits in its satisfaction to the ego, no matter its temporal price.

Pride, though the soul’s enemy in the ether, is its inextricable partner from the vantage of physicality.

And oh how sweet that bloody day was. Who could think a foot could bleed so much! Cascading waves of electric joy frame my edges and explode orgasmically from my insides to my borders and back again when I become aware of the emotional memory. I say become aware because once you’ve had it, the feeling never quite goes away. Deep within me this seemless pleasure lies, ironically sustaining me through a painful life caused solely by its very existence and, of course, decency’s dictation that it be concealed.

© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon

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Mediums in a Misty Midst

At the culmination of arduous legs on parched journeys in search of the not-so-famed Oracle of Dromedary, our very own Martin, upon finally gazing into the ize of said wise man, could think of only one question to put forth. “Hey,” he staccato blurted, bringing forth his inner Tommy Chong. “Is the plural of medium media or mediums? I mean like, I know the plural of medium as in materials — y’know — that’s media, but how about a channel for the spirt, like you man? Like, is that mediums? I mean those?”

“Man is but a tube of paint,” came the silky smooth if pseudo cryptic response. “And each day the heavenly creator squeezes what is required from him, until all that remains of us is a stained and crinkled old container, ready for recycling.”

“Yeah, man.”

“And thou shalt treat that container with reverence, especially in its later years, for it bears the fingerprints of the Divine.”

“Whoa. Divine, man!,” Martin beamed, then forgot to resist a comment on pop culture then and now. “And you’re not just talking about that fat dude dressed up as a lady. Travolta sucked in that remake by the way. Not really, I just wanted to say that. Huh, huh,” Martin bubbled off.

All smiled blissfully.

“But mistake not any of the tubes for that ultimate, Heavenly paintng which G_d uses our inner essence to create.”

“Well wait a sec. I don’t know about that dude. I’ve seen some funky ass works of art made from what most people would think are leftovers. Did you ever see that house on South Street in Philly, man? Or that ‘Throne of the Third Heaven’ guy down in DC? Like, I don’t know man. Couldn’t the tubes themselves be part of a creation without you ever noticing it. I mean, like, some wider aspect of a bigger ‘It’? Like I don’t want to offend you man, but maybe you need to open up a little more.”

The oracle bowed.

© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon

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Ert — all frazzled up. Compare to inert

Continent — able to control your arse. Compare to incontinent

Ept — capable. Compare to inept

Ane — sensible, significant. Compare to inane

© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon

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Coin Shop insurance

Bolly is a serial small scale scamster who cooks up at schem for opening up a coin shop in order to commit insurance fraud. He opens up his hobby shop, loading the shelves with cheap supplies and coin related books. He makes documentable purchases, mostly on credit, of expensive collectable coins with a total wholesale value of about $100,000. Once he fills the display cases with common junk pieces he opens up for business and quietly sells off the good stuff one piece at a time at coin shows out of state, using the proceeds to pay back creditors in the order of the squeakiest wheel first.

Having broken even, Bolly bides his time, waiting for the inevitable robbery and his insurance payday. While he’s waiting he puts on a good show of things, playing the role of a coin enthusiast and shop keeper. The shop steadily becomes an afterschool haven for a group of troubled teens. Bolly becomes a reluctant positive role model for them. Becoming impatient, he purposely makes lots of sloppy, forgetting to lock windows at night, loudly proclaiming that his alarm system is broken iin front of dozens of people at a local coffee shop, etc. The interrelationships between the various teens and the middle aged counterfeit storeowner become increasingly iintimate, challenging his sense of who he really wants to be. Will that darned that robbery ever come?

© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon

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monotheism and “other gods” references

How can a monotheistic religion’s primary text use terms like “other gods”?
The Torah repeatedly refers to various other gods.

Why does the Torah use the term elohim acherim, other gods, in describing the religious activities of other nations? If the Torah talked about the beliefs of others, saying that they were erroneous, I would have no question here. The use of the word elohim, though, implies that whatever deities or forces were being worshipped by other groups do indeed have some inherent powers. Even though it is done in the context of “putting down” those “other gods,” it still seems to give them a certain amount of credence and presents them as being actual (though less powerful) forces that are in a losing competition with G_d. Lehavdil a thousand times, what comes to mind here is two schoolboys arguing over whether Batman or Superman is stronger. My understanding of monotheism – of the very most essential Jewish theology – is that Hashem is One. There is one G_d, that rules over all things, and that any force within nature as observed by the layman, farmer, astrophysicist or mystic – is a power created by, ruled by and essentially part of Hakadosh Baruch Hu himself. This leaves no room whatsoever for the term elohim acherim in describing other religions. And if you say in response that the term should be understood in context, and means “G_d concept that those people think of as G_d” then why would the other nations be condemned – and the Israelites warned so sternly — about merely falling short on a complete understanding of who G_d is? The use of the term elohim implies something more — that these “other gods” are dangerous. Less powerful than our G_d, but nonetheless separate, heaven forbid, or even in opposition to Hakadosh Baruch Hu. This does not sound like genuine monotheism. What in the world is it doing in the Torah?
One possible understanding of all this is that the Torah acknowledges that the religious practices of the other tribes out there, though incomplete, are at least BASED on something real and powerful. The gods being referred to with the term “elohim acherim” are worshipped within religious systems that are not total nonsense, but rather are rooted in some essential truths about the way the world works – physically and metaphysically. Where they fall short is that the powers are thought of as powers in and of themselves, without recognizing them as being created by, ruled by and essentially part of the Infinite G_d that we worship. This falling short is worthy of the most extreme condemnation because it denies the existence of the Universal G_d. The term elohim acherim can be understood as saying that the various nations worship different gods from each other – nation A worships god A, nation B worships god B, etc. — they each worship another god – another genuine force within the world. Spoken of together, the nations of the world worship elohim acherim – OTHER gods from each other, all of them failing to recognize the unifying, Universal force that connects all of them and so many other unknown forces together in one total, world ruling, unified, non-seperable reality called G_d. They collectively worship all the separate forces, whereas Judaism sets forth the notion that there is only one ultimate G_d – multiple names, multiple manifestations – One G_d.
This interpretation would also explain why Judaism is so worried about other religious understandings. It always seemed to me, growing up in a multicultural, multiethnic world, that we are all big boys and girls, and that Judaism shouldn’t worry so much about what we are exposed to. We all have free will to make choices. Equip us with the real thing and trust G_d that we will be guided to make healthy choices. With the above understanding of how the Torah might view philosophies and theologies that are not consistent with our own, the grave concern seems well warranted. It is not that other beliefs are laughable and should be dismissed. No, they have genuine merit and power and should not be dismissed. Perhaps they may even be learned from in certain limited ways. BUT BE CAREFUL, LEST YOUR HEART BE TURNED ASTRAY AND YOU GO AFTER THEM – they attempt to disconnect powers from the SOURCE POWER that is our G_d. This “separation of powers,” so to speak, is ultimately dangerous in that it flies in the face of everything we Jews stand for – everything we have lived and died for since Avraham Aveinu first asserted the existence of One G_d. there is nothing more false than a partial truth.
© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon


Anything worth doing is worth doing wrong!

Foxx Falcon Fact #462: A sub-par plan prosecuted poorly outperforms the perfect proposal postponed.
© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon

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It’s not about the memories

Today I was cleaning up a flood in my basement — about the 6th in this recent chain of rainy days. Among the things that had to get thrown out were some old drawings I did for an art class when I was in college. Those drawings, carefully hidden in a dusty portfolio for more than 20 years, hold a critical secret — a lesson about human potential. Thank God for the destructive rain that shook my core enough for me to wake up to a powerful fact I seem to have forgotten to utilize.

What I realized this morning is that I have been missing the point of my own lesson for a very, very long time.

You see, the reason I took that art class in college was that for years I had been deathly afraid of any form of art. I had long accepted “I can’t draw” and “I have no artistic talent” as immutable truths. Having recently gotten into recovery through a 12-step fellowship, I had embarked on a spiritual journey that opened me up to a world of possibility — a new mentality of questioning old assumptions and trying new things.

Why couldn’t I draw? I had met a friend named Dawn who was taking this entry level art class as part of a generral studies requirement. One day over lunch Dawn showed me a few things and I quickly discovered that I wasn’t quite as hopeless as I thought. It was an exciting, freeing, mind opening experience to be able to recreate that cartoon cat — or whatever it was — from a poster on the wall of the cafeteria. The very next semester I signed up for Intro to Drawing, a course that turned out to be a wild emotional ride for me.

The first day brought excruciating frustration and ultimately tears, anger and — finally — surrender. The first assignment was meant to see where each of us was holding in terms of basic skills. We sat with our desks in a big circle around a bunch of still life junk — chairs, flower pots, giant blocks…. As the girl next to me, a skinny, sexy Bohemian blonde who I had seen roaming the halls on the arm of an ape-ish thrash rocker type whose har was died black and nearly as long as her perfect legs. Sorry, I got lost in that digression. Always was a sucker for the skinny, skanky type. Very distracting, even twenty something years later. Anyway, she was drawing away, recreating the scene on the floor in front of us, and all I could do was keep drawing and erasing the same line over and over. Eventually, I just had to leave the room. I went wandering the halls pounding on lockers and wondering if I should have ever even tried this when I felt my eyes starting to fill up. I cried the tears of the three year old who angrily pushed a crown all over his drawing, frustrated that he couldn’t seem to get it just the way he had intended. The memories of that moment were hazy but the emotions were in vivid releaf, guiding so many of my choices at the subconcious level, part of the fabric of incorrect assumptions that we develop through early experience and then abide by faithfully, unalterably, until freedom final crashes its way into our lives.

During the course of the next 16 weeks, with the help of a teacher who was touched by my sincere desire to face my old fears and a willfullness that I have absolutely no explanation for, I slowly but surely developed the skills that enabled me to have a dusty old collection of drawings that led my kids this morning to say “wow, you’re a great artist” as I laid the damp remains to see what could be salvaged and to take one final look at the rest. Those tears, that resolution, and those humble efforts combined to bring out somethign in me that I never knew I had. That ability was carefully protected from actualization because of my self image and inexperience. It took surrender, hope, desire, honesty, willingess and effort on my part. And it also took a supportive, receptive and challenging guide to help me through. With those ingredients, the impossible became possible and then became actual.

It was an amazing act of courage for that young man to drop his guard of fatal coolness long enough to show his weakness and vulnerability. That was the first step in the process. The lesson learned was that nothing is truly impossible.

For taking that class and hanging in there when it got tough, I am a hero. But I do need to own my errors as well. First, I felt crushed when I saw this morning that my precious drawings were basically ruined. I had become so attached to the physical manifestation of my efforts, that I forgot to appreciate what those drawings represent. “I could never do this today,” I heard myself say. Oh boy had I missed the point!!!! Of course I could draw today — better than ever if I wanted to. The secret is tapping into that desire and opening up to that guidance. It’s not about the drawings — they are memories of a divine discovery. The Divinity itself is every bit as much present today as it was back then. Treasuring the pictures is an attachment to the physical world that blinded me from the actual beauty that was manifest in the pictures.

Secondly, to the extent that those pictures should be valued, it should be as an inspiration for continued growth and challenge of perceived limitations. Those pictures prove that what my brain tells me I can and can’t do is not objective truth — and it’s not necessarily true at all. Those pictures belonged on the walls, not in dead storage. And not because they would have made my house prettier, but because they might have served as an occasional reminder to me that what I think of as limits may be nothing but old stories that have become so engrained in my psyche that they stop me from going for my goals — or even from having the audacity to have goals anymore.

It’s time to wake up.

© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon

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