AMERICONORMAN

I saw some footage of his several three point shots ... and the end when the entire auditorium jumps up in a loud frenzy and raised him on their shoulders. It was beautiful and it sent a sensation of tickling popping through my body. It felt like it was a movie--unreal. But it was real. Jose Gainza.

Rob, I'm glad you are participating more here. Again, I must say that I love your wit. I'm impressed also by your thoughts on sexual psychology. If you ever write a treatise on the subject, I would love to read it. Sincerely, Jose Gainza. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Here is poem in which the speaker talks "dirty" to his beloved and his object of conquest. Though I only swear once (and not in a sexual connotation), the rest of the poem is more effective than if I were to swear more. To get the poem the reader must assume that the speaker is correct in his romantic confidence, and thus, he know the soul of his beloved, which is mistakenly rejecting him. CIAO BABY? By Jose Gainza What the fuck you saying? “Maybe”! I see the hunger in your eyes Screaming, “Save me!” Save you from the hurt of being great Thus needing “Candy”. I got all the candy that you need, Baby. We can celebrate your world Sweaty. I will end your pain of longing, Hot and heavy. I will touch you with my manliness, O, so hefty. Maybe you’ll go out with me? I’m ready. Maybe you will share my wine? I’m pretty. Maybe you will have the time? Make it quickly! You know that I can make you laugh Quite hearty. You know how I do make you think Deeply. You keep me somewhere deep inside … Sweet memory. It sucks that dreaming is enough … Of me. It sucks that I don’t know your art … We’ll see. It sucks that I can’t hear your thoughts— I’m growing weary. Now every chance word I do magnify— How crazy. But premises I have of thee In me. You will see how I can build, You’ll see. Don’t be shocked when I do turn The key, When I open up your door Freely, And grant you frenzied joy … Heavenly. I will take you to extremes I do decree. I will sample every part Of thee. I will teach you on your bed Ecstasy, And the forms that so few know Of philosophy. I will tell you suspense tales, Show you irony. I’ll teach the paradise Within me. Make the fucking time, dear; You’re “killing me”. Don’t take too long, you precious queer; It’s agony. Patience does run thin Hourly. Other heroes I will find and praise Like tenderly. Don’t make me say them dreaded words, “Ciao Baby …”

I think I'll have more to say later but now I want to relate a recent poetry experience. Swinburne! So I first heard about him from Brian Faulkner. Since I really liked the poems of Brian, I immediately bought a Swinburne book. I noticed that there were many poems that were very long. I was glad though that I found one short poem that really moved me. So I would have to get back to Swinburne ... Most recently I read Ayn Rand Answers and in discussing poetry one of the things she advises is to read Swinburne because he is really good. She is reluctant to say much about poetry but she expresses enthusiasm over him. I recently wrote a story about the legend of Atlanta. And because of that I wanted to read his version. It was hard to get into it; I had trouble because the words are beautiful and express a grand vocabulary; it was hard to picture what exactly was going on. But since it was poetry I ordered myself to stick with it and enjoy the sound of my voice reading aloud, and to attempt to bring to it the emotion I felt the actor should express. Eventually I fell in love with the poetry, the sound of it. I was thrilled by the flow and the melody of my voice. I was changing the pitches, the speed, the volume, trying to get my voice to stick with it, and to be attentive of my breathing even. Water helps. I'm close to half way done the first read. Once you are in the moment, as if you are experiencing the expression first hand, as an actor, the plot, the action, is easily noticeable and identifiable. I am confident that the second more careful and slow read, asking deeper questions of the text, will bring me to find Swinburne's virtuosity. Virtuosity is something I actively look for when reading a literary artist. Even with bad values, looking at how brilliant the author expresses his brilliance is inspiring. So what is brilliance in poetry? Jose Gainza

Maybe the following will help explain how I meant my former comments: There may be one day when I'm kissing my boyfriend on the street car, and if a guy in a seat close by suddenly throws up, it is going to interrupt my kiss, and the smell of the puke is going to spoil the mood. I'm not shoving anything down anyone's throat. I am propogating a culture where people won't throw up when they witness me express my love. It is not a shove; it is a suggestion. Again, I wasn't writing with the intention of shoving anything down anyone's throat, especially down a throat that has just puked, and especially my "sexuality" down that throat. Again, since my writing does and will involve sexually explicit gay scenes--though they will be integral to the theme, plot, etc.--I am just hoping that more people will be able to tolerate what I write. Hey, I'm trying to build up my market. Jose Gainza.

I read it and I recommend it. It was lovely. But I only read it once. I have been planning on reading it again. Really no great actions occur but yet it is very exciting and filled with conflict. Though I can't recall the words of Monna Vanna's speech, I remember that it was so moving and intense. I can't even recall if it ends tragically or not. I read it as part of going through Peikoff's course, Eight Great Plays, which I strongly recommend. It presents an approach to studying literature that all Objectivists should become familiar with. Jose Gainza.

Scott: Greeting from Toronto. You product seems so cool! Thanks. If only I had the time. I look forward to any book version you may write. Please do. Actually, maybe you can refer me to some books. I am currently very interested in prohibition, the history of organized crime, and the history and methods of policing in America since its birth. Do you know any good books? Jose Gainza.

Yes, there are. You will then get sick to your stomach. They definately kiss and express their passion. What should be more sickening for you, if you ever happen to watch it, is how they both treat their wives, especially Ines. What is also sickening is how non-assertive Ines' wife is. This getting sick to your stomach thing concerns me. You should see someone about it. This gay things seems to be getting more popular, and it might just happen, especially in a big city that you might stumble across two guys kissing. This sickness could be quite embarassing for you. I could imagine you on a date with a very special sexy lady, and suddenly you stumble across the kissing men and then--she might have to nurse you or something. But I do have a question: What would be more sickening to walk the street and see a dead murdered body or two see two men making out? Also, do you think that you can watch the Olympics in ancient Greece, i.e., can you stomach male wrestling--because they do it nude, I hear? Also this nausea can also be a sign of love. I know that I once felt like puking when I realized how much I loved my beloved. I wasn't sickened by the gay thing but that I loved someone so much ... it was a rare event ... kind of like walking into a strange but beautiful land where the atmosphere is different. Jose Gainza.

So I saw this movie last night. It was very pleasing to see such masculine men love each other with such passion. The scenery was beautiful and brought nostalgia for an old fantasy of mine to make love under the mountain stars. But better stories about gay men can and should be written. I promise I will. The story of Brokeback is not meant to be a happy one where the two live happily ever after. The message I got from it is how people wreck their lives and their chance at happiness if they don't apply their courage and take the opportunities when they come, especially so early in life. How many men suffer the same tragedy that Ines (Ledger) faces. It is about the importance of, yes, pursuing one's values. I was surprised to find that the affair lasted so long. I had expected that it would be a one time thing that the two would have to deal with. That they did it for so long and the way they did was amazing. Ines's wife was too weak, though her weakness is crucial for the affair to last. But a question I kept on asking is why not just go to California or New York and be happy? I have very little sympathy for their tragedy. I hate it when gay men can't face it and hide it and are not comfortable with it. Some don't come out because they want to be famous. Others won't engage in a loving relationship now because they want to have kids at some point. Others are just repressed. It's sad. But there is a legitimate fear to be open about it as there are people who will kill for just looking at them the wrong way, let alone, exposing one's homosexuality. One has to keep one's eyes open, I guess. Culturally the movie is important. It opens the gateway for movies with gay central characters. Many of the stories I will write will have them. I don't like "gay" stories where the characters are hiding it. I like situations more like the Will and Grace (sitcom) type where the characters' sexuality is taken for granted and the stories are about how interesting life is. I'm not saying that using homosexuality as a technical device in the writing process in regards to the plot, is bad; that can work quite well and I would enjoy to see that. But stories about ethics and stuff, with the sexuality being taken for granted at the outset, is better than the story of Brokeback; it was too obvious, too easy. Lastly I would like to say that it was a huge treat to see Heath Ledger so rugged and so gay. I've loved him since The Patriot and A Knight's Tale. Seeing him as I write this on a re-run of The Screen Actors Guild Awards is quite pleasing. Jose Gainza.

I chose to put this topic under the category of Religion because for a serious student of Objectivism, the philosophy takes the place of where religion once was or where it could have lay. Since Ayn Rand is the originator of that philosophy, the fountainhead, if you like, it is fitting to discuss her birthday here. Ayn Rand herself felt for her philosophy and man and reality with the same passion that serios religious men feel for their religion, often shown as the epitome of loyal passion, for example in the figure of Joan of Ark. Ayn Rand discusses her position on the religious feeling in her introduction to The Fountainhead (25 years), one of my favorite things I know she has written. I thought this would be a good way to inspire people here to spend some time of contemplation about Miss Rand. Perhaps if you would like to share, in what ever literary genre you like, why you love Ayn Rand? "What has she done for me lately?" Lately, thinking of her inspired a poem in me, that I wrote today, which is my form of tribute to her. I hope others answer the question in which ever way you please. AYN RAND 101 By Jose Gainza I felt one day the gift that you could bring. I fell one day from the cloud that I was in, As you struck me like a lightning bolted sting, Plucked me from the fog that blocked my sin. I was raindrops, tear drops, tears of joy … I grew wings, floated, fluttered back to earth, To find the promise of your love and not a ploy, For the force bubbling in me where is mirth. There was the promise of a healthy happiness, There, the esteem, though hiding, of my mind, And liberty was the beacon to my bliss, And gold became a product of my reasoned selfishness. I do know why I love you like I do— I do know why and it’s true. I do know why you thrill me like you do— I do know why and you too. Yes, you love me to the range that I’m a man, Though, you left our world in nineteen eighty-two. Yes, you graced us with a gift of worldly span For every able minded will to learn it too. In Howard Roark bestowed was your “religion”, Despite a world that would surely call you Sin: The independence of a man to his good vision, And integrity to create the world that you can win. With Dominique you alienated heaven, A realm on earth where mirth is felt alone; A work of self-esteem branding earthly heaven; A joy persists despite her melancholy drone. I do know why I love you like I do— I do know why and it’s true. I do know why you thrill me like you do— I do know why and you too. It was the promise of Francisco very soon, Those early pages of a boy, a prodigy, The money-maker and the boy with silver spoon, Who caught me to your rebirth poetry. “Atlas Shrugged changed my life,” so often said. The promise-wish of sages past with Galt became fulfilled: A perfect moral man made real—though not dead. Thus the John Galt line is mine; this be my guild. I saw a world where happiness is real. I knew for sure how needed is the mind; I felt the innocence to feel a self-love real; I learned money was the best way to be greedy but so kind. I do know why I love you like I do— I do know why and it’s true. I do know why you thrill me like you do— I do know why and you too. Though now you lay still in your plotted ground, One aspect of your spirit I will always keep In my mind, as a function, guiding me around: The gem of “plot” to plunge into the thrilling deep. I know of causes of some ocean voyages. I know the fountainhead of dwellings tall. To lose Roxanne I know the vital series. I know the reason why New York was lost to all. I know conflict at the core of man’s excitement. I know how cool it is to watch the stakes grow high. To clash opposing values is a magnet-merriment, And to bang inside of men is an explosion in the sky. I do know why I love you like I do— I do know why and it’s true. I do know why you thrill me like you do— I do know why and you too. Even more than the fact that we exist, Of value is to me is how you think. To think and know men freely must persist, Straight ahead and not falling from the brink. I need not pray for a model far away, Too far, even further than Plato’s silly dream To know the things before me that can’t stay Coz they stay but only by a common seam. And by contrast to near like things Our concepts glow with a solid essence, As they are chained to earth by single things, And open the universe to common sense. I do know why I love you like I do— I do know why and it’s true. I do know why you thrill me like you do— I do know why and you too.

It is Ayn Rand's birthday. She would have been 101 today. With better health care she could have realistically still have been living. I wrote this poem today especially for the occassion. It is a tribute to her life and ideas. I have never explicitly written a poem in tribute to her before. It's good. But next year's should be better. Copyright © 2006. Jose Gainza. All Rights Reserved. AYN RAND 101 By Jose Gainza I felt one day the gift that you could bring. I fell one day from the cloud that I was in, As you struck me like a lightning bolted sting, Plucked me from the fog that blocked my sin. I was raindrops, tear drops, tears of joy … I grew wings, floated, fluttered back to earth, To find the promise of your love and not a ploy, For the force bubbling in me where is mirth. There was the promise of a healthy happiness, There, the esteem, though hiding, of my mind, And liberty was the beacon to my bliss, And gold became a product of my reasoned selfishness. I do know why I love you like I do— I do know why and it’s true. I do know why you thrill me like you do— I do know why and you too. Yes, you love me to the range that I’m a man, Though, you left our world in nineteen eighty-two. Yes, you graced us with a gift of worldly span For every able minded will to learn it too. In Howard Roark bestowed was your “religion”, Despite a world that would surely call you Sin: The independence of a man to his good vision, And integrity to create the world that you can win. With Dominique you alienated heaven, A realm on earth where mirth is felt alone; A work of self-esteem branding earthly heaven; A joy persists despite her melancholy drone. I do know why I love you like I do— I do know why and it’s true. I do know why you thrill me like you do— I do know why and you too. It was the promise of Francisco very soon, Those early pages of a boy, a prodigy, The money-maker and the boy with silver spoon, Who caught me to your rebirth poetry. “Atlas Shrugged changed my life,” so often said. The promise-wish of sages past with Galt became fulfilled: A perfect moral man made real—though not dead. Thus the John Galt line is mine; this be my guild. I saw a world where happiness is real. I knew for sure how needed is the mind; I felt the innocence to feel a self-love real; I learned money was the best way to be greedy but so kind. I do know why I love you like I do— I do know why and it’s true. I do know why you thrill me like you do— I do know why and you too. Though now you lay still in your plotted ground, One aspect of your spirit I will always keep In my mind, as a function, guiding me around: The gem of “plot” to plunge into the thrilling deep. I know of causes of some ocean voyages. I know the fountainhead of dwellings tall. To lose Roxanne I know the vital series. I know the reason why New York was lost to all. I know conflict at the core of man’s excitement. I know how cool it is to watch the stakes grow high. To clash opposing values is a magnet-merriment, And to bang inside of men is an explosion in the sky. I do know why I love you like I do— I do know why and it’s true. I do know why you thrill me like you do— I do know why and you too. Even more than the fact that we exist, Of value is to me is how you think. To think and know men freely must persist, Straight ahead and not falling from the brink. I need not pray for a model far away, Too far, even further than Plato’s silly dream To know the things before me that can’t stay Coz they stay but only by a common seam. And by contrast to near like things Our concepts glow with a solid essence, As they are chained to earth by single things, And open the universe to common sense. I do know why I love you like I do— I do know why and it’s true. I do know why you thrill me like you do— I do know why and you too.

Copyright 2005. Jose Gainza. All Rights Reserved. A NOBLE WORKS THE CORNER—By Jose Gainza How did we meet, you ask, Doctor? I was writing at my window watching the city go by at the intersection where my second floor apartment sits. I was writing my novel, when suddenly at the southwest corner he walked into my life. He stood there all black haired and blue-eyed like one of those angels that they tell you about when you’re a kid. The bright sun even gave him a halo. He had this light yellow shirt on, wide open at the collar, and he had these topaz blue jeans on that hugged his long legs with not too much tyranny. He leaned his back on the red bricked wall at a slant, the top portion of his back serving as the primary support, and the length of his body serving as the hypotenuse of a triangle—standing there all provocative. Surely I wanted a handshake on that Monday. The previous Saturday was a wild night with drinks and dancing to celebrate the great literary work of the ending week. But Sunday I was paying with a headache and a sore back, so I spent the day laying back, watching movies and eating fruit. I promised myself that Monday I would surely wake up at a good hour and get back to working on my novel. By noon I was well into The Looking Glass by Simon Sevilla, my novel. It’s a story about falling in love. A passionate artisan of glass and mirrors has never been in love, never found his perfect reflection. But he never adopted the false conviction that thus love must be a toy of distortion. He had met noble women but all failed to grasp, to his satisfaction, his passion for glass. And thus all of them were poor reflections. One day I have him meet an interior designer who genuinely loves and actively uses his work. He immediately falls in love but in an unrequited fashion. It is only by the gradual accumulation of his creations that her love for him begins to grow … I spent the morning actively drawing the artisan’s romantic past and bringing him to the first meeting with his beloved, when Jacob Herzer walked into my life, standing all provocative in the sunlight. I immediately had a feeling of jealousy because of the possibility of him waiting for someone else. And even if he wasn’t waiting for a lover, that acquaintance would be down on the sidewalk being seen by his eyes and I would be up in my room with only my pen as company. So I sat there and watched him, watching his every movement. One of his hands moved a lock of his bangs from his face, the sole of a foot backed on to the wall, a breeze made his shirt shiver, the pressing of his lips for lubrication, the sudden increase of his breath by a heaving chest—all delighted me with little shocks. And then a female beauty walked by him, almost missing him because of the wall where he was leaning on. He called out to her and she returned to him with a smile. They kissed each other on the cheek and walked east in an engaging discussion. I couldn’t write for the whole half hour that I waited. Then they both returned. She put a money bill in his shirt pocket and hugged him with great enthusiasm, and went her way. He made a note in a small red book. He looked at his watch and then leaned back on the red wall, casually. This time it wasn’t a brown haired dame with tight jeans and black blouse, and juicy red lipstick—but a magnificent blonde with short shorts and a blue spandex shirt that accentuated her feminine provocations, who met Jacob at 1237 hours. She pinched him on his chest all lovingly, and they walked east engaged in some mysterious discussion. Jacob returned alone at 1340 hours. Two beautiful people can do much in an hour on a hot summer afternoon. My second floor apartment was located at exactly the northeast corner of Dundas and Dufferin Streets. Jacob’s spot was by the telephones on the southwest corner. As he was leaning on a wall and facing east, he could not see the woman with the two cones walking from the west, with that runway model gait. She licked one of those vanilla ice creams with paradise licks, licks that could make a man reach for an apple. By the nature of that lick I knew this vixen would be meeting my Jacob with her red hair and those creamy lips. The tall office towers of Toronto in the east are quite impressive and majestic from this corner and Jacob must have been taken by this sight, for the woman waited a moment with her hands behind her back before Jacob noticed her. There was no kiss, no pinch but there was the swing of a silky female arm and the presentation of an ice cream cone. Jacob bestowed her with a wide smile. They walked east licking their ice cream cones. I shot right up from my chair and paced my room for an hour. Then I sat down and waited a half hour before he came back with the woman. Her energy looked drained and he seemed exhilarated. She wrote him a check and walked west again. He made a note in his notebook and looked at his watch, then crossed the street to the northwest corner and into a pizza shop. I could see right into the place from one of my windows. Pepperoni by pepperoni I saw that pizza disappear into his body. I grew hungry myself. If the eighteenth century sculptor, Houdon, could see that jaw exercise as it bit away, he would have been driven to sculpt that bust himself. Jacob chugged down his vanilla coke, disposed of his trash, and walked back to his wall. This time it was another beautiful blonde but in a red Ferrari that took Jacob from my vision. She drove him north. I couldn’t write. I turned on the television and watched a talk show hosted by a middle-aged, lanky, tomboy-dressed female comedian. I chuckled a few times. I heard the engine roar and I jumped to the window. I saw the woman go into her purse, pull out a few bills and give them to Jacob. I thought of what a woman could do from the driver’s seat of a red Ferrari to a beautiful god of a man for a whole half hour. My heart didn’t like my question. I saw Jacob get out of the car and walk east alone. Why didn’t I follow? Because by this time, the fourth beautiful woman in one afternoon, I was convinced that I could not have him like I felt, and I told myself that ethically I should not want him. I waited a few hours but he never came back. I wanted tomorrow afternoon to come that same moment. I asked myself how I could induce sleep. I remembered a bottle of brandy in a kitchen cupboard. I needed no glass. My anxiety made the swigs quite sweet. I watched television with my companion Napoleon. A few hours later, when I noticed that I was watching re-runs of Oprah, I decided that I was sleepy. I woke up the next morning at eleven o’clock to the sound of my alarm—though I didn’t remember when I set it—ready for a big breakfast and Tylenol. I thought I had no chance with the slut but my hope returned when I saw him walking with a younger but certainly eighteen year old boy who looked up at Jacob all adoringly. The boy was one of those pretty black-haired Portuguese males with baggy jeans and t-shirt as long as a skirt. They went into the coffee shop on the southeast corner into which I could see even better than the pizza shop from another of my windows. Jacob did most of the talking while the boy nodded mostly. Then they got up and walked east. In twenty minutes they returned. The boy offered him money but Jacob refused it and petted the boy on the head. They then separated and went their respective ways. I sat there thinking about what pleasure a guy who sees four women in one afternoon could receive from a stallion of a man in the prime of his youth fed by a Portuguese mother. I considered also that coffee has aphrodisiacal powers. It is good that Jacob had already walked away in that moment for I would have hollered obscenities at him, in the midst of the hearing of my neighbours. So I had to think about the issue. I remembered in that moment that I was a virgin of twenty-six. And I kept my purity waiting for the right guy, my own mirror. I had from my earliest teenage years thought of the beauty of the gesture that would touch my beloved so when he found out that I was all for his original taking. And I reproached myself for feeling such lust for Don Juan. But then I thought that there must be a perfectly good explanation for every single encounter of Jacob with a beautiful creature. What that explanation was, I had no clue but I was longingly certain that there was a perfectly good one. I picked up Plato’s Republic hoping that his prudery would extinguish my hunger for Jacob. It worked. I read a few O. Henry stories then decided I would easily wait until tomorrow to try to find the solution to my mystery. He never came on the Wednesday. After hours of waiting I reckoned that he must be exhausted. A Monday occupied with the juggling of four beautiful women would surely tire even the strongest of men—not to mention topping it off with the cherry of twenty minutes on a Tuesday with a young stallion. After damning Jacob for a while, I resolved to go back to my novel for comfort. I was fortunate that I’m in love with writing and it is usually not hard to get back into the groove. I became occupied with a new plot twist. The glass artisan has a work on display in his shop that is not for sale. His beloved is in love with it but he refuses to sell it to her. This particular work is a symbol of an error in his past moral thinking. He actually plans on smashing it to pieces is some ceremony celebrating the purification of his moral character. The beloved is horrified at the possibility and threatens to end the love affair if he dares destroy his work … At noon on Thursday I was at my window again. Jacob was not yet at the red wall but the man there was just as heavenly. I almost forgot about Jacob until he came strutting from the west all gallant and precious. There was something his spirit wore that that blonde California beach boy at the red wall did not have. The latter still had anger on his face, as if he needed to settle a vendetta or something, whereas Jacob seemed that he had already found the express train to bliss. And this was Jacob’s mystique: I had never until then seen someone in his line of business, walk the streets with such glee. The surfer dude hugged him with passion. I was thrilled to watch Jacob push him away, speak as if in reproach, and as if in warning. I saw the violator speak as if apologizing and I saw Jacob seem to accept. They walked east talking with excitement and jovial. Two hours later when they returned, I saw the blonde beauty give Jacob a thick gold chain. And then an action occurred that stabbed my chest: Jacob hugged the blonde beauty and gave him a kiss on the cheek. When alone he made a note in his book. By the end of that Thursday I was convinced that Jacob had the masculine prowess of a marathon runner. He took appointments every half hour, one young energetic male after another. There was a brunette with short hair who had provocative legs. There was a blonde with long hair, who wore army pants and a white baggy mesh tank top, and one of the nicest tans I had ever seen. There was a tall lovely black guy lightly shaded, with scattered European features on his face and bright eyes. There was the black-haired Portuguese with that naked chest and soccer shorts. And there was that skinned head boy from some suburbia with Anglo-Saxon genes. For a man of his profession I was surprised that Jacob was fortunate enough to trade exclusively with beautiful people. Like usual, he was paid and the customers seemed satisfied. He made a note in his book. What was a consolation for having a thing for this type of man, was that he at least had lovely aesthetic standards—this was still a way of remaining principled, I thought; I didn’t have to feel guilty and bad. And then I saw the beast. He was tall, obese, hairy, wearing a moustache, wearing a fluffy green jogging suit. In that moment I had to judge Jacob as devoid of adequate moral status. Jacob and the bear went for the walk. I had an urge to confront Jacob, to guide him to better ways perhaps, the urge to do so as soon as he came back to the corner. But he never came back. And I went to bed with the puzzle of what kind of sick fetish could possess my workingman. I will be honest and admit that I woke up with a hunger for Jacob. I was dreading his arrival at the corner for I feared I could not resist being a patron of his services. I knew how easy it was to have him. I had enough in my bank account to have him for a whole week, I reckoned—but my reason knew of better morals. I convinced myself that I would talk to him. I would show him a better life. I would be a friend, a brother, I would teach him of self-respect. It was 1400 hours when I approached him that Friday while he was eating at the pizza shop. Jacob spoke first to my delight for it was thus evident that he was quite aware of my existence, tickling me with the following words: “It’s you!” And looking at me with eyes of tenderness. Though shocked, I continued with my script, “Hello beautiful,” and we both smiled. So I continued: “ … I’ve wondered all this week what great services you provide to Torontonians from this corner that seems to please your customers so? … I would like to try a sample—what would you recommend?” “I recommend us going for a walk this instant,” did he boost a shot of anandemine to my brain like twenty minutes at six miles an hour on a treadmill could do. We walked east with the towers in the distance, the mahogany Scotia bank, and the white bank of Montreal, strong in the distance. At Gladstone Avenue, which is the first street east of Dufferin, we walked south and came soon to a bench on the property of an elementary school. On our walk there, he inquired into my work and intellectual interests. When we sat down I then asked, “isn’t this spot too public for what I need from you?” “I get this a lot … no, no one can hear us here … and if they do, who cares …” “So what exactly do you service,” I asked. “I service minds.” “What mind servicing do you recommend?” “From what you’ve told me already, you would most benefit from a discussion on Aristotle’s principle of Temperance though I would most enjoy discussing the dramatic appreciation of Schiller’s Don Carlos—with an emphasis on the admirable characteristics of the Marquis of Posa.” I was intellectually excited but sexually confused. So I asked a probing question, “How would you name your job title for the services I am currently seeking from you?” “ In two words, I am an ‘Intellectual Companion’. I discuss a wide array of philosophical and literary topics and people pay me for my time and effort.” At the completion of that line, I laughed. I rolled off the bench, lay with back on the concrete, and let my spirit roar. Minutes later I faced Jacob at the cession of that spectacle. He was smiling so I supposed he enjoyed the sight. “I thought I was being vicious in asking for your services … I’m glad I’m not—but it is still hard to believe—I have a few questions.” “What are you a religious mystic of some kind?” “God no! Will you answer my questions?” “Who was that Monday radiating brunette who kissed you in greeting and hugged you so fiercely on departing?” “Brunette … Ah, Carlotta … she wanted to discuss the moral conflict of Cyrano De Bergerac in Rostand’s play.” I pursued my inquiry, “And that same day—the short wearing blonde at 1237 hours who pinched you with such familiarity?” “She wanted to discuss Brand’s commitment to the idea of ‘all or nothing’ in Ibsen’s play Brand.” I wanted to know more about this subject but I resolved to continue with my original line of inquiry, “And the sweetheart with that talented tongue and the ice cream cones?” Jacob smiled with a little pink on his cheeks and answered my question. “Her father didn’t approve of her boyfriend because he was not Jewish … I discussed the priority of personal happiness in the realm of love … I filled her with hope.” “So you never sleep with you clients?” His eyes squinted at me in reproach. And then he pinched my cheek. But my probing kept going. “And the Ferrari driving girl with the face of a passionate horse rider?” “Her father wants her to take over the family tool and dye corporation while he runs for Ontario Premier but she really wants to be a poet, plus she’s secretly a lesbian … So I discussed the antagonistic natures of the honest businessman and the politician, the importance of finding a career one is passionate for and the need to fight for it. I also recommended that she read Victor Hugo’s Hernani.” “Okay … so the pretty young stallion on Tuesday that you didn’t even charge?” “I was introducing him to the world of philosophy … he overheard me one day at a coffee shop and had the courage to ask for help … wonderful kid.” “And all those young studs you saw on Thursday!” “Stop it!” He commanded. “I’ve never had sex with any of my clients … and that I’ve been answering you questions, should tell you something.” I blushed, felt that tremor of embarrassment inside me and waited for him to go on. “When was the first time you saw me?” He asked. “Monday.” “I saw you on the previous Friday. You bought a Vanilla coke at the northeast corner and then got on the street care heading east. I asked the storeowner if he ever saw you before. He told me you’re a regular. I could meet my clients anywhere in this city—I chose that corner for a specific reason.” “Why?” “Because I wanted to meet you … Perhaps we should discuss the idea of love at first sight.” “But I still have one question … who was the guy with the gold chain?” “Now he wants to sleep with me! But he has an annoying dark side. I’m helping him with his doctorate thesis on the synthesis of the epistemologies of Aristotle and Alicia O’Connor. We’ve discovered many wonderful things together … isn’t the chain beautiful?” And he raised it from his throat with his thumb. “Yes, it is.” I stood up as he leaned to recline on the bench, his legs shot forward. It was my opportunity to look at him with pride and naked admiration, to note the details of his form. Overall Jacob has a large head and face that integrates pleasingly into a long and narrow face. His nose is straight except for a small knob at the end that lifts to the heavens. In relation to the rest of his face, his forehead is not disproportioned, so one could say that it is short though long. He has thin, long eyebrows. In relation to the unity, his cheeks are flat except when he grins (as you can see), and then they are small high bulbs. And he has a beauty mark on his left cheek. His cheeks are also high because of his long chin. His lips are thin; beautiful when narrow and serious; awesome when long and smiling. His chin extends, when in profile, just slightly past his forehead but much farther than his lips, that exaggerate when they grin. His mouth is set more narrow than his cheeks ending in an even more narrow and thin chin that seem to desire to point, like his nose, towards the sun. His ears are small, seeming to be lying on their back, with lobes at level with his nose. The borders of his eyelids are remarkably thin, thus exhibiting an attractive delicacy about them. Hours later, when we lay in bed, after activities that made my bed sheets wet, as we lay side by side, like two bricks on the wall, looking at my ceiling, he told me about the danger that faced him: “I am going to trial next month for tax evasion,” I didn’t have to say the word ‘why’, “ … I’ve made a decent amount of money tutoring people (among other moral but still black market deals … they have seized my past account books.” “How would a peaceful intellectual like you be even noticed on the government’s radar?” “My first boyfriend is a prosecutor for Revenue Canada. His willingness to be a tax police, his unwillingness to even consider the absolute evil of taxes, his defense of the welfare state—all combined and contributed to me leaving him … He declared me evil and he vowed to destroy me … this trial seems to be the culmination of his master plan … I suppose he understands how great my mind is and that I will eventually be a man of some influence … yes, he knew I tutored people for money even in high school … it’s odd—he used to seem jealous at me getting away with not paying taxes for the wages I made from private teaching.” “But you’re still out there teaching for money, in the wide open, even though you can go to jail for it.” “Yes, and they probably even have private investigators taking pictures—and so it is evident that they have their case won already—and old Ricky (the prosecutor) is fantasizing about my time in jail taking orders … the irony is that even in jail I’ll teach and I’ll even charge my barter price.” “That’s courageous.” “I don’t want to win by hiding an activity that is absolutely moral and so life giving. I will speak of the rights of man at my trial. Every human has a right to think because he has a right to live—it is the same process. Look at the action that they forbid: planting the seeds of friendship with intellectual conversation but receiving dollar bills for that. Money is money and I am acting just as viciously if you give me three pineapples for the specific payment of some intellectual value to you. I am being punished for taking advantage of the laws of economics, supply and demand, following the profit motive that thinking about certain topics because people want to hear my thoughts, will fuel more thinking in those marketable topics. Thinking is not an end in itself. It is just a coincidence that my thoughts are my trade product but everyone has a right to think—except when thinking profits on the market. The prosecution is effectively forbidding my thought. Just imagine if Ricky knew that I stock up on alcohol before statutory holidays and sell it on those days to the frustrated when the government stores are force closed.” After giggling, I asked, “You admit that to me—You trust me that much?” “Of course! Look how much you trust me—You were a virgin this morning and now you’re not all because of me.” And this is why we come to you, Doctor Pathway. We have both realized that we want to spend our lives together and that his battle is my battle. Before he goes to trial next week, I want you to conduct and sanction our commitment ceremony. “But I’m just a philosophy professor. I have no legal authority to marry both of you. And besides, men can now be legally married in this country.” You’re more than just a philosophy professor; you are a philosopher, and the greatest mind in the province. And a government official cannot understand the nature of mine and Jacob’s love. You are the only professor in this province who understands the rational and egoistic grounds of romantic love. You are actually an authority on such subjects. And besides, if we are legally married before the verdict, my assets will be seized too. “Simon, Jacob … I will conduct you ceremony. I will be your societal-ethical sanction … you do understand that this action we will take is unprecedented?” Yes, of course—we will make history. “Are you aware, Jacob, that my son is a leading constitutional lawyer in North America. I am confident that I can persuade him to take your case … Man, if the government wins the case against you, they will go after tax managers next, probably. That won’t be good … Jacob, do you want me to join your battle?” “I do.” Thank-you.

Here's a link to an blog article an Objectivist from Toronto wrote on the website of a national free paper called Dose on the art of free style rapping. http://toronto.dose.ca/webx/Blogs/Octavio%20Cato/Archives/ Jose Gainza.

About my poems being too "self-referntial". Whether my poems refer to my personal life, you have no way of knowing, based on the poetry alone. But since I do write about such a broad theme such as love, I like that the poems I write can subsume some situation of mine, past or present. Given that I speak in the first person, often, can lead one to think that they are just autobiographical. But I believe anyone can relate to the situation of the speaker. When the poem is "wooing" a man, I like to hope that people can still relate, because the themes are universal. I won't be writing any epics anytime soon. I would like to learn how to master short poems, because this is the area of poetry that best compliments my long-term literary goals, and my nearer business goals. I appreciate your criticism though. And I will have to check out Chesterton too on my journeys.

This poem is extracted from a short story on this forum (by me) called, NAZANEL'S PERFECTION. In this context I call it: REGARDING BEATRICE ENKIDIOS--By Jose Gainza Her intelligent eyes made the viewer blush due to her study; The tenderness of her hands’ caress (empowered from the canvass), Was felt on one’s cheek as one returned a careful study. The scorn in her mouth, the joy of her teeth, the vitality of her nose of brass, The tolerance of her ears, the musculature around her breast, Her commanding arms, her angelic legs, her knees of worship, And her feet of flight, was the image of a woman best; And the goodness of her entire aura went past the essence of friendship. She was then born solely to live her days with him, Because he knew her like most men could only dream, Because the secret of her was to be found in him, That place and power where they share a dream.

I wanted to ask if you liked my poetry, and made a mistake. But it is nice to know specifically who you like. I met a guy who seemed very interesting but he had to leave before I got to know for sure; he recommended Hopkins. I haven't had the chance to go through his poems. I'll check out the other guys at some point too. Anyways, thanks for reading my poetry. Jose Gainza.

Authors' Note: In writing fiction, I don't think it is appropriate to swear. There are better words to use, and better ways to use objective words. However, in this story, I swear a few times but the usage is well measured, and was actually part of the inspiration in writing this story: to use colloquially vulgar terms (sex-degrading) but to write the narrative and action, so that when those vulgar terms are used, they feel appropriate, and take on the meaning I want to give them. Other than that it is a beautiful story. --------------------------- COPYRIGHT © 2005. Jose Rodriguez-Gainza. All Rights Reserved. Nazanel’s Perfection—By Jose Gainza Nazanel Perfecto hardly read the newspapers, out of lack of time and lack of interest. But there was one that he read, Aspiration. A story that interested him, on a day earlier in the month, was the death of an auto parts manufacturer, Maxwell Enkidios, and his billion dollar fortune inherited by his sole daughter, Beatrice. The daughter was an intellectual, who had a passion for classical music, and had been the motivating force behind her father founding a school for the musically gifted. Nazanel Perfecto told himself that the money had been inherited by deserving hands. He was disappointed that there was no picture of the new young billionaire. He skimmed through the medical research section and smiled a few times. He skimmed through the arts section and was happy to see an acquaintance of his, a sculptor, being recognized. He skimmed through the City section, and read about a rapper, talented, who managed to gain success without exploiting the gangster persona; next to an article about a massacre between rival city thugs. Nazanel Perfecto was a name in the art markets of Toronto. His portraits of beautiful women were much sought after. Too many of the women who served as his muses of physical beauty, were through his hands and consciousness, able to attain a vicarious immortality, which their own character could never achieve in earthly action. The man was talented. He painted with the clarity of a Vermeer, and this evaluation was repeated by eminent art critics. Nazanel Perfecto early on began to sign his paintings merely ‘Nazanel’. Even during the early days of his landscapes, he knew that he could achieve a perfection that his own strict standards approved of. The ‘Nazanel’ became synonymous (in his mind) with ‘perfect’. He was born with the surname ‘Perfecto’. It is a coincidence that his talent made him well aware of. After ‘Nazanel’ the ‘Perfecto’ became redundant. ‘Nazanel’ it was. Why waste paint? The hunger that too many wealthy women had to own one of his portraits of them, turned into a fountain of revenue for Nazanel, wearing the form of the bank account of husbands. And because of this fame, even his early landscapes became of high demand. Nazanel was too conceited to put his beautiful, perfect landscapes—unsullied by human morality—on the market before swine. He expected that his landscapes would have to be burned before he died, so as not to leave them for a hording and pillaging posterity: scum. His first private commission gave him deluded expectations. The woman owned a chain of art-oriented coffee shops, that also served as her gallery, where she hung the art she liked. Before the chain, she was the happy home-maker for two children and a loving husband. Now she was the happy mother of two successful professionals, and the wife to a wealthy real-estate developer. During his years in the art program at York University, there was a time when one of his landscapes was extorted from him. It was for a school project to be donated to the School Art Gallery—or fail. Nazanel did a wonderful job nonetheless. But he called it Vast Wasteland, which was a gloomy depiction of the Toronto Islands, viewed from its south side, from a boat on Lake Ontario—past the architectural drawing (in the picture) by an architect, of future industry and soaring towers, in place of so much mass of trees. This painting is the one that drew the attention of the coffee shop empress. She had toured the University gallery and was held captivated by its artist, so that she just had to meet ‘Nazanel’. When he told her why he only signs his painting with ‘Nazanel’, her answer was, “… If it wasn’t true, kid, I would have already kicked you out of my house.” For her age of sixty-something, she still wore the distant beauteous glow from her early youth. He painted this beautiful, prudent woman in the most scornful of glances that a woman could possibly exhibit; holding the judge’s gabble condemning a man with finality, as she sentences a murderer without a doubt to death; the judge’s free hand in a gesture forming a shooting hand gun, and her cold eyes dead-set-on her target: the convicted. A human should be capable of such justice, was his theme. He made the mistake of asking the next woman what situation she would like him to place her in. She consequently revealed too much of her soul. She had met her husband when he had just accomplished his newspaper and magazine empire, which won its acclaim because the owner applied a certain principle to the news covered. Most men, because economic disaster had still not set in, must then still appreciate the spectacle of a man succeeding. For decades his competitors were giving the public stories of murder, and other crimes, the gossip of movie stars, superficial politics, stories about how the poor barely subsist, or about the necessary guilt of the rich for being rich. This new man in the field, her husband, observed that in the last two decades, movies about a man’s struggle in his career against some collective, or against the agents of arbitrary power, or human idiocy, gained success at the box office. That was art. Stories about man’s success and struggle against evil in all the fields open to human endeavor and reason were still lacking in Toronto and Canadian newsprint. His place on the market was guaranteed by his managerial will, because he knew how to pick journalists with a certain way of thinking, who consequently preferred the opportunity to write from their conviction over an inflated salary (by the standard of truth and fundamental importance). The woman admitted that her goal in life was to convince her husband to sell out on his vision of humanity for the vision of the parasite. But she could hardly convince him of anything. So she spent most her time on learning how he arrived at his expressed conscious convictions, so that she could learn to give the illusion of holding the same conviction. Too often he looked at her with disappointment—she knew—because there was a part of him that he felt she should know, should be known without words, and yet he felt that she could never know. But given what she had declared to him so many times, he told himself he had to love her. She knew what he didn’t know she knew. She was waiting to trap him. She wanted from Nazanel something that expressed the power that she wanted, hidden in a veil of benevolence. He told her he would be glad to do it. He knew that he would paint a warning to the man to help him to his truth, with each subsequent session of contemplation. Nazanel knew that her husband, or any honest man for that matter, could not fail to be captivated by the vision and sharpness with which he painted. He painted the image of a lion in a zoo, enclosed in a habitable plain, roaring to the storm above; and this spectacle inspiring an angelic looking boy standing proud, inspired by the lion’s daring; and the female zoo keeper whipping the roaring lion, she, not looking at the lion with anger, or at the storm, or at the boy with a look of protectiveness, but at the boy with scorn for being inspired to surpass the lion in daring. Nazanel’s theme was to be that a man should not be able to get away with such injustice. Would she read this theme from his painting? She felt the meaning. But she was impressed with how apt and powerful the painting’s effect was. If her husband read any horror in the painting, she would blame it on the foolish fantasy of a genius (nonetheless). Nazanel was glad to read in the husband’s national paper the story of how he had been led to discover the corruption of his wife and had, consequently, gathered evidence to win him a clean divorce; and glad to read the note in his mailbox that followed with only a “thank-you” as a message—in the letterhead of the publishing divorcee. He met and painted for many more women who harbored the same motive (but usually on a smaller scale). Though he suffered from scruples at first, he came to detest human nature, and decided he would take their money because that is all they had to offer. He still needed to paint. His painting experience had more weight on his motivation than the charity of giving these women a grandeur they did not possess. After the wife he exposed to her husband, he could not bring himself to paint such ugliness, not even in the name of justice. But he still needed to paint. So he painted on the pretense that what he gave to them was metaphysically real in some way. Another theme that he observed from his muses was the melancholy woman of talent. There was usually a dominating mother or father who demanded that they control the personality, philosophy, action, central purpose and future of his/her daughter. The daughters were already conscious of the career that would bring them most passion but their parents had another career as their commandment. The girl consequently married a man to get away from her parents; the man, either adopting the master-complex of her parent(s), or too weak to earn her genuine and deep love. One he could not forget was the husband who came to him all adamant that Nazanel must paint his wife. But the husband insisted on the woman’s clothing, posture, facial expression, location, setting, and background. Nazanel put him in his place. They signed a contract for no refunds, no matter what theme and what the quality of the painting was. It was Nazanel’s name that he wanted on the canvass, not even the fraud of a quality that was managed to be bestowed on the countenance of his wife, Nazanel’s “muse” this time. The finished piece looked like this: The wife, younger looking, in a provocative, revealing, flaring, soft, pink dress; a face that is witnessing a paradise before her, eager to move forward; the face of a man wearing the same wedding band as the woman (but not the face of the husband), wearing a dark grey suit, and black leather cape, with the eyes of a totalitarian—severe, with large pools, but lost, and intoxicated by that storm. His hand is on her shoulder, the hand with the wedding ring. But on the side of her, opposite to where his hand is placed, is a bulge in the folds of her dress, the distinct outline of a revolver. He knew not what effect it had on his clients’ marital relationship. He knew that soon he would not be able to tolerate granting good women a joy that was not existential, and to evil women, a benevolence they could never know. He waited for his last muse … and perhaps his last painting. He raised his prices hoping to cut down the waiting list to oblivion. But it still kept growing. He accepted the growing revenue with an almost panic because he did not know into what he would be transformed into if he decided he would not allow himself to paint again, if he could condemn himself to such torture. But months passed and dozens of clients passed through his studio, as he continued to paint with an expert zombie attitude. And then the day came. Nazanel did not like to express his indignation with such words as “fuck off”, and its derivatives. For him, fucking was a good thing; in fact, he had fucked a lot when he was eighteen, seven years ago, with a lover named Leona Dam; two years he would never forget, though more than likely he would out-do. If there was an event that aroused his anger, it would have been inappropriate for him to evaluate it with the same word that represented an act of earthly ecstasy. He was five; just beginning to read eagerly, when he looked up the word “bitch” in a dictionary. In the morning, when he was greeted by his small and skinny pooch that resembled a baby lamb, as it licked his cheek upon his awaking, he bespoke, “morning, my little bitch.” The dog was female. Though it would have been insulting to call another human a canine, due to its degrading style, the sound of that word reminded him of a creature that showed him so much affection. And given the fact that he had had a good woman like Leona Dam once, the word “fuck” had only reminded him of many pleasant instances subsumed under his concept. Nazanel Perfecto awoke and first walked to the refrigerator to fetch a glass of water. His eyes were still heavy so he was anxious to splash his face with water. The water was cold in his hands, but when he raised his cupped palms to his closed eyes, he was shocked at the coldness’ extremity, so that he shuttered for an instant spasmodically. The next moment when he recovered, he attempted to brush his teeth but failed to squeeze out of the tube an iota of paste. He put chewing gum in his mouth and hurried to the corner store to buy some tooth paste, and a coffee since he was going out, anyways. Here he met a woman who was salivating over a juicy, creamy piece of carrot cake. Nazanel Perfecto’s last stroke of late afternoon, two days later, was a brush tipped with grey-black oil, performing the touch of the shadow, over the cheek of a young beautiful female face on canvass. “I’m done!” he proclaimed, while transforming his hand from that of a photographic camera to that of a speaker, using the same-grey black to slash the lines: ‘Nazanel’, to avoid redundancy. And then he walked past the canvass until he and it were standing back to back. He looked straight at the beautiful model’s face, a smirk that told her that their time together was now ended, though she could not pin point the ‘good riddance’ in that smirk. Because she had remained silent for a whole three-quarters of an hour, she was still the model (not thrown out too early, as the previous day), there still to witness the completion of a work of greatness. “Go, look. Your patience has earned that you bear witness to what I have transformed you into … but please don’t tell me what you think—I couldn’t bear it.” “Why?” she asked as she tip-toed still naked to the other side of the canvass, the sunlight giving her body the effect of a halo, as her silhouetted breasts faced the finished work. “Just look and shut up!” he commanded. The shock of the painting extinguished any existence of contempt that his tyranny may have caused. After a long moment, mouth still open, she turned to face him. When he saw the squinting gaze, the sensitive nostrils, the innocent canine-ness of her gaze, he rolled his eyes. “Oh—not again!” She ran to him, her gypsy beauty and black wavy hair bouncing to him, her arms around his neck, and kissed him on his chin, “Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you!” accompanying each with a kiss. It took a strong effort from him to detach the affectionate woman. She fell to the ground to grant him his freedom. The pain from the floor had no alternative but to cause her sadness. “Listen, lady … I do not care for any of your … your affections. That I have chosen you, that you have been painted by me, Nazanel, is more than payment enough for your modeling. In fact, if I was a lesser man, I would make you pay for the privilege. But in fact, you can have it. I will send it to you by courier tomorrow. Now get out!” She walked out, and as she turned the knob, she stopped, and asked, “How can you just give it away like that?” “Because the primary motive of any of my work, for as long as I can remember, is the experience of the process of creating, according to harsh technical standards. There is one thing true and common about this piece and all the work up until now; the common theme is that the newest is always better than the last. But no work has made me want to keep it. I wish I could destroy that! But a contract is a contract.” “Your passion is a wilderness …” she couldn’t look at him and kept her head looking at the floor “…My husband was hoping you would choose to sell it; he’ll be happy that it will be free of charge … Fuck him—for not hoping that you would choose to keep it.” “Please leave.” When she had left, his back still to the canvass’ back, he thought aloud of how unattractive it was to hear a woman who knows not how to swear: What was the theme of that piece? Why did I paint it, again? What do I call it? A Deserved Delicacy. It was when she was looking at the creamy carrot cake in the café’s counter display. It was the serene smile, the confident hunger in her eyes, and the guilt-free poise of the bill in her hand. It was when she was sitting at a small table, chewing, when I, Nazanel, approached her. When she heard who I was, she promised that she could repeat the same glance, without the carrot cake as her muse. He had noticed her enough to talk to her. He was to await her phone call. Standing alone with a dry brush twirling in his hand, later that same day, he had received a phone-call from her reporting that she had received permission from her eager husband, and that she would be free to meet him at eleven the next morning, in his studio. On that first day, he patiently heard of how her husband worked too long hours to give her the affection she required. He heard of the boredom of raising children, and her complaint at the bratty one, and how she would reach menopause without every experiencing the life of a princess riding away with her prince charming. He heard of the modern artists she claimed to admire, like Zanadu, who creates masterpieces of Cubism because Picasso once painted so beautifully in his early days. She looked at the disorder of his studio and proclaimed that she believed in the support of artists, at the expense of taxpayers, so that men like he and Zanadu could paint without worrying about mere financial matters. And she called her husband, “cocksucker”. Then he kicked her out. When he was alone, he thought for a moment, that maybe the husband was homosexual, but without evidence, he only had his imagination. He imagined, in a silly psychological moment, the cartoon drawing of a young executive in dark suit with his big mouth around the head of a rooster. Later he called her to inform her that he would allow her to return on the next day to complete the painting. Now that she was gone, the work was done, he thought silently, as he stood, with his back still to the canvass, she was right. She was right that her husband should wish that he, Nazanel, would wish to keep it. Thus the husband could have been as good a man as he was. Nazanel could have made a considerable amount of money selling his vast artistic industry, his storage of landscapes. He had several offers from some of the most famous (publicly subsidized) museums in North America. But he was always compelled to refuse the generous offer, claiming, “I paint for myself—not for the public … When there are lines of people outside of the homes of our millionaires, with dollar bills in hand, waiting, not for alms of charity, but for a view of his/her art gallery—thus will begin the era of the romantic painter.” The wealthy, successful, industrialist who loved his paintings, were seldom. Ironically, it was these few who aroused the notice of big museums, and renowned galleries, and helped to create the great demand for his work. He stopped painting landscapes long ago. Mother Nature led him to the contemplation of woman. He refused to evolve from the subject of woman until he found the model who matched, by herself, the power and character that he gave her on canvass with his brush (an extension of his mind). The goodness of physical nature, as he painted it, promised to the viewer a mood of scientific adventure, or in reaction to its danger, that of a heroic daring. This promise inspired him to seek man. Too few men were worthy of his brushstrokes, that he knew of, that it would be a sacrilege to the spirit of man to attempt to re-create the world from such a muse. But woman represented a need, an oasis, from the pain of existence among man, a celebration for each finish line of one’s journey. He painted women, then, as a woman that he could make love to. He painted them in the same aura as that woman he once possessed, for two wonderful years. Since the ending of that affair, he had never met a woman to make him want to dine. But his artistic greatness commanded that he should take one. His will could not give up his ideal. He would wait or die waiting. What happened to Leona Dam? She left him; she took her pleasure, her joy, her inspiration; and when it was clear that for the next decade, he would love his art and his philosophy, more than her, it became time to move on. She wanted more than great sex and intriguing intellectual conversation and silly antics; she wanted to go into business together, start a home, build wealth—raise children even! … And he could not paint her. Most men, who commissioned portraits for their female loved ones, did so spending too much money for so undeserving a special lady. Usually, he was just so sickened of once again finding a model with deep faults, that to keep such a masterpiece would be unbearable, a slap at the ideal. The money became a sort of anesthetic—a archetypically necessary numbing agent for the artists born into a social environment that should make them tremble, with the peripheral vision for even the sneaky injustices; condemned to tremble at a caravan of small soul-ed grotesques, the spectacle time equal to that of one’s life. Though it was true, he could only reach the conclusion that it was the process of creating the canvass-work that was the crux of the glorious ecstasy that Legend always promised to the artist. What he had never found was the artistic need to bless the existence that one witnesses. What he had never found but never lost the feeling of hope for, was an ideal recreation of a beautiful nature, true to reality as well, true of a being worthy of being painted so wonderfully. This was his greatest longing and greatest frustration. Yet still he could and would not utter an indignant “fuck you” at this current frustration. “Such is the current,” is all he said. He walked back to the other side of the canvass. He beheld the naked beauty of a gypsy colored girl. Her breasts were the epitome of his sacred study of feminine parts. They were what are meant by such expressions as “flesh incarnate” and “firming blood”. Her eyes, though black, had an aura of blue, thus making a viewer more conscious of the dark silky cheeks, and hatchet-like nose. Her red lips promised the juice of cherries, and their fragrance was promised by the silkiness of her long frame. Her feet folded with the texture of fresh water walkers and olive oil bathers. His reaction to the grotesque-sublime/mind-body juxtaposition was as usual: he gave a chuckle with closed mouth, nostrils that jerked an exhale, along with a few slow negative nods of his head. He ruminated over the artistic process again. He experienced his hand as that of a cosmic creator forming forms of beauty from the flux of a canvass’s weaves, the brush’s hairs, curves and shadows, and the measurements and values of his mind. He recalled colors of paint mixing into the skin of a woman, and strokes into limbs, limbs integrating into the harmonious beauty of this particular woman (and all the rest). He heard her call her husband a “cocksucker” with indignation. If he is one, how could you marry him, or stay with him while knowing so? You must be one too. He thought that maybe she really is one, and that perhaps all women should be. He imagined himself married. Surely he could label his wife such a thing and still arouse his wife’s affection. He shook the subject out of his mind. He would have wrapped the painting to be ready for delivery and out of his sight but he had to let it dry first before he sent it. He turned on the television and found the national news. He entered halfway into the segment about Scientists being successful in eradicating an epidemic immune system disease in laboratory primates. And he smiled. Next he heard the American President’s latest speech on god’s grace and will, condemning stem cell research and the cloning of human body parts. He proclaimed that he could not, in all earnestness, condone the commercialization of god’s grace by allowing the human heart and lung, god’s gifts, to be stocked “on the shelves at Wal-Mart.” He even allowed himself a shot at Wal-Mart by suggesting they would even enter such a market, thus bulldozing the ‘small-town medical researcher’! Nazanel let out a “damn you—fool!” Then he turned off the newscast. Then he went for a walk, walking out of his apartment with the certainty that he could never paint again. He bought a large bottle of expensive champagne for his wake. But he stopped at the coffee shop, where he had earlier met the distraught gypsy girl, for a creamy coffee, and that carrot cake that had led to his final downfall. When he saw her he let out an ironic, sarcastic laugh. The resemblance was uncanny. He had to paint one last time. He had to paint her to underscore, she had to be that ironic last one, to underscore the humor of the ending of his career. “I am a great painter. I want to paint you. Today. Right now.” “You have the audacity to declare yourself a great painter? … Okay, what is ‘great’ painting? … What is it about me that you want to paint?” “Great painting is like Vermeer but … but it is meant to give you the picture of a moral ideal and a blessing of the world’s nature, to allow men to see their unspoken idealizations, before them with right eloquence … you? … You I want to paint because you seem to be a woman who makes her own destiny, godless, confident in the worth of her ideal, fearless to pursue it, even in the face of trolls, dragons, or evil giants … and because I know you are not.” “Interesting … but I will have to see your other paintings before I agree.” “I only have landscapes at home. My muses up ‘til now have not deserved that I want to keep their picture. So I’ve been glad to just take their money, a consolation for not being able to destroy what I have created. I’ll think I’ll want to keep yours … as my swansong.” “How do you know I won’t want to keep it myself?” “It is my right to keep it if I want. You will be posing for me with the payment of having me paint you, and being the first other to see the completed product.” “Then you must want to know—to be sure—what I think great art is. “I saw the painting once of a beautiful older woman in a judge’s robe in the act of condemning a man to death, and yet still beautiful—too beautiful.” “I am Nazanel.” “I know … I was hoping to run into you around here.” “My studio is just upstairs.” “What would it cost if I want to keep the finished product?” “Are you married?” “No.” In the apartment, she reminded him, “I only need to see one landscape to know for sure, to give you my time.” “Here; one of my favorites.” She studied it, then struggled with the desire to see the rest of the dozens of landscapes and between her need to have him paint her, in the same manner. She stripped. He picked up his palette and brush and shot towards an easel with a blank canvass awaiting him. When he had finished it, he looked at it, then closed his eyes and faced away from it. He walked past it and remained with his back to its. “Look at it but please don’t tell me what you think—I couldn’t bear it.” “Why?” she asked as she tip-toed still nude to the other side of the canvass, the tall lamps giving her body the effect of a halo, as her silhouetted breasts faced the finished work. “You can bear it—or you don’t deserve to have painted me … What I see is integrity. I am this woman, as you may have already felt it so.” He walked back to the other side of the canvass. He beheld on canvass the nude beauty of a gypsy colored girl. Her breasts were the epitome of his sacred study of feminine parts. They were what are meant by such expressions as “flesh incarnate” and “firming blood”. Her eyes, though black, had an aura of blue, thus making a viewer more conscious of the dark silky cheeks, and hatchet-like nose. Her red lips promised the juice of cherries, and their fragrance was promised by the silkiness of her long frame. Her feet folded with the texture of fresh water walkers and olive oil bathers. He ruminated over the artistic process again. He experienced his hand as that of a cosmic creator forming forms of beauty from the flux of a canvass’s weaves, the brush’s hairs, curves and shadows, and the measurements and values of his mind. He recalled colors of paint mixing into the skin of a woman, and strokes into limbs, limbs integrating into the harmonious beauty of this particular woman. Her intelligent eyes made the viewer blush due to her study; The tenderness of her hands’ caress (empowered from the canvass), Was felt on one’s cheek as one returned a careful study. The scorn in her mouth, the joy of her teeth, the vitality of her nose of brass, The tolerance of her ears, the musculature around her breast, Her commanding arms, her angelic legs, her knees of worship, And her feet of flight, was the image of a woman best; And the goodness of her entire aura went past the essence of friendship. She was then born solely to live her days with him, Because he knew her like most men could only dream, Because the secret of her was to be found in him, That place and power where they share a dream. His reaction to the rational sublimity in harmony was unusual: he laughed wildly but short. Then he said, looking with ownership into her black, mirror-like eyes, “Fuck … me …” She smiled, closed her eyes for a moment, and felt his desire with the help of deepening her breathing. “I have an artistic question, though.” She declared. “Go ahead.” “Why did you feel it appropriate to paint me in this studio, while the previous girl you painted in some exotic beach?” “I think that I have betrayed you all this time, even with the painting of this last girl. I have allowed strange, though physically beautiful women, bare themselves naked in my studio, where the female form should stand nude. It is you that belonged in this studio because it is through your body that I became intimate firsthand with ‘nudity’. I painted you full grown, as a goddess, as someone born from this earth, via my vision of this earth, a creature not knowing of clothes yet, but only the original bareness of your body, as a blessing to the beauty and pleasure of mother nature, and as a natural inhabitant of this bountiful earth. I did not need to give you your aura promising goodness; I just had to copy reality as I saw it. Once I saw such momentous unity before me, the place on which you stood, became a symbol of heaven on earth, because you bestowed it with your life. You made my studio paradise.” “I have seen Justice of the Peace.” “How does that redeem me?” “Because of that there is no need for your redemption. She should have been enough for you to know of what is possible in reality. But you took her as the last breed of a greater and older era, eh? … I know you. I have not had the pleasure of seeing your female paintings, except for mine and the girl here earlier today—you painted me in a matter of hours!—but I am confident that you had to bestow them with a happiness that they did not know, or a goodness that they could never earn. When else did you ever portray a woman as she was?” “There was once. I used my painting to warn a husband about his evil wife. He divorced her.” “Perhaps it was only through me that you could know that what you gave to them is metaphysically real, and appropriate, because it is metaphysically real in your own consciousness … perhaps you needed to paint me that was akin to painting yourself.” He smiled at her, his joy expressed in his attentive eyes, and remained silent. “I need to tell you who I am. It is apt that you have painted women usually in an act of justice. By that you painted justice as a rebellion against the world’s injustice. I too am such a rebel. “You may have heard about the death of Maxwell Enkidios, the auto parts giant. I am his heiress. I am a very wealthy woman. I also live with a surplus of loneliness. But I am taking care of that. I am a novelist. I write like you paint. Since my father’s death I have decided to find writers of my same school. I started a foundation for that purpose. I have started a foundation to scout friends of the same spirit. My foundation is willing to supplement the careers of young, struggling writers so they could create. I am willing to finance the publishing of those who do not need my wealth for their basic life necessities, those who would still have trouble publishing their works because they are Romantic writers. Perhaps I can help them find the courage to be Romantic in the face of the sneers, though that perhaps is oxymoronic. “My biggest payment for my beneficence is: to be among the first to contemplate the finished work, and one of the few fortunate to witness the work in progress. There is also the reward of following my own sense of justice to help those talents achieve what their talent deserves, in a market against them. Lastly, I want to start a movement of a new art School that will assist in saving western civilization from sinking culturally, morally, and politically” “I don’t need your money.” “I am aware of that. I am also aware of what you do need, as you have already admitted.” “Do you want to keep that painting? It is yours but it stays here. When you want to see it, you must come to me. You will be my bitch in an act where I command your every pleasure.” “I will teach you not to degrade our act with such vulgarity, as calling me your dog.” “I say it to heighten the experience that awaits us … I promise to paint you forever. “I feel that I am willing to be your cocksucker forever. I am ready to fuck you now.” They kissed and then the drama ensued, the dancing, acting, and the music: “Fuck me … Beatrice … yes … eat … me, ah!” Later that evening a neighbor could hear them popping a champagne cork. THE END

If you read all my poetry, several make the answer obvious. So, yes. I am curious as to the origin of the question. Is it because you are "curious"? Or is it because on some poem you read, you started reading it thinking that it was dedicated to a woman, and then suddenly I include a line that dedicates the love poem to a male, causing some confusion? Anyways, screw my sexuality! Do you like poetry, which one? Jose Gainza.

IMAGINE YOUR CONTROL—By Jose Gainza (2005) Imagine ---------Feeling hardened with the image of your ---------Reddened face. Imagine ---------That I’m driven, keenly sniffing for your ---------Scented trace. Imagine ---------That with pride I am wearing what you’ve worn; ---------What I’ve torn! Imagine ---------My hope, imagination that has sworn ---------To keep it born; Imagine ---------It’s the act, dream, and fight to hold you close … ---------To bite your flesh! Imagine ---------Almost dying from a lyric overdose— ---------How to refresh? Imagine ---------That I’ve the right to pull your puckered lips … ---------With those of mine! Imagine ---------I’ve the right to press my lips to your hips ---------So to dine... Imagine ---------I am the best of all your longed for things, ---------Desperately. Imagine ---------Living in a realm where we are both kings ---------Honestly. Imagine ---------Your hungry dance and run to me, some day, ---------With confidence. Imagine ---------All those fun days when we can, frenzied, play ---------With love intense. Imagine ---------O, how certain we can feel of our sweet love; ---------Our wholesome home. Imagine ---------Our hands held, fused, without protective glove— ---------Amidst sea foam. Imagine ---------Honey tastes, creamy creams, and blessed fruit … ---------And our sweat! Imagine ---------Your impatience as I pull off your boot— ---------Do not fret. Imagine ---------You dream of me without your potent will ---------Ecstatically. Imagine ---------Desperately you want from me our thrill ---------So proudly. Imagine ---------You need me as your eternal angel ---------Of this earth. Imagine ---------I can annihilate your vacant hell ---------With my worth. Imagine ---------That I’ll wait for all my productive life ---------For sex with you. Imagine ---------That I’ll bear the waiting, relentless strife; ---------My soul blue. Imagine ---------That I’ll maintain my happiness despite ---------The lack of you. Imagine ---------That I pledge to you my desperate might: ---------My love for you! Imagine ---------That one day you come to change your firm mind ---------And pursue bliss. Imagine ---------You accept our souls as the same pure kind, ---------That I’m amiss; Imagine ---------You do crave, cry and stress for lack of me: ---------Your only priest. Imagine --------- That you, with welcome, pledge it all for me ---------And grant your feast. Imagine ---------On our alter heaven smiles, melted hearts, ---------And hungry eyes. Imagine ---------Our forever, our now’s, and burning hearts, ---------And without lies. Imagine ---------You are I, I am you, and how I cry ---------Without your thing! Imagine ---------You miss me, you need me, with your whole I— ----------Let’s forge our ring.

I really like this poem. "Freedom to live, and achieve," a state, a condition, in order so the greatest in you can create, applicable to everyone, and most vivid (perhaps) in the experience of a Galileo or a Michaelangelo. "Vampires" (!) Ha! the punctures whole in our bodies; we can go on and win, despite the "leaks". These bite are easily patchable--lovely!. Vindicate our forefathers' essence, though not the bites that they shared with the creator in us as well, bring back the color to sickness--lovely. Use your reason in the face of brute force ... even those in the worst of states--perhaps. We are; I am the spirtual son of great men even if alone. To those tired and weakened by the road of our kind, I have the answer: though many, it is within you to discover and make the road(s) easier, by your wisdom and pride. So, Don't give up despite the vampires. You must decide how many roads, while their bites in your path, are enough to earn, enough to earn your pride. Thanks for sharing it. Jose Gainza. This one is worth greater study, on my part, before I comment about its meaning and its effect on me. It is interesting that in Toronto, around when you had published this piece, several gang-related shooting occured, at least, more that were reported. This poem speaks to that, as it speaks to any gangster (including Al Capone and Jean Chretien [et.al]). I want to say more about the poem on a later date. Jose Gainza. I, personally, would prefer this as part of a larger peace with a happy ending ... and response from the drifter. Jose Gainza.

I was looking for an old document and stumbled across this "manifesto" that I forgot I had written. It is obviously the predeccessor of the essay, A Motor Like Mine .... Enjoy, Jose Gainza. I posted it because of eloquence of style, given that I was eighteen back then. Now I'm twenty six, and the feature essay of this thread represent, until I post something new, my better thoughts on the subject. J.G. My Manifesto on True Love True love is to acknowledge an honest desire for another person; a love based on virtues that you value in another person, and virtues that this person values in you. True love is mutual desire -- not infatuation. In order to value a person, you must know what you value, but you must first value yourself. You must have self-esteem: confidence in your efficacy and worthiness to attain your values. Therefore, true love requires that the person whom you claim to love, loves you as well; who sees you as a value -- something he/she desires to gain and/or keep. As a result a loss has painful meaning to both of you. These value-judgments automatically eliminate a great deal of prospective candidates. Because these judgments are made by your mind, what follows is that you necessarily fall in love with another person’s mind (i.e., ideas) and - as a result of those ideas - his/her actions, proceeding his/her emotions, which evoke emotions in you, informing you of your feelings, which require an action on your part in return. Physical beauty is a great virtue that people possess in varying degrees. It is you that makes your own individual standard, who decides what you find beautiful, who chooses your value. But physical beauty only serves as a compliment to the beauty and attractiveness of the mind. True love is not as simple as valuing physical beauty. It goes much deeper than that. A person who knows about true love, is not moved primarily by physical beauty, but is moved by the consequences of the subject’s knowledge of what makes you -- the object-- move. But this knowledge takes time and effort. It presupposes an individual self-concept --implicitly or explicitly known -- respectively. True love is the desire to know another self -concept. These two individual souls will have essential similarities, complimentary differences, as well as conflicting characteristics that must be resolved: all three must be brought into harmony and balance. The more powerful and vivid the music harmonized by this -- two instrument -- “orchestra of love,” the greater the bond and dependence on each other. In this case, dependence is not a vice but a virtue because of the value in the end, and the constant triumph on every horizon: Ecstatic music. Hence, a partnership is formed in search of the greater benefits that would other wise have been defaulted. Imagine the symphony when these two bodies unite along with their inseparable souls. And imagine the symphony when these are two beautiful bodies complimenting two beautiful souls. And imagine the symphony when these two bodies are complimentary different. Or imagine the symphony when these two bodies are essentially similar. Ecstatic pleasure and laughter is the result in both instances. But both instances are mutually exclusive: A new life is possible by the first, and impossible to the latter; but a new connection, a new bond, a new kinmanship, a celebration of that common essence is unique to the latter and impossible to the first. However, the reward in either symphony is an ecstatic state of consciousness that all men deserve if they individually earn it. The following is an a complimentary poem for the aforesaid: A possible myth To practice what we preach I want to give you a private Atlantis Something physical Something real True for you and me I want to reward our paradise minds Produce the freedom Independence requires Enjoy intoxicating excesses Possible to reason Certainly for sure Not run wild Like lower animal forms In a logical reality Yesterday Today Tomorrow

This is one from eight years ago, when I first realized that I wanted to be a writer. I was digging up an old document and stumbled across this one. Causing Emotion I Subsuming reality Are ideas with words As symbols, Useful -- potentially -- To make you believe. Mine are on paper After perfection, But slower. Yours are a dialogue In space -- Processed by reason, Stored in memory, And deduced into action, Yet scattered By the objects of your will -- Howling Paraphrases With improper syllogism, But subconscious revelation Without introspection -- Imperatively subtle, Masterfully skilled, Hidden Where most fear to peer into. II And they rarely ask “why?” And find no answers To questions they dare not ask. I accepted the dare, Asked the questions, Peered into my heart of darkness, And inevitably saw the light: Found catch phrases With no starting points, With cloudy implications. I saw ends with no means, And means with out ends. I saw my dreams replaced By your style And your theme, Unanalyzed, No judgment, “All good!” Though I wasn’t mistaken, I couldn’t find answers. And in search of reason I stumbled on fear. And then what would happen: A state of confusion. Hiding behind visions And thinking with dreams. III Fortune in constant persistence, though, After a new theme, Gradual courage, And momentous serenity. When I realized your theme And developed my own. You were constantly testing, Searching for truth, A sense of security; Jumping from whim to whim -- stone to stone -- Hardly getting wet, A masterful skill. I had started my quest And couldn’t engage In the worship of whims; And then came my theme. To understand what I see, And accept what I must, And work for the answers. IV I found what had moved them: An immovable mover, With a multi-faceted integrity In guise; Who moved me to introspect, And display what I found, And portray what could be, To assure what should be. Introversion, as the essence Of this immovable mover, Who indulged in the actions Of pseudo-introverts And many extroverts. In Retrospect I found, That to be made, The “we” must be earned, And the “I” must be found. Free will is the key, Strong will is the force; The guide in pursuit Of the immovable mover; To acknowledge the metaphysical “I” And to love the man-made “we.” An Ironic effect When the immovable mover Peers into his soul To discover he was moved -- As he moves others -- By the honest will of another And all the truth it entails. And so I lusted to move You Immovable mover.

It seems that the "Objectivist" is acting in a spirit of charity, which is not necessarily a waste of an act. Why is the vagrant even worthy of a job? A job is a big risk to give to a man over just some money. So, the good man wants to help the bad man. I suppose that it may just be a test on the part of the good man, his gesture out of confidence that the vagrant will indeed sabotage the making of that important and lucky phone call. But if the vagrant doesn't get drunk, and chooses to make that phone call, then he better be up to the job (whatever it may be), or the businessman will potentially be sacrificing the success of his own business so that the vagrant will have a job (so that he doesn't have to stay begging on the streets). If you want the bumb to make the phone call, then you should plant in his early dialogue, something that will reveal his intelligence or ability, kind of like the Wetnurse at Rearden's Mills in Atlas Shrugged. And even if you don't have the bumb making the phone call, then you can have the businessman at the end of his night, with a sole glass of good scotch, on the phone with his secretary, asking whether any phone calls came in. And when the response is no, then the businessman's hope that just maybe the bumb will choose to change, will be finally lost. "Another one bites the dust. Tomorrow: business as usual." If you're going to offer a long-term job to the bumb, then he better have some virtues. And if the job offer is just a test to prove the bumb evil, and a guaranteed failure, then why bother showing such a scene that represents what most people think about bumbs anyway? A more dramatic story is one where the bumb gets out of the gutter. Or one where he at least tries to make that phone call ... and perhaps some past criminal deed committed to get some past bottle of whisky, catches up with the bumb, and that is why he can't make the call. I think something like that will keep the interest of the reader more. The bumb has some potential, but his moral choices of the past doom him, and thus you show the consequences of his failure to uproot his demons that have led him to drinking.

The following poem was inspired by looking at the eastern sky one night. Since the object as I saw it was momentary and transient, I was only able to write a melancholy poem, since my theme was going to be love. Red Moon Lips—By Jose Gainza Past the ridge at the line of the horizon, The red moon rises, full, above the eastern land. Passing moments change the sphere, still risin`— The sphere soon cuts in half at clouds’ command. The bottom part remains and thus is lighted; The top thus hides behind the unseen clouds, Turned as such to purple of a day now blighted. Though half a moon is cloaked in shrouds, There does remain a pair of smiling lips— O, how delightful is my power to abstract! For by this force the moon’s glory flips Into a facial silhouette, of clouds, intact. Around your blood filled lips, your face I see, Though light relinquished for your glory lips. And then it’s clear; your face is still with me. And thus I feel; I need to kiss your lips. Soon I’m crawling on the table towards the edge. There are cars below that seem that they are toys. But you so real await my kiss—my pledge! And so I will my mouth to perk for all your joys. When that is done, ensues a force That bows my head and closes eyes. So this praised prostration I endorse, Thus I revere; not in shame I close my eyes. A moment lasts, and then my eyes partake in light. A lamp insists in the dark ocean of my room, Reveals a smudge on glass amidst the dark of night. There is my kiss that on the glass does loom. So it lingers, and will remain as your lips depart … And as they float on high I touch my matter-lips, To hold them still, and save them from vain art, That dares to stamp on glass the image of pale lips, That can capture, for a moment, luck’s sweet kiss. The red lips gone, transformed now into black. Glass lips outlast; the remnant of a kiss— The image—spirit—left from a love attack. The red blaze gone, it left me all alone, To search my room for something I could want. And there a green dot flash marks a telephone. It blinks and blinks; the green light is a taunt— That screamed for me to go and seek your voice. The gesture vain coz your number is amiss. I sit and look, waiting without choice, For the eastern sky to soon return my bliss. A yellow sphere replaces reddened smile. And there are craters—there are eyes; Another crater—there your lips without that smile; And there a nose to complete a face so wise. By my power to create I see your face, Condensed onto a canvass of pure light, Framed by that giant circle’s outer trace, Floating, rising there with so much might. My hand reaches forth and it is pierced By a comet of this earth speeding strong, Invented as the wings for man the sheerest. I feel envy for that plane but it is wrong, For it seems to brush your face—but in vain— For you have only eyes for me … that’s right! And your mounting night visage eclipses pain. And life is so throughout this blessed night. For one whole night I dare to watch you beam... All this night you have only eyes for me … And thus to realize my utter dream … A chance for me to be the only one you see … To just sit back and drink your bright beauty … To cup my hand around your precious face … To watch and know as if my sole duty … To feel your power sending me to rise and pace Because a constant gaze could overwhelm … And stop my heart because of too much grace … Your love for me at my vessel’s helm … From the depths of me, duelling time to race. Tonight I love my only moon.

Copyright © 2005 Jose Rodriguez-Gainza LO THE HAND OF FORCE—By Jose Gainza. Lo! the intrepid hand of force, ……..... Lurking—waiting its time to pounce! Lo, as it seeks victims on whom to pounce; Froth for your gold’s accumulating ounce; A hand, non covert, ripping back with force … Lo! Service you do not use: The doctor you never call, The success of school’s fall—it’s drawl— Those keep one running off the ball— Lo the purchasing of things one cannot choose … Doctor, teacher, waste picker, Bus line driver, hydro man— Jobs that should be done by honest man— And not by the permission of some thieving clan— But by the reason’s virtues kept a-flicker … Lo, if you will, proprietors all free ………Marching markets with their moral code, Hopefully driving with an honest load, Vowing, “I deal not by the gangster’s code,” For he works thus to stay free … Lo the need for markets, man qua man, The act of trade that is an always-law— If man is to avoid the vulture claw, Clutching carrion rotten flesh, stinking raw— That man repeats if he is to stay man—qua man … The market place is how man lives long range, Where he doesn’t risk his life in chasing prey, Where for what he wants he must just say, And trade his golden coins that glitter in the sun of day; Thus receiving bushels and his silver change. There really is no need to war for sake of land, When men produce on land, and profit still— Save, invest, expand, create—not kill— When he gives his taxes for his grievance bill— When jurists wise exist and judge for the right hand. Lo! ..... Lo! Oh look how low! They do not let us grow! They want to steal our show! Lo! Look how low they go—Low, lo! Don’t be blind, go, lo—lo! Do not let your pocket bounce! ………Don’t go too low. Come on, keep the client call! ………Watch clients grow. Talk, and find your proper clan! ………Dance to and fro. Come on, match the moral code! ………Lo, watch them glow. Exchange in nature’s laws! ………Let oars go row. Men, watch the dawn of day! ………Don’t let it go— When voters do not kill! ………Trade; make it so. Copyright © 2005 Jose Rodriguez-Gainza.

DARING OUR WRATH--By Jose Gainza (2001) How dare you smash two planes into our tallest twin towers! How dare you try to sink the source of all our powers! How dare you take our strong, our brave, our weak! How dare you say to us, “Freedom you shall not seek”! How dare you forget the wisdom by which we started! How dare you think our golden economy will remain retarded! How dare you use your “god” to stop American ambition! How dare you leave ten blocks beyond all recognition! How dare you leave our thousands buried dead! How dare you think we will betray what we have always said! How dare you slap the face of “life, freedom, and happiness”! How dare you dance proud of your damned wretchedness! How dare you not have learned our pledge to: liberty or death! How dare you make them scream before one last breath! How dare you believe that we will let you survive! How dare you not have known our history we shall revive! How dare you not have feared our knives, our guns, our bombs, our minds! How dare you evade the justice no holy war defines! And so we dare you not to dread our wrath…