Dream Weaver: “Cosmos” 2019—Contact
Cawb Edius Reel
Both Elliott and Zander Weaver made a film—five years.
The cast was merely three main amateur astronomers.
The cost was $7,000 for some varied things:
gear, petrol, software, food, location electricity.
What they used for their movie’s operating Camera—
was the 1080p Blackmagic Pocket Cinema.
They made their DCP, upscal’d 2K DaVinci Res,
and used old lenses, cheap and old, cost naught—preowned, oh, yes.
They had a homemade cam’ra rig, they build from pipe and wood,
a dolly from a whe-el-chair that turned out very good.
Leaf-blower wind machine, three LEDs, their panel lights,
the main stage a black-cyc garage, their volvo parked inside.
The costumes were the actors’ clothes, cool-casual in look,
an actual umbrella with gold mesh, their space-dish hook.
They made their movie through hard work, craft, talent, and desire.
They made their movie Cosmos—indie rebels, brains on fire!
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of movies. Cosmos was a sci-fi film of 2019. A DCP is a digital cinema package. A cyc is a cyclorama. Though shooting was but a couple of months, it took five years for the final product.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Across western skies,
a long, dark array of clouds:
the storm approaches.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese poetic forms.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
A bibulous eve,
the baby with a bottle:
sounds of cicadas.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of Japanese forms and traditions with a modern twist.
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
The Boston Celtics center Enes Kanter recently
condemned dictator Xi Jinping and communist Chinese
for their oppressive slavery of Uyghurs in the west
and the Tibetan people, all those downcast citizens.
As Chinese media shut down his team, his meme, and name,
he, too, was side-lined by his team and thus sat out his game,
while wearing “Free Tibet” shoes, blue, red, yellow, white and black,
so colourful and brilliant, neat and trim—the sneakers smack.
His simple message was emblazoned there upon his feet,
but Chinese media banned him—the basketball athlete.
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of NewMillennial China.
by Rus Ciel Badeew
He saw him strug-gl-ing to get to thé edge of the bed;
but it was difficult. He did his best to lift his head.
He had to get to work. His boss was waiting for him there;
but so unmotivated that he really didn’t care…
to get up off that bed. O, how he didn’t want to move.
It was like as he was an Oblamov. He loved his groove.
He pressed his hands into the mattress, raising shoulders up.
His single thought was focused on a hopeful coffee cup.
He boosted up his back. He grabbed the instant’s tocking tick.
And then he gave his all to plant his knees. O, click and kick.
With squinting eyes and forceful vibes, he then passed o’er the ledge.
And there he was. He stood up tall right at the mattress edge.
At the Watering Hole
by Rus Ciel Badeew
I saw him standing at the wa-ter-ing hole looking back,
as if he were attempting to beware of an attack.
So many animals…appear…to quench their driving thirst,
before they reach the bottom…and their growing bubbles burst.
So many animals con-tin-u-al-ly on the hunt,
hyena, lion, croc, rhinocerous and elephant.
But it is hard for the giraffe to bow its long neck down,
to spread its legs and reach the liquid, its legs on the ground.
I saw that dappled beast reach out, so vuln’rable and grand,
there lapping up the precious fluid—hard to drink and stand;
arrested by the Cheka, some trumped-up conspiracy;
then executed………………It was not in Washington DC.
Rus Ciel Baddew is a poet of Russia. Nikolai Gumilyov was arrested by the Cheka, a Soviet secret police, for his anti-communist views, and executed August 26, 1921, about a century ago.
Beagle Puppy Torture
by Cur A. Wildebees
The beagles are quite gentle dogs. Maybe that’s why they were used
in Fauci-funded trials in Tunisia—there a-b-u-s-e-d.
Some puppies were injected with disease-caused parasites,
their heads in cages locked, with sand flies eating them alive.
White Coat Waste Project has revealed pics and records of
this cruelty to mammals come straight from NIH funds.
It seems they slit their vocal cords, so that they couldn’t bark,
which is so horrible and inhumane, so crass and stark;
though less than Fauci-funded Wuhan’s gain-of-function lab,
that led to millions dying all across this turning Globe.
Cur A. Wildebees is a poet of Animalia Africa. The experiments were done in a part of Tunisia where sand flies are abundant. The population of Tunisia is around 11,000,000. The covid death count now at least 5,000,000.
Rebecca Ryan in Naples
by Bucalese Werdi
We rode into the city from the Termini in Rome;
the trip was quick, and quite the pick, pickpocket, ah, du monde.
We stepped out to the crazy busy traffic all around,
the squeeking buses, honking cars, trams, scooters, vans, and LOUD.
Outside, no traffic lights, exquisite sights or cozy haunts,
but at the Garibaldi Square, cafes and restaurants.
Conjested, grubby, dirty, shopping, and confectioners,
a lot of trash and homeless panderers and loiterers.
Let’s go to Mount Vesuvius, Pompeii where thousands died.
That was back in 79 AD. Enjoy the ride.
Bucalese Werdi is a poet of Italy. Naples is an Italian city of about 3,100,000. Rebecca Ryan is a dashing international spy in a book from the movie “American Dreamer” of 1984.
by Acwiles Berude
O, God, he saw the awesome summit rising up ahead,
surprising in its beauty, fearsome in its dire dread.
It rose up higher than surrounding forms—that rounded mount—
above the town, there at its foot, so brown, but radiant.
O, how he longed to climb Parnassus, up its nasty slopes,
much harder, arduous, than he had ever once supposed.
Though picturesque and stunning, it was likewise dangerous:
those jagged, rugged crags, like devil love or angel lust.
Orpheus and the Muses shared its airy atmosphere,
but just as well its limestone and the bauxite mining there.
Though one may come to meet with Pegasus on its grand heights,
thigh-goring boars and howling wolves are just as likely sights.
“Crude” Abe Lewis
by Acwiles Berude
He was a crusty dude, old Abe, quite rusty at his end.
He loved to go out making trouble for both foe and friend.
He was a dirty SOB, although he washed each day,
especi’lly when he went to sandy dunes for some beach play.
He’d drink with Cale Budweiser, ale, beer, or club-raise dew.
He loved to savour flavoured liquids by the ocean’s brew.
He’d watch the waves come thrashing in upon the rugged rocks,
and see the seagulls winging it, among the kites and hawks.
A cup of coffee in the morning, ready for the light,
he’d translate ancient Greek into an English crystallite.
Acwiles Berude is a poet and translator of Ancient Greek realms.
by Ecwus Beal Ride
He was dog-tired, sleep deprived, upon a treadmill’s trek,
caught in a boring pattern, beck and call, lo, call and beck.
He felt like as he was in a routine, a constant march,
continually going, striving for a spanning arch.
Stuck in a sentence for a crime he still is paying for,
long after having paid for it, o, yes, for it and more.
He was there panting, legs in motion, in a rat race run,
a busy competition to do well time and again,
exasperated, beat, and longing to break from this rout,
prostrated, jaded, enervated, wasted and played out.
Ecwus Beal Ride is a poet of horses, like Orwell’s Boxer.
On Money Laundering
by Brad Lee Suciewe
The largest country in the World for money laundering
is the United States, that is, if you were wondering.
The main conduit, too, in the US is Delaware,
with the most corp’rate-friendly laws from Boston to LA.
Most of the public companies found in America
are listed there, the go-to state for laundering one’s cash.
The First State in the country, home of tax-free shopping sprees,
home to the present Resident in Washington DC,
that creature of the Swamp from th’ early 1970s,
a leading Social-Democrat in this kleptocracy.
Brad Lee Suciewe is a poet of business. Delaware is a state of about 990,000.
by Caud Sewer Bile
“You live in the same kind of grayness as the filthy stuff that
—Jack Finney, “The Body Snatchers”
“These days we find all the James Bond movie villains in our face.”
—Overheard in a conversation
They’re here! like werewolves roaming round our urban
attacking godly individuals and looting goods,
not trick-or-treating, only feeding in a frenzied mode,
vampires on the prowl for those who love life’s overload.
They’re here! like klowns in makeup, k-cup, caked-on flaky grime,
in hopes of shocking, mocking, and defrocking the sublime,
like zombies, those undead, corporeal, crazed parasites,
those carriers of pathogens, who dominate our nights.
They’re here! those aliens whose seed-pods dropt into our homes,
to take us over with their blank and vapid monotones.
With deadly drugs they cross the land in lawless, wild bands;
and ominously kill and rape their victims on command.
They’re here those horrid, torrid ogres, everywhere one goes,
those crying cats and monster drummers pounding out their shows,
those me(n)tal blasters blanking out our minds with filth and rot,
those gross and vile creatures of lagoon and seaside grot.
They’re here! like those demonic rats who linger near the swamp,
who swarm about with harmful shout, in circumstance and pomp.
Is there no piper to relieve us of their frothing mouths,
no trumpeter to blast them back to uncouth hell’s foul drouth?
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the vile. Jack Finney (1911-1995) was a PostModern American short story writer and novelist, as in “The Body Snatchers”.
Autumn Pumpkin Bread
by Carb Deliseuwe
All purpose flour, baking powder, salt and cinnamon,
eventu’lly all whisked together and poured in a pan,
with baking soda, followed by some ginger, nutmeg, cloves,
eggs, butter, sugar, oil, pumpkin, all mixed in a bowl.
Cooked in an oven, till the top is browned. As can be seen,
it will be done, when toothpick in the center comes out clean.
But who will help to make the pumpkin bread—perhaps the cat?
Not hardly, nor would one suspect the big pig, or the rat.
However, who will eat the bread—the cat, the rat, the pig?
or will it be the little red hen and her clucking chicks.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food.
Out: 7:00 PM Friday Night
Dr. Weslie Ubeca
It’s dark…outside…at the back of the city hospital.
It’s 7:00 pm Friday night and all is pretty calm.
The medical professionals are getting out of work;
they are so happy…to be…getting out, in fresh air’s circ.
They’re going to their cars and trucks, out in the parking lot.
There’s extra pep, o, yeah, in each step that they take…they’ve got.
The doctors and physician’s aides, the nurses and the techs;
one after one they each depart; on phones, they speak and text.
Some dude is listening to Sam Outlaw’s So-Cal-led “Ghost Town:”
he’s waitin’ for his woman. O, he loves her…so. She’s out.
Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet (not a medical doctor) of medicine. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “circ” is a clipped noun, meaning circulation, a key concern of medical professionals.