Alex Nodopaka


~ Basho & Hemingway ~

I ponder several times
over Basho’s Haiku,

“The temple bell stops–
but the sound keeps coming
out of the flowers.” *

I surmise he was
six feet underground when
he heard above sound.

It was for both a contrecoup
for whom the bells tolled.
A sort of ego contredance.

Alex Nodopaka June©2004
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~ I Con.Template ~

NB: desirable to center formatted.

I Con.Template



while my belly


By way of fat
I feel Buddha.

Alex Nodopaka Apr©2004
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~ I read a book of poems ~

I wonder if anyone
Has read it before me
The way I have.
The top corners of pages
Sixteen through twenty-one
Were still sealed.
I carefully spread them,
Not disturbing their virginity.
Peaked in between at an angle.
What I read was worth the visit.
I’ll pass it on to another
In the same configuration.
I wonder if they’ll read it
The same way I did.

Alex Nodopaka July©2004
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~ Picasso butts Seurat ~

Propelled by soaring breeze
The boy at the end of the string
Is towed by swooshing parallelepiped
Zigzagging high in the sky.

Pelican-like, now and then
It bomb-dives and scatters
Children below.
One runs along the shore.
Between his toes sand tickles
And makes him giggle.
He is high as a kite.

Seurat, paints this tableau.
Meticulously and feverishly
Dots his canvas with a rainbow
Of assorted monotone particles.
Tediously, a polka dot boy materializes.

Picasso, standing somewhat back,
Known for his erotic shenanigans,
Ducks under girls amply bouffant skirt.
Under her knickers he snickers
About Georges ridiculous technique.
Busy with the ladys triangles,
Pablo senses geometry is the answer.

Alex Nodopaka Jul©2004
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~The Speed of Fundamentalism~

I am greatly interested
in Christian and Muslim
fundamentalist perspectives.
Particularly the latter of late.
Except that like summer beetles
they spout their fundamentalism
at high speed head-on
against my windshield
while I speak on my cell phone.
My mind is in a tizzy
now I better learn quickly
speed-reading hieroglyphs.

It is a dangerous world.

Alex Nodopaka July©2004
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© paddy gillard-bentley

I think back to that night
a dark rainy Thursday in November
crummy run down
apartment building
where you lived
in New York City
the aroma of ethnic food
coming from their tiny worlds
arranged in rooms
600 square feet of universe

The smells drifted into the dark stairwell
in the midst of our colloquial frenzy
spitting truths and lies at each other
sordid and foul
a back drop of graffiti smeared walls
like primitive cave paintings
her face peaked over the rape chain
the key hidden in ample bosom

so you grabbed my hand
and pulled me up the stairs
you kicked
hinges exploded
we stood on the roof
a show down
as if we stood on the Alps
screaming our rage
into the cold rain
your words biting into my heart
after you had blown away
the thick layer of dust
with your sweet words
and passionate sentiment
and I

rough bricks
biting at my back
maybe your finger nails
my feet off the ground
you thrusting deep enough
to wound my soul
struggling to possess me
even the carpet crawlers know
you’ve got to get in to get out
my mind still screaming at you
my body responding
me hating you
loving you
my tongue licked at your soul
like barbed wire
the steel door closes
and you couldn’t see my tears
as they were mingled with the rain

I don’t know why I wanted you to bleed
I don’t know why I wanted you to cry
I don’t know why I wanted you
I don’t know why I wanted
I don’t know why
I don’t know
I don’t

Why do some men want to fuck you
when you just need to be held?

The Wind Egg

The Wind Egg
© 2004 paddy gillard-bentley

an apparent uncomplicated egg
the soul of the philosopher
also the serpent
and the mysteries of life

in ritual of initiation
the shell is shattered
man emerges from the nascent
of physical existence

length and contour
represent the soul’s desire
to secure a position within
the heavenly kingdom

long and sharp at the ends
from such an egg
a male becomes manifest
a thing of virtue

broad or round an egg
represents aspiration in ephemeral things
formed from such a pitiable ovum
is a weaker work…a female

such hope is dulled
obscured from light
because it prefers darkness more
not seasoned with the flavor of wisdom

when I read these things
I reflect upon the idea
that men only attempt to oppress
that which they fear

and the women are sent together
to bleeding huts
when the moon is dark
so the men feel safe

blood is magic
and they were afraid
of the power women yield
to conjure blood with no consequences

his possession – naked candy
wrapped in his sexual desire
packed in a hand basket
sent on her way

while eons of fury
scorned and hidden from the sun
cloistered in lies
hell is a neophyte

an eye for an eye
tooth for a tooth
unless you are a woman
turn the other cheek

vast inner strength
intuition and wisdom
where does the power lie
when the rabbit dies?

and people ask me why
women are into ritual
why they include the Goddess
in their prayers

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