~::~ Oye Como Va ~::~

Oye Como Va!
((( Have a happy HAPPY Thanksgiving )))
. . . . . . . .&&& a wonderfull day!
* ~ ~ ~ Dancing ~ cooking ~ eating ~ dancing ~ ~ ~ *
. . . . . . . . .Have a singing swinging great day!
Two versions: One by Celia Cruz for the VOICE & the other
by Carlos Santana for the GUITAR ~
+ both special +

Enjoy!
Galatea

THANKSGIVING PRAYER by W.S. Burroughs

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THANKSGIVING PRAYER (audio only)
By William Burroughs (audio visual)

"To John Dillinger and hope he is still alive.
Thanksgiving Day November 28 1986"

…Thanks for the wild turkey and
..the passenger pigeons, destined
to be shat out through wholesome
………….American guts.

Thanks for a continent to despoil
……………and poison.

..Thanks for Indians to provide a
….modicum of challenge and
……………..danger.

Thanks for vast herds of bison to
……kill and skin leaving the
………..carcasses to rot.

Thanks for bounties on wolves
…………and coyotes.

..Thanks for the American dream,
....To vulgarize and to falsify until
……the bare lies shine through.

………..Thanks for the KKK.

……For nigger-killin' lawmen,
………feelin' their notches.

For decent church-goin' women,
with their mean, pinched, bitter,
…………..evil faces.

….Thanks for "Kill a Queer for
…………Christ" stickers.

….Thanks for laboratory AIDS.

Thanks for Prohibition and the
…….war against drugs.

…Thanks for a country where
..nobody's allowed to mind the
………….own business.

Thanks for a nation of finks.
…Yes, thanks for all the
memories-- all right let's see
…………your arms!

You always were a headache and
……you always were a bore.

Thanks for the last and greatest
betrayal of the last and greatest
……...of human dreams.

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≈ Autumn Daybreak ≈

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Autumn Daybreak
By Edna St. Vincent Millay
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Cold wind of autumn, blowing loud
At dawn, a fortnight overdue,
Jostling the doors, and tearing through
My bedroom to rejoin the cloud,
I know—for I can hear the hiss
And scrape of leaves along the floor—
How may boughs, lashed bare by this,
Will rake the cluttered sky once more.
Tardy, and somewhat south of east,
The sun will rise at length, made known
More by the meagre light increased
Than by a disk in splendour shown;
When, having but to turn my head,
Through the stripped maple I shall see,
Bleak and remembered, patched with red,
The hill all summer hid from me.

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~ A Thing Of Beauty Is A Joy Forever ~

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Endymion
By John Keats
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A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits.
Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast
That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city's din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk.
And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end!
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.

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Oh You Gatherer by By Lawrence Ferlinghetti

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Oh You Gatherer
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Oh you gatherer
......of the fine ash of poetry
...........ash of the too-white flame
................of poetry

Consider those who have burned before you
.........in the so-white fire

Crucible of Keats and Campana
...........Bruno and Sappho
.................Rimbaud and Poe and Corso
.....And Shelley burning on the beach
..................at Viarreggio

And now in the night
.....in the general conflagration
............the white light
..................still consuming us
.......small clowns
............with our little tapers
............held to the flame

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