Bad Craziness Rising

Walking into the Cosmos Bar

In Soi Cowboy in Bangkok

The City of Lost Angels.

That nefarious den

of iniquity and evilness

Twenty drinks too sober.

I sat down at that bar

Watching the mad scene unfold

The naked ladies dancing.

Drinking one scotch, one bourbon

And one Singha beer.

With my buddies.

the whole motley

Jack Daniels crew.

Drinking with Mr. Baker Beam, Jim Beam, Mr. Blanton

Mr. Booker, Elijah Craig, Jack Daniels

George Dickel, Thomas H. Handy, Basil Haydens

Henry McKenna, Old Mr. Forester, Mr. Jameson

Mr. Nester, David Nichols, Benjamin Prichard,

George T. Stagg, Colonel E.H. Taylor,

Johny Walker, Evans Williams, William Larue Weller

W.L. Weller Pappy Van Winkle, and his old  Grand Dad.

The scent of bad craziness

Hung in the air like

A sexed-up durian fruit.

an over-ripe mango girl

Desperately seeking to have sex

With wild, dressed-up bananas

Running around with the Orange Man.

Down the Street,

the Moon, looks out on the mad scene

Sniffs the air, saying,

“Man, this is bad craziness”

And runs away to join her lover the Sun

In an orgy of drunken forgetfulness

The Planet Mars, not amused, chases after the maiden Venus

Under the cold, calculating glances of the Planet Pluto

The Moon and the Sun rent a room in the Hotel Venus

Across from the Jupiter All Night Diner

Cosmic shit kickers, out for a night of Earth bashing

The Earth trembles, shaken

Moans with passion, and I awake

Saying, that was bad craziness.

Out there on the edge

Between the inner me and the outer zone

I went on down that road heading to hell

Just as fast as I could drink it all down.

And met me a lady, an outlaw lady on the far side.

Money, power, and passion rolled up in a bundle

Electric chemistry fills my head,

Zapping my brain into demented muscles

As I give in to the

“bao bao ya yah Madi “ madness

Bad craziness overwhelmed me.

All around me.

As paranoid, pulsating images scream out

With mad passion, and demented noises

The night turns ugly fast

And very, very weird

Weirdness in the air

The scent of bad craziness.

As the wild things come out to play.

The moon is freaked out

The Sun falls asleep in the gutter

And I say to myself, I’m just another cosmic Guy

On the loose, on the edge, on the wild side of things

Watching the show unfold, I wonder,

Is this all nothing but a cosmic drunken bum show?

Who is the star, who is she – the naked maiden up there in the bar

Black, leather jackets on stage naked visions of nightly lust

Dancing with an attitude that could kill an elephant in heat

And the Moon continues to dance across the evening sky

Satisfied, allows mankind to sleep it off.

Yet another night in the city of demented lunatic hell’s angels

Finally, rest as the sun comes up casting its evil eye over the sleeping city

Dispelling the bad craziness for a spell.

Blasting the wild things back to hell.

The masks come back on

And I walk down the road

Putting everything back into the box.

Until the next night of bad craziness

Let’s the wild beast within

Escape its leash.

Bad craziness rising yet again.

The second autumn of the Blockade was coming. Our second house was also bombed. Since it was made of wood, it burned down to the foundation. Not only clothes and some other things were lost in this fire, but most offensively, almost all our family photos and some documents – everything that was saved in the spring from the Petrograd apartment.

After that, we lived with some relatives of my father for a while. I don’t remember this period so much, although it foreshadowed the end of my blockade story.

It happened in a completely ordinary way. It’s just that one day after school, my father told us:

– Volodya, Alexey, we are leaving.

The mother and sister were already aware, the youngest was unconscious after another illness. And we lost contact with Ivan and Leonid a few months ago.

We decided and were going to drive fast, literally during the day. That’s how the Blockade and my childhood in Leningrad ended for me. I didn’t know if I would come back then or not, what my life would be like next. But there’s something left in that city, maybe it’s a part of my soul.

Scribbles

[Written at a Boston-based writing group and included in Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self]

La vie

Ah, la douleur de la vie;
So sorrowful this life can be,
We live in a constant that is uncertainty,
Waiting to awaken each morning can be tiresome,
Waking from a nightmare can be winsome,
‘Til we see the dreadful daylight of reality!
Yearning to sleep;
Daring to wake;
What comes next?
Life is but a haste!

Bird Bath

The mockingbird emerged from its bath,
Singing while in sat on a raft,
Looking into the distant path,
And poised with some sass,
Swiftly flew off in a fit of wrath!

Insomnia

I dreamed I had insomnia
And birds of prey roamed
‘Round my sphere
My heart rhythm’s tachycardia
Abided in a bed of fear…
I dreamt I slept with insomnia
echoes of children
Resounded like nostalgia
My senses somewhat forlorn
Yearning for the years bygone
Wishing to wish away my melancholia
I dream of sleep
Awake I weep
I dreamt i prayed
My soul to keep
I fell asleep
Or so it seems
Wishing to weep
For my esteem
Alas to sleep
Perchance to dream…

What Place is This?

Surrounded by a shadowy grey environ,
Sitting cross legged on some ground,
Looking up in a circular motion,
I wondered why there was no one else around…
Yearning to hear a sound;
Something has blurred my vision,
Suddenly I hear a pound,
Could thunder be a thing I found?!
Alas…The dawning of my wakening,
I am living in a cloud!!!

Jacques Stanley Fleury is a Haitian-American Poet, Author and Educator. He holds an undergraduate degree in Liberal Arts and is currently pursuing graduate studies in the literary arts at Harvard University online. Once on the editing staff of The Watermark, a literary magazine at the University of Massachusetts, his first book Sparks in the Dark: A Lighter Shade of Blue, A Poetic Memoir was featured in and endorsed by the Boston Globe. His second book: It’s Always Sunrise Somewhere and Other Stories is a collection of short fictional stories dealing with the human condition as the characters navigate life’s foibles and was featured on Good Reads. His current book and hitherto magnum opus Chain Letter to America: The One Thing You Can Do to End Racism, A Collection of Essays, Fiction and Poetry Celebrating Multiculturalism explores social justice in America and his latest book, “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self”  along with all other previously mentioned titles are available at public libraries, The Harvard Book Store, Porter Square Books, The Grolier Bookshop, Goodreads, bookshop, Amazon etc…  His CD A Lighter Shade of Blue as a lyrics writer in collaboration with the neo-folk musical group Sweet Wednesday is available on Amazon, iTunes & Spotify to benefit Haitian charity St. Boniface.

Andrea Ceccomori, the flutist who is conquering the world

Andrea Ceccomori, flutist and founder of Assisi Suono Sacro, is now the most acclaimed flutist in the world, an eclectic artist with an always generous invention. Assisi, where Saint Francis was born, is twinned with San Francisco, founded by the Franciscan missions. This Franciscan imprint of SF is expressed through cultural and religious dialogue and in care for animals and nature. An aspect of Saint Francis that should be remembered is that he was the first to create a religious bridge between Christians and Muslims through the king of Egypt Kamel. Ceccomori, who has concerts scheduled also in Egypt, has just had two recent successes: one at the beginning of October in SF on the occasion of the celebration of the St. Francis feast day at the SF Shrine church and Porziuncola Nuova and the other in China, where Ceccomori is popular. Ceccomori’s tour with pianist Sebastiano Brusco ended on November 2nd at the Art Oriental Theatre in Shanghai.

Ceccomori played a program of classical pieces such as Bach, Donizetti, Franck, Briccialdi, Rossini, Massenet, and Debussy, along with pieces composed by him including his hymn to peace and other Chinese pieces very popular in China such as Butterfly Lovers and My Motherland.

In the first part of the tour also participated the soprano Chiara Giudice who sang pieces by Puccini and Verdi. Shanghai Media Group curated the events and “Guiyahui” by Emma Wang Qin promoted the mega tour with concerts at the UCAS University in Beijing, the most important university in China and at the University of Hangzhou and at the International Festival Encuentros Art in Uangshang, with lectures by Ceccomori in a climate of exchanges with Chinese artists who often travel to SF where 35% of the city’s population is Chinese. Ceccomori is very attached to poetry and especially to that of Saint Francis. The flutist wrote the music for the famous “Canticle of the Creatures” by Saint Francis with a concert in Rome in 2022 and in Vienna in 2023 and has a project where the recitation of the “Canticle” of Saint Francis in the original language and in English will be part of his homonymous concert. 

From the Louvre in Paris to the Lincoln Center in NYC, Ceccomori, also artistic director of the Assisi Suono Sacro festival, is intensifying his relations with the city of SF to consolidate splendid artistic and cultural bridges.

Alone

This sound says more than I can say Your trail stretched out in front of me But I don’t feel capable of walking it It’s like a cold shadow that doesn’t allow the seed to sprout, An interrupted laugh still in my throat…. And I’ll still be here at midnight At the nearest train station, towers of fog lie on the night roads of the mind, Follow the line of reason; the intrepid destiny of dawn, Before the world spins and the heart shakes, The space opens for another farewell wave…

I want you closer, but I don’t know where to start. The night kissed the wind and the rain fainted around the corner, The welcome signs faded into the landscape. One time, joy folded her tiny hand and snapped her fingers into glittery lights. In my thinnest version it was necessary to be vast and embrace all sights. Only among the white-capped Nordic mountains did a new day emerge transiently, And each step made everything coexist simultaneously, and perhaps it had been like this since the beginning: white sand house, blue flame of the northern lights, coastal mill headquarters, salt dune, matrix flora, abyssal paradise, rainbow in the shape of a pinwheel.

COCOON

I saw my externist today

and got my prescriptions filled

for a well-curated array

of armor auras and pills

to protect me against weathers

and germs. And also to blunt,

like a cuirass wrought of leather,

the intimacy of hugs

and the taste and touch of kisses.

In this invisible plate

I can discover what bliss is,

now that I’m inviolate.

THE ENGAGEMENT

Every man must embrace his war.

Our crown and temples we must defend,

our missionary positions enforce.

Ignore our sacrifice of semen.

We engage body against body

for the future sakes of all the children.

 Until a little peace is rendered

we expose our privates at the front;

we bear arms but only to surrender.

A ROPE AND A PIPE

The sharpshooter’s father

learned to dance

when he married the ropemaker’s daughter.

“No saddle

instructs the horse to prance.

The lesson is always in the bridle.

Nothing is so efficient as a gun’s

violence,”

the marksman taught his son.

“The bullet

can establish your best environment,

find your foe and kill it.

Sing to me when I die

if you wish,

but know that music’s a waste of your time.

Don’t get drunk,

and put down that damn flute! Be like the fish,

who only dance when hooked.”

And the son followed his dad’s direction.

A trigger

captained his affections.

But his flute

and humble philosophy and liquor

led him to peace and truth.

BY INVITATION ONLY

No. Lacking your exact welcome mat,

my poems/your name cannot attach.

Not entitled to your writhing nights

or flash-thoughts of unsari’d thigh,

a-thirst I stand at the Well of Unrequited.

THE SHIP

Oh, the mariner is like the moon;

perfect the once in the month

when my land concedes to your sea.

Our boat was, before, a forest,

leaves like sails, winds

like a petrel’s exhale.

Anchored by a stone that once

hugged earth, like mom and son.

And the sea, the sea. The basket

of stars upside-downed, so all

its flowers scatter everywhere.

HOLOCAUST AND REGENERATION

Fires hibernate in the trees.

The forest flowers,

red and gray,

race through underbrush,

uproot wild life

and humanity.

The burn tattoos the earth.

But growth curls within the rain.

Balmful sky rivers

swell heaven’s banks

to soothe scar wounds.

Seeds find footholds

for a newer green.

Creatures settle in.

Havoc hides inside the grain.

Fields uncelibate themselves.

We clear space

to celebrate

to dance to drink

to lure relief

from the caress that grinds.