Cretan Maineiac

Cretan Maineiac Poems

Cretan Maineiac Biography

A strange vagabond....... Within you is your native land. So search none other, never more depart. You are never homeless in your heart. -Tempest Livesey As one might surmise from viewing my writing, i'm far more of an appreciator of great poetry than i am an exponent thereof. My name derives from a combination of genetic ties to the Greek island of Crete and geographical ties to the great United State of Maine. I believe poetry to be the most genuine of art forms. Although it is easy enough for anyone to scribble a few vague lines and name it poesy, true appreciation of the genre is strictly a labor of love. Among the literary food groups, poetry is the red meat, with short stories ranking as potatoes and novels representing salad. It is sumptuous, savory, satisfying, and takes a lifetime to digest. Even if blood appears pink, or black it's red, coruscant through my veins as i mess with your head. 'Everywhere I go I find a poet has been there before me.' -Sigmund Freud 'I have never let my schooling interfere with my education.' -Mark Twain 'It is difficult/to get the news from poems/yet men die miserably every day/for lack/of what is found there.' -William Carlos Williams; Asphodel, That Greeny Flower 'I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and a striving after wind.' -Ecclesiastes 1: 14 'And what can be foolisher than this? ' -William Blake)

The Best Poem Of Cretan Maineiac

You’ll See

The pine tree rained needles
and ants
upon the Somali and me,

misfits among everyman and
anyman, like fundamentalists
stuffing ones at the titty bar, isolated by

tobacco smoke,50 feet from the building, 'for your
own good,
young man, 'said the uniform.

'What you are? ' I think Omar asked, 'you
don't know
where your people come from? '

The break area hummed, an inexorable, patient, steady
wind, subtle
as a whack on the sole ('doesn't leave marks')

on a cold desert night, in the mountains, in a land before
Time,
People, In Touch, even National Geographic.

Non-smoking seasonals
Claimed the
picnic table, though most of the other

wellness types stayed inside with the
Merchandise,
guarding the dust and radon, cardboard cases echoing free trade from

Vietnam, Mauritania, beyond, chewing on aches, pains,
allergies, & 'I only
got five hours of sleep..'

'The young girl, she is good, '
he said.
*Because she believes whatever you tell her? *

'Yes! '

(an angel danced upon my knee…)
>I shop @ Wal-Mart<
>You call me infidel<
>ogle my sister &<
>burn my car &<
>we’ll settle-up in Hell<

A titter rose up among the 'ins':
lifers, and
one exceptional seasonal ('works

two jobs and goes, to
college') ,
snug in their alcove,

Where differences melt away like
so many
outdated superstitions in a classless society, un-

willing to share as the natives did
before the
Pilgrims proceeded to take over the whole kitchen.

'The Christians, you
place Mary
ahead of God; you put Jesus

above Allah.'

Cumulus clouds aloft a waxing crescent bespoke
September along the
far horizon, remote but inevitable, threatening the

August sun w/ auguries of the stark shut-in cold of endless
February looming on
the other side of Christmas's pillar of

Eternal mirth and
bulwark for
Hope.

'I'm gonna' ask him if he's waiting for
Allah to
move that box, ' any-

man (no El Cid) said. *No! You think Jesus
freaks are
whacked...* Omar's friends

pulled up in
a van,
well BEYOND THIS POINT, like

Franco-Canadians liberating
Yankee mill-
girls in a

threshold fattened by color-blind
indifference,
festooned with Ignorance and

enforced by wishful thinking. 'When Clinton is in,
everything
is good. Now Bush in, bad.'

*AK-47
Murder
on Minot Avenue slows a Rush Hour throng*

'...our correspondent is in the Field...'

And the titter rolled, like the
Fire
on the Library @ Alexandria

(a threat now
obsolete:
ty cyberworld, where

Internet Hot Links

Offer every love that
dareth not
in [reasonably] polite society-

-all you need is Pay Pal
MC/Visa
or Matricula, and a

Modem) . 'I switch to second shift, for
my
children.' More laughter, unrelated but

catching his
ear like a
pish-noot.

'A man does not laugh like that, ' he said, eyes
thousand-years-dagger-dark,
peaceful as submission, Tolerant as dhimmitude.

'You'll see, ' he said, resenting my
(laugh out loud)
gut reaction.

The ins (nary an El Cid among 'em) stood- as if united in dar-al-
harb defiance of
eye-for-an-eye sediment

sans Messianic filter- signaling break-
time was
up,

united (untied?)
in laughter,
[...echoing~~]

*...teenage girls found murdered in the
Back Seat of
their father's taxi...*

'...our correspondent is in the field...'

~~Wave after wave, like Programmed
ululations
on vinyl, way BEYOND THIS POINT

at a speed yet to be defined, even in Arabic numbers,
&
played backwards.


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