kagablog

June 26, 2017

the “f” word

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 10:33 am

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flashback

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 10:32 am

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holy man

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 10:28 am

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June 11, 2017

new kagapoems @klyntji

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 11:50 am

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first published here: http://klyntji.com/post/161654885973/aryan-kaganof-status-poems

May 31, 2017

TO DIE OUT LAUGHING

Filed under: kagagallery,kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 10:03 am

00102

May 28, 2017

GWEN ANSELL reviews To Breathe INto Another Voice

Filed under: kagapoems,music,poetry,reviews — ABRAXAS @ 11:46 am

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first published here: http://www.news24.com/Columnists/GuestColumn/book-review-poetry-like-jazz-20170528-2

May 24, 2017

To Breathe Into Another Voice

Filed under: kagapoems,music,music and exile symposium,poetry — ABRAXAS @ 11:52 am

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May 11, 2017

To Die Out Laughing

Filed under: kagagallery,kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 6:59 am

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May 6, 2017

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 5:00 pm

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April 29, 2017

Filed under: kagagallery,kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 9:17 pm

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March 15, 2017

THE ARRIVED

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 9:30 am

He’s always laconically late. But he always arrives.
Most of what he’s achieved in life is based on this fact
in combination with the ace up his sleeve: He never disa
grees. Not even when he was getting tortured. Not even then.
His torturers in fact became quite fond of him. He screamed
a few times, but that was understandable under the circum
stances. He gave nothing away. They respected that.
They always lost respect for anyone that spoke.
That ratted. What they never found out was
that the reason he never said anything
was because he knew nothing. He
was entirely unconnected to the
rebels. The hipster guerilla
outfit he wore was a fa
shionista statement.
He was always
ahead of the pack
like that. When the torturers
staged their own tactical defeat
and placed the guerillas centre stage
they legitimized the staging by allowing
the people to vote. The foregone conclusion
was fistuck. You could vote, yes, but the choice
was between the best of the worst, and the worst,
and, indeed, the worst of the worst and those even more
worser than the worst of the worse. The torturers called him
up after the elections and offered him a post at the top echelon
of state. They felt they could trust him. He was someone who
kept his mouth shut, someone who did not break. He said
he would think it over, asked them to call him back the
next day. He fingered the finely stitched hemp cloth
of his guerilla jacket. Walked into the kitchen wh
ere his mother was preparing his dinner. He
smiled at her, kissed her on the top of her
head and said, softly, “I’ve arrived.”

March 8, 2017

blues for a nine

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 1:45 pm

I remember that moment well,
looking down the barrel of a 9mm
pointed at my face. In those nano-sec
onds of the encounter taking place I was
thinking to myself “Is he going to have the balls
to shoot a white man, is he bluffing?” and then calculating,
literally calculating, very quickly, I am talking QUICKLY here,
that although my whiteness might protect me in many situations it
would be unlikely to protect me here with that 9mm barrell so close
to my head and my head so full of ideas about what I would like to do
in the future, and my wife at home with her belly full of my baby, and so
instead of saying “Fuck you and your mother” I put my hands up and said
“The money’s in my left pocket, my cell phone’s in the right.” I did
not mention the 9mm in my left ankle holster…

December 7, 2016

the manager

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 10:39 am

managing

an amazingly bleak word

on its own

just like that

managing – always implying its opposite, always threatening that things are actually not under control

how you doing bru? managing.

barely.

November 28, 2016

Tenderloin Passage

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 6:13 am

I

From Alcatraz to Robben Island is a page
in my notebook away.
I said goodbye to the Devil last night,
bought her one last bourbon.
Tho’ we parted as friends
I won’t see her again.
She’s got a mean streak, is not to be trusted.

From Robben Island to Alcatraz is a
tightrope walk away.
Hope I don’t slip or get busted.

Well I walked up Haight looking for my dream.
What I got was a row of shops selling me packages of a scene.
Now anarchy’s on offer and the Anti-
Christ’s marked down,
it’s a post-Apocalypso special.

But what I don’t understand
is why the bars all shut down
at 2am in San Francisco.

II

The Devil ‘n me we hung out
on Mason, just jazzin’ with the deadbeats,
listening to their squalor, watchin’
the tables get turned. Changing of the
guard took place about six so we rolled in
to the Punjab. Waiting for our curries,
Devil got listless, start in to breathin’ fire
all over the place.
Damn! She irritate me. I mean
we buddies ‘n all
but this flame-on shit jes draw attention
to the fact that we strangers in town,
who need that ferchrissakes?
Devil she jes don’ give a shit, she say,
“I is Lucifer. I do what I please.
God knows I do. God knows.”

I think about what God knows about
me. All those ladies I abused, especially
the ones that loved me, them the most.
Lord yes, God knows all that. Still shines
her sun down on me. Still breathes her
cool breath on me when my brow be
sweatin’. What about the Devil?
She got a conscience?
I ask her. She say, “All God’s
chillun got a conscience. Conscience
like a sell-by date of the soul.”
“But you the Devil. You got a soul?”
“I’m God’s favourite Angel, niggah,
I am ALL soul!”
Devil snuck outta da Punjab.
I finish my korma. Sip that mango
lassi. Whoopee, Devil sure
one touchy sunnoffabish!

III

Captain Hook is a veteran.
Usedta believe in the Marlboro
Man. Now he’s not allowed to
smoke in public. Captain Hook
says to me “I think we’re both
insane.” I reply “Aren’t we all,
ultimately?”
Captain Hook is snoozin’
Under his bowler hat.
Now can you top that?

This is how it started
In the beginning there was
no beginning
Just the time before time
began
No space either
Nothing you could touch,
walk into or out of
Then the goddess got lonely
wanted some company
a mirror to reflect in and on
Youniverse came birthed as
electric and magnetic energies
call ‘em male and female
harmony, melody and rhythm
these are the keys to creation

Well the sun’s shining brightly,
it’s almost Spring equinox but there’s
a cold wind blowing so I stay wrapped
in my pony skin.
I just ordered a second cup of coffee.
It’s drinkable; my license to sit in
this lonely corner diner on 9th and Lincoln
writing this summons to you.
What more can I add?
Wish you were here to hold on to
when they kick me out of that bar
tonight at 2am in San Francisco.

IV

Sitting in the Blue Front Café window
watching Haight Ashbury’s multicoloured
petals of innocence unfold with the accuracy
of a razor blade or a judicious helping of
Louisiana Hot Sauce.
The world is cool now in the late
afternoon breeze and even the
trees can’t be bothered to take
shelter from the man in the moon
and his candy coated darts of loneliness.
There is no cure for the underdose
of affection that’s an inevitable side-
effect of the strychnine kick from
the tabuloid and the download bug
that pretended to communicate while
you got on-line. Then before you knew
it we were all in line for the sales pitch
fix that hooked us up to the brain-
machine that thinks our thoughts
for us while we go endlessly
shopping at the identity bazaar
looking for the requisite garments
to cover up the scars that were left
when they stole our souls.

I was walking up Eddy,
turned left into Divisadero,
found you this birthday card
in a shop called Gargoyle.
Gonna mail it tomorrow.
When you get it I want you to know
you’re my hero.
Yeah sure, I can go it alone,
I’m self-sufficient. I’ve got my pony
skin jacket, my boots made for walking.
It’s not that I’m needy.
I’d simply prefer to have you at my
side tonight when they call last round
in all those bars that shut down at
2am in San Francisco.

V

OK. Now check this. I’m sitting in
the Cha Cha Cha on the corner of
Shrader ‘n Haight. Minding my own
business. Sipping on a bottle of Cerveza
Pacifico. Waiting for my black bean soup
to arrive. Dude walks in. Ferocious looking
Afropessimist. Face all chewed up like he been
through something real bad. Napalm.
Walks straight up to me. Big loud voice.
Muddy Waters big.
“You know what?”
he barks the question at me.
I sip my Pacifico slowly. Set the tempo.
Regain initiative. Read the label while
he eyeballs me. Government warning 1)
According to the Surgeon General women
should not drink alcoholic beverages during
pregnancy because of the risk of birth defects.
Time to reply.
“No. What?”
“You an asshole. That’s what!”
I’m surprised by his perspicacity.
He turns to go.
“How you find out?”
He stops in the doorway. Faces me.
“You not only an asshole. You a snake!” –
yelling now – “That’s what you are! A snake!”
Afropessimist shambles off into the busy street.
My black bean soup arrives. It’s tasty.
Ragga music starts booming out of a system
I sip my Pacifico. Study the
bright yellow label: 2) Consumption of
alcoholic beverages impairs your ability to drive
a car or operate machinery, and may cause health problems.
Waiter tries to short change me five dollars.
I deck him. Damn!
Cha Cha Cha.

VI

Well the Devil was drinking Bourbon
when I sat down right beside her.
She didn’t look up. Whispered straight
into her Bourbon glass, voice hoarse ‘n
raspy like Miles Davis.
“I know what you’ve come for, I know
why you’re here, but there’s no getting out
of this deal. The contract’s long-signed,
I’ve fulfilled my part of the pact. You’ve got
your fame ‘n your gold, leave your soul
in the box at the door.”

You know the Devil was sippin’ Bourbon
when I delivered my impromptu speech.
“Mrs. D when we last spoke
things hadn’t been going too well.
I’d done gotten out of touch with
myself, lost track of who I was.
Thought that I needed silver and gold
and silken clothes and my face on tv
to be someone. Now I’ve had all of that
– thanks for the help – I realise that
I only needed to get it to find out
I don’t need it. See I was born without a
wallet and I’ll leave this world without a
stitch on my back. Everything you offered
me is incidental. What I am is Me.
And all I wish for is to be free.
So on our deal I must renege.
Here’s your silver, your gold, your cape
of silk. My soul is precious to me,
it’s the one thing I can’t afford to lose.
Sorry for the inconvenience,
but your malicious arrangement
I must refuse!”

Well the Devil gulped her Bourbon
down, looked up at me with an evil
frown etched all over her ghastly face.
This is what she said:
“Look here punk, you’re as good
as dead, your soul is mine and you must
deliver or you’ll pay the fine of 9000
lifetimes in purgatorial damnation waiting!”
She ordered another Bourbon with
a maleficient smile curling over her lips,
started in to sippin’ it, steam rising
out of her nostrils. The devil’s drinking
Woodford Reserve. Labrot & Graham
Distiller’s Select. In Woodford country Kentucky,
on the site is now Labrot & Graham Distillers,
Whiskey was first produced in 1812.
Woodford reserve honours this almost
200 year old Landmark on Glenn’s
Creek and its legacy to the distilling industry.
“You guys have to finish ‘em up: time to go.”
The barmaid’s voice from
the depths of the bar.
We stumbled out of there, the Devil an’ me.
She held my hand; we hailed a cab.
She fell into the backseat.
I whispered to the driver:
“Take this bae back to her hotel.”
Held the release form under Lucifer’s nose.
“Just sign over here.”
She did with an “X”.
As the taxi sped away I smiled up
at the full moon.
Her ‘n me ‘n Woodford Reserve
done got the better of Satan!

March 20. Spring Equinox.
Last night I drank Bourbon
with the Devil. At 2am they
chucked us out. The Devil
cussed and threatened the
barmaid with eternal damnation.
“That may well be but still you have to go.”
“Lady, do you have any idea who you
talking to? I am the Devil.
Lucifer. Beelzebub!”
Barmaid look The Devil straight in the eye,
“Sistah, you could be Beyoncé
for all I care, Federal law requires
come 2am I haveta throw you outtahere,
‘n that’s what I’m doing!”
Barmaid upped The Devil’s glass over her head
and suddenly two burly thugs appeared
out of nowhere, manhandled the both
of us out of that joint.
“Let’s party. Take it to the next level!”
the Devil’s gravelly voice rasped into my ears.
“Shut up bish. You’re giving me a headache.”
It’s 2:02am. Me an’ the devil tryin’ ta hail a
cab on the corner of 16 and Valencia.
Cabs ride by, drivers won’t look us inna eye.
We stumble on down to Mission.
“Hey bish, if you the friggin’ Devil
how come you don’ snap your fingers,
summon us the archangel’s chariot?”
“Point.”
She clicks her fingers.
Boom. Woosh.
Gabriel’s fire chariot standing on the tar-
mac. Huge motherfuckin’ dragon bristling
at the reins. Devil hops on board. Grabs hold
of the reins.
“Whoa boy, easy.”
Looks down at me, smiles a wicked
toothless grin, “Hop on board gringo,
we heading for Obituary drive!”
She laughs the deranged laugh
of a womxn who doesn’t have to be anywhere
in the morning. Clears her throat. Spits.
I haul myself in. Next thing we’re hurtling
through the cosmos like the friggin’ Silver
Surfer. My hair catches fire but I don’t
notice until my head’s burnt
down to the
neck.

VII

In a hotel room on Mason and Eddy
the Devil sheds a few tears
Holds a few more in
sun peeks through a gap in the curtains
Devil looks up says “Hi”
sun gives the Devil a wink
they’re old buddies
go back a long way
good ole days
Devil shuts the curtain
puts the tv on
CNN
Amen.

…and déjà vu is a place that I’ve been
in a time to come or before
where that trumpet swells from a Sousa march
(or a funeral dirge by Ornette)
whatever the source, it’s the one perfect note
balancing
between
the root and the fruit
of the tree of my knowledge of
God and the Devil
– the realm you have to go through
to discover yourself
and when you do
you’ll find out that
you’re all good –
even your evil…

I’m sitting on the corner of 9th and
Lincoln, got a Vegetarian submarine
#2 and lukewarm coffee spread out
before me and I wondering where
I’m gonna do my drinking when
the bars all close tonight
at 2am in San
Francisco.

October 30, 2016

3 white poems in new contrast, volume 44 spring 2016

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 8:28 pm

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October 21, 2016

a semantic fuck

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 3:12 pm

screen-shot-2016-05-09-at-9-25-23-am

October 3, 2016

post-Hegelian

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 2:30 am

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call me

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 2:16 am

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an angel

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 12:33 am

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love song

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 12:23 am

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holy ghost

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 12:16 am

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a suicidal tendency

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 12:10 am

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heritage?

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 12:06 am

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September 20, 2016

the inheritance

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 7:25 pm

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whiteness again

Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 6:50 pm

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