Monday, July 9, 2012


House of Vanishing Doors
A breeze came through the window
In a small vacant farm house very far
From town as the soft transparent
Cloth certains danced. A chair and
Table nearby held an open book; pages
Turning themselves as if alone by the
Force of what was searching from the
Outside coming inside, intermittently,
At my reading pace. You see, I once
Lived here in the flesh of events with
Passion like others had done so when
Our fields were full of cotton and trees
Had deep water wells for their leaves To grow cool shades. And the back bed
Room at times became silent as things Stood still for moments. Again,just now,
I can recall one summer day like a dream Written down, the long letting go, a closing
That haunts me since, as I was the one Who died here; and people were walking,
Leaving like in slow motion while the Landscape dried up as the seasons moved
On. Still, I remain looking out the stark Window of migrating birds and dirt roads.
Watching them going, changing, disappearing Into some kind of a lonely series, never ending.

Stanley Morris Noah

The Fall of Berlin, 2 May 1945

Russians are at the Fuhrerbunker, now. Where is A. H. and his new wife, Eva?
In this hour the dirty work had to be done. Up came the six bodies of Goebbels'
murdered young children. Killed by their
parents, Magda and Joseph. Placed on
the grounds side by side. The broken, bent burnt, their eyes open, looking at nothing.
The cold objective camera moving, rolling slowly did a good job filming each child.
Each the subject of what remains in a total war. After identification the duty was over.
It had been very emotional for some, others just a methodical dreadful process. Then the
Russians, framed in black and white, turned, lit cigarettes and disappeared. In long days
that followed there was the clean-up, brick by brick and shovels. Street cars and rail
came back. Outdoor cafes opened with the smell of coffee and flowers. Retail shops, too,
had the latest apparel. Then, all of a sudden it was 1950. The Fuhrerbunker! Where is it?

Stanley Morris Noah 

A War Film Documentary

Stars are falling while people are leaping from shore cliffs of Okinawa, April 1, 1945. Americans now on the beach with gCfthering hours. Civilians
were told the invaders are red
horned demons. The horror. The floating corpses delicti of lies in motion, up and down with every tide, tides coming
in going out, balanced by the timing of the moon's forever indifference, whimsical clock. Bodies beating on sharp rocks
like dead fishes. I have seen
this event many times in my studies. The one woman standing a breath a moment, the letting go. And then I close my eyes. Don't want to
see the divine wind and waves again. Don't want to see the inevitable pungent demise. See mother with child, dangling all the long way down.

Stanley Morris Noah 

 
Last Train Leaving Berlin, 1-May-1945

We must hurry, tall mother
told me. Russians are like
ants every where, more and
more, through streets, buildings,
houses. We must get there
and I did. Slowly, the big black
train moving away. I saw many
staring, standing with hopeless
faces, screaming into a profound
memory. Central Station anew,
1972. 1\10 need to rush now. But each step I could hear skeletons
breakable, bones cracking deep beneath----it was the old world. You Know, they just found Martin
Bormann's skull here in the levels of time. Broken glass vial of cyanide between his teeth. Did
I see him in the crossing, then? Where is mother?-------Mother! The child's voice inside me asked.

Stanley Morris Noah

What the scientist say about ghost

Ghost Are dead people who refuse to lie down. They can walk through walls. But you only see Them coming through doors or already in your Room. They can't make a sound or talk although You are not completely sure.
They'r6!! Invisible but some how you're able to see them Clearly during the night hours and not in the Day time. They are intruders in the house though You know itto be their home long before your Arrival and ownership.
You will Venture into every room in the house except the attic; Thinking that must be where they got murdered or Have secrets there as if it's a sacred place of the ghost In residence. You don't want to offend as they might Haunt you to leaving the house you have now desired And love.
Ghost, according to scientist, Never vacate the premises because they would become lost among the unfamiliar. It's not a good idea to Refurbish your house, scientist say, as this would make Them disorientated. It's a transgression against their Serenity and sovereignty.
They have become empirical in your Mind --not in your closets. But even this is still an on going Intrinsic investigation. And if they turn out to be real and Externally true, don't panic if you hear things shifting in the Night or something missing from the kitchen. Remember, It's their house too. 

Stanley Morris Noah

A little Math Before and After Defenestration

Mr. Finndock was a New York City lawyer with a young and beautiful wife. He was middle aged, about 50ish. And had an office on the 9th floor not too far from Wall Street near the stock exchange. In fact he was in walking distance; and there waiting for him was his destiny. So in the past few years of trading stocks he had become quite successful; it also had first grown into an addiction, then an obsession. Even to a degree where he once said to himself that playing the stock market beats great food and sex. To Mr. Finndock, the action of buying and selling was like art's highest form of expression, even if it meant being reckless at times and even if it meant doom itself. His account now was worth $454,000.00.

Then the impossible happened that October day in 1929. The market crashed and thousands lost millions of dollars in one or two days. Mr. Finndock's stock broker called to give him the bad news. He had lost everything, the $454,000.00. For Mr. Finndock, it went from surreal to shock and finally to despair, all within minimal minutes. His whole life now felt like a financial crucifixion. Mr. Finndock went rushing full speed out the window and nine storys down without making a noise (suicide victims never yell on the way down, bet you didn't know). Two days after Finndock's demise, his widow received a phone call from his broker. He apologized and explained a dreadful accounting mistake had been made. Finndock had not lost $454,000.00 but had made $454.00. One month later, Finndock's widow married his stock broker, Mr. Worthmore.

Stanley Morris Noah

 
Jesse James, Vincent van Gogh and Robert Ford
Robert was living with Jesse and Zerelda James in a rented house, St. Joseph, Missouri. The two, Robert and Jesse were friends and friends-in-crime too. At least Jesse thought Robert as a real and honest, close friend and kept Robert as company and bodY guard.

The time was morning, the 3rd of April, 1882. They had just finished breakfast of blueberry muffins, quiche lorraine and cappuccino. Zerelda then left the room carrying empty dishes made of fine china in Holland. Jesse and Robert were going over final plans for a train robbery to take place at sometime next week; and meeting up with Robert's older brother, Charley, before the caper.
After going over things, Jesse folded the maps of railroads and put them in his dress coat. Both spent the next hour cleaning their Colt six-shot pistols and exchanging small talk as they compared notches on their gun handles. Some of them dating back to the civil war, when they were raiding, killing and burning most anything that belonged to the Federal Government of Washington D. C. You see, Jesse and Robert fought for the Confederate States of America in military guerrilla units. But when the war between the
states was over in 1865, Jesse and brother Frank James and a few other members became delusional and wouldn't stop what was now considered to be criminal behavior. They were looked upon as the black sheep of "the lost cause."

It was time to go. Jesse went outside and got the horses fitted to ride and came back in. They were at the front door about to leave when Robert turned around to look at a strange painting hanging high
on the wall. "Say Jesse, where the hell did you get that colorful thing?" Pointing with his crooked forefinger,
"Oh hell, Robert-Zerelda got it at some neighborhood barnyard sell. She payed fifty cents for it. Never seen anything more colorful. Look how thick the oil is applied, and all the turbulent brush strokes, everywhere. It sort of reminds me of our own lives, where we've been and things we're still doing. Doesn't it Robert?"
"Yeah, sure does! Whose name is that down at the bottom?"
"Oh, that's some guy by the name of Vincent....err....Vincent van Gogh. Never heard of him. Maybe he's from around here. Wait a minute Robert. ,'II get a chair and clean it off before we leave." Jesse stands on the chair, takes a handkerchief.

Robert looks on and was about to say something. But then Jesse heard a gun click-bang. Jesse was shot in the back of the head. Zerelda came rushing in, screaming, "what happened, what happened?"
Robert with a guilty cloud of gun smoke just above his head replied nervously, "I didn’t do it, I didn't!"

The last conscious thought Jesse James must have had was van Gogh's painting. But exactly what was the subject in the painting? Was it sunflowers looking also like his famous big yellow sun; you could almost feel the humidity in the room, or was it an outdoor cafe scene, or sidewalks of Paris lined with green and blue poppies, or a still life, or wheat fields tumbling in the wind? Or maybe one of many self portraits-a man with flaming red hair and red beard. I guess it doesn't matter, not really, However, we are left with a phenomenon and a paradox here. Both van Gogh and Jesse James died from a gun shot to the head. Hundreds showed up to view Jesse's body. Hundreds came to his funeral. Few went to van Gogh's funeral.

Stanley Morris Noah