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Another America


May 2016

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This website is the manifest of a group of writers dedicated to the celebration of the written word–both classic and contemporary. It is open to any writer who wishes to submit his work (see Submissions, left panel). Rights to the submissions  remain solely those of the submitting authors. Select submissions are presented freely as posts and  may be withdrawn at the request of the submitting author or by determination of our editorial board.  Another America is also open to photographs, videos, music and even such paintings as our readers shall be moved to share. We have been a web presence since early in the new century.  Select authors are represented by the agency  auspices of Another America Literary and charitable donations to the Smithsonian and local institutions are handled by The Library / Arts Alliance. We continue to  chart a highly inclusive course.  All are invited and many will find (as many have found) respite and a home.

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The Library  / Arts Alliance:

The Library / Arts Alliance benefits the Smithsonian, university libraries or specified art confederations in states and municipalities across America.

AnotherAmericaLiterary, LLC

AnotherAmericaLiterary represents contributing authors whose work we believe worthy of hard copy publication and therefore significantly wider distribution.

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New 2016:

Whitman’s Code: A New Bible Vols. I & II

Whitman's Code IWhitman's Code II


(Amazon Link)



Eliot and Cane Cropped

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Bruno Mascolo

Bruno Bar Scene

Mayhaps,  Kirchner’s Artist’s Group is envisioned at a pub.  Mascolo’s gathering is enlivened with a model partially shielded by the right side of the man in blue’s coat.   The exposed buttocks seductively invites our gaze as well as the pat of the hand emerging from the left pocket.  Mascolo adds a complexity of geometrics that is contrasted with flatness of his tiled flooring. A marvelous 21st Century evocation of the 20th’s Die Brucke.

Kirchner Artist's Group

Ernst Ludwing Kirchner: Artist’s Group: Otto Mueller, Ernst Kirchner, Eric Heckel, Karl Schmidt-Rottluff

Australia Ends Mass Killings

How a Conservative-Led Australia Ended Mass Killings

Mick Roelandts, firearms reform project manager for the New South Wales Police, in July 1997, examining thousands of weapons in Sydney, Australia, that were handed over under the government’s buyback program.

President Obama has cited the country’s gun laws as a model for the United States, calling Australia a nation “like ours.” On the campaign trail, Hillary Clinton has said the Australian approach is “worth considering.” The National Rifle Association, meanwhile, has dismissed the policies, contending that they “robbed Australians of their right to self-defense and empowered criminals” without reducing violent crime.

The oft-cited statistic in Australia is a simple one: There have been no mass killings — defined by experts there as a gunman killing five or more people besides himself — since the nation significantly tightened its gun control laws almost 20 years ago.

Continue reading

So Like Flowers…

Image result for Church of no god

The weak believe in god; the less weak believe in man; the least weak believe in neither man nor god. Are these men strong? Is any man strong? What might strength really be? Might it be admitting man’s true place in Being? Might the strongest man be the one who says, “We are the weakest of all creatures because we cannot live without our causalities, our creationists, our evolutionists, our moralists, and our churches. We cannot just ‘live’. We must explain ‘why’ we are living. In this we are at the bottom of nature’s totem pole, not at the top.” Continue reading

Happiness Is a Warm Gun

American Gun



Change a few names and the story’s the same one–my rant was written after Sandy Hook–you will hug your children or your guns–the story’s the same one.

Brett Arends’ Article, which follows my rant, appeared on MSN’s Market Watch website the day after the Oregon Massacre.

M.C. G.


I am upset. I am likely to be indelicate.  I  might even appear insensitive to the feelings of  half of my fellow countrymen. This is likely a rant.  Nonetheless I shall proceed. Continue reading

NRA & the Commerce of Death


*(Comment & Photo not part of Market Watch Article)

NRA Profits Soar Along with Deaths

Brett Arends

The Sandy Hook Elementary School massacre in Connecticut almost three years ago did nothing to restrict access to guns, as the students of Umpqua Community College in Oregon learned to their cost yesterday.

But it did a huge amount for the National Rifle Association. Continue reading


Lanta Yellow

Every morning the couple that owned the place sat on the terrace and had breakfast with the other clients. He was probably seventy-five with a large nose that seemed perfectly at home in the middle of a pleasant grandfatherly face. They had likely been the same age when they married, but she had kept a younger physique and her keen eyes made her look like she was calling the couple’s shots. Perhaps he had the money, but she was the one that decided how to use it. Certainly her clothes cost more than his and the girl at the front desk said she played golf at Is Molas.

        The room was rather pricey, especially for the southern part of the island, but it was spacious and air-conditioned and there were vast meticulously-kept gardens full of lantana, hibiscus, and a coterie of cactus that fit well with all the flowers, rather like a childhood scar on a handsome face. Next to the pool was a putting green that my daughter and I used more than anyone else, including the Madame whom I never saw grab a club. In any case, the owners seemed very “hands on” which probably accounted for the fact that everything functioned seamlessly and the staff were always polite and on their toes. In such a perfect setting I was intrigued by the feeling that my head might explode at any moment.

         When I chose the hotel I didn’t know what the word “Lantana” meant. I thought it might have been the name of an Indian tribe that the owners had expropriated because it had a cool ring to it, like “Cheyenne,” “Cherokee”, or “Lakota”. It turns out that I was partially right when Madame told me her husband had chosen the name because it sounded good in any language and that they both loved lantana flowers. When you pull into the hotel driveway on the quiet street between the center of Pula and the beach, the first thing that grabs your attention is an enormous bush of yellow lantana set next to a manicured lawn as green as any golf course or cemetery. Though I had been to Italy many times, I didn’t remember ever seeing these flowers before. Maybe it was how my mind was structured at the moment that made me notice them immediately and constantly. Besides the yellow ones there were hoards of reddish-gold and others as white as milk. They were as beautiful as any flowers I had ever seen. When one is mingling with madness, beauty tends to take on exaggerated proportions.

         The flight had left Geneva at 6h00, which meant we had had to get up a little before 4h00. We landed in Cagliari at 7h20, but the car rental joint didn’t open until 8h00. Small airports can do such things. In any case, we were all rather tired when we finally checked in at the Lantana Resort a few minutes after ten. Fortunately the room was ready and the mother of my daughter and I were able to take a nap. The daughter spent the time pecking her IPhone.

         Lunch in the hotel was over-priced as far as the food was concerned, but not if you took into account where you were eating. The terrace was lovely, the waitress attentive and pleasant, and the view of the pool, fountain, gardens, and palm trees magically made the eleven-euro pizza seem reasonably priced even though we would later find out you could get a much better one in the main Pula plaza for half the price.

         After lunch we walked to the beach a hot mile away. The air was starting to stick to your skin. But as we got near the sea there was a slight breeze, the sand was clean, the water reasonably clear, and the family complaints were minimal. We were on vacation in Sardinia.

         Dinnertime arrived. The maître d’hôtel wore a wide-shouldered cream jacket and looked to have been in the business for at least forty years. The sun was definitely setting on his career, but there was enough bounce in his step and light in his eyes that it was understandable why the owners of Lantana kept him on. He suggested I try the house wine the first evening and that we’d move up from there as the week progressed. I agreed as I was probably too tired to appreciate something special. We had the demi-pension arrangement and would be eating there every night. It turned out the wine was better than average and I went to bed as contented as one with a battered mind can expect to be.

         Usually I don’t dream much, but for whatever reason, the first night inside the walls of the Lantana is still with me, as limpid as the sea at the Chia beach, even now, many days after it all passed through my consciousness.  It was one of those dreams that wakes you like an earthquake.

         She was at the middle of it of course…she and the absolute chaos of living. By chaos I don’t mean noise, jackhammers, and trucks falling out of trees; I mean realizing that the human head might be in no way fit or built to understand what makes anything happen in the world. Of course people everywhere think they know what is causing what and what is going on, but there’s a very good chance that on most fronts everybody is full of shit.

         The fact that I hadn’t seen her for six months didn’t make her appearance in my dream unexpected or extraordinary. She still passes through my mind a thousand times a day, perhaps even more now than when we were seeing each other regularly. It’s normal that I would dream about her. What is not normal is how she would be in the dream.

         She was no longer bone, blood, and flesh. She was trying to simply stand up, to come to me. Her body kept wilting, dropping, falling. Her eyes were there, linked with mine. But the material world had lost all reality. The eyes were dark, almost black, and hung in space like moons or planets. She was near. I was there. But was there enough of me? Was there enough of her? Was there enough reality to allow us to touch?

         I woke up and looked around the room…TV, suitcases, curtains, bathroom door, lamp next to the bed, desk, IPhones being recharged. My daughter was on the foldout bed. Her mother was next to me.

         We would stay at the Lantana for a week. I would walk a lot and get to know the city quite well. The wine would be good. The owners would be on the terrace every morning and often in the evening. The flowers would stay amazingly firm and radiant in spite of the heat. The beach in Chia would be as perfect as a beach can be. I wouldn’t dream of her again, but she would always be there, everywhere.

Conversation With God, Part I

Scream Pope 3

Who are you?

God. Who are you to be asking me questions?

I’m a man.

You are not a “man”. You have no idea what it is to be a man. You call yourselves men, but you don’t know anything about where you came from, what you are for, why you are alive, and how you function.

I know, that’s why I’m asking you. You’re God. You know everything. I thought you could help me understand who I am.

Not only are you wrong about yourself, you are also wrong about me. I don’t know any more about anything than you do.

You don’t?

No, and why should I? What makes you think I know anything more about this existence than you do? You found yourself alive on earth…I found myself alive in the universe. Continue reading

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