It is said, my friend, that spiders are hardly small or benevolent and that the insect world itself is wrought with peculiarities of struggle. Yet what is little said is how the cockroach is merely a cockroach in our perceptions and our language. In their world it could be said that a roach is fashioned from the gilt armor of royalty and covered in ranking spines that may twitch in communications of golden pleasures, and yet somehow you may not believe this though you have witnessed roaches settle for life in the same direct motions you scuttle for in your procurements of mental speeds and claws of motive.
Our roach here mimes old passages of a world-weary Don Marquis who travels insectile across keyboards to deliver small granules of truth amid honesty. Like Mr. Marquis' psuedonym you can call our roach friend Archie.
In bathroom-tiled temple floors Archie crawled through bird-chirp love's lore and saw something a human normally wouldnt see. He saw a rebirth in coiled old cords knotted with wound's brand of property, and let it be said in such a way for Archie is highly figurative and rarey literal for such is the life of a roach that leads sometimes to dreams of finer dreams.
Archie here in tiled-temple licked his wounds with rasp unfurled and adorned askew antennae with silked spittle dew, these wounds from former flight alone in day's night of blessed and cursed markers of destined loves and hatred's old lights.
Saw old cracks in tile pavement and spotted marks where blood had dripped in scarlet punctuation but yet a symbolic splatter from early days he hadn't seen but with now-bent antannae and his golden wing sounding like a small telephone talking in buzzing rings. But Archie flits from map to map, so is not responsible for the order of his things, his things said or brought, bought or singed.
No sentences in cockroach eyes, just whorls of colored shapes. Woman-whirl with man-sweep in arms afire as desire's woolen leap. Old hatreds dissolved in water-splatter of ancient mildew cleaned from off white-porcelean where blades of speech could not shatter the steam-loving mints of temple's shushing lyre. Sense in poetry is not Archie's finer style.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Rube Goldberg Striations (JJ 87. 09)
Crumbled stations growing with swirls of dust
and marked by superstructures exposed as if they were splints
of some old army hospital, jagged and cruel in the summer wind.
A building for you and a room for you,
here, a warehouse there a dry school
and inside the common lack of art.
Choose a profession and you have chosen your character.
An actress there and a writer here,
a broken office manager warbling thin musics in the form
of business letters. A CEO, a restaurant owner. You
have seen everybody. Now you have to live, and
you must change your life.
Humble experience informs scribes lesser than me.
A once exalted position poisoned by fame and the
industry of immortality, where they freeze token folks
into bronze statues and shove black gold words into their
ever-frozen mouths. Too late for a lack of fame, too soon
to blossom with the summer winds. MLK said that,
only no one knew.
We reposed in old fortunes of a decadent labor camp.
Our room, built on stilts above the starving mad lusts
of people who wanted a simple kind of life found in a coin
or a friendly smile. Love-mad, the world you refuse to see
turns in the motions of time-locked whorls. A moon on my
birthday once mirrored in succinct metaphor
the photograph of our spiritual cities.
A bed of ancient dust called the Sea of Tranquility.
A cemetary without a name, tombstones jammed in like old
office files thrown in the basement. Nobody could speak
about the unspeakable. They had to learn. Concentric
barbed wires running with electricity and a world that
has as its reflection a barren moon.
Tell me lover, where does the earth find you today?
In sequins gathered by family crimes or in the beds
of lust unsated by all he offered you, a joy that
had never been unearthed but by his plying bone
and a contentment fettered by the statues the others
dared to touch? The only people who forget
are the ones who have nothing to remember.
A quiet flute in the shifting wastelands of cities.
Honest harmonicas and a can of soup, a tarp tent set
with clothes and hummings of the ancient humanity
soiled by new wardens who forget that they are the prisoners
to marked men.
I, oh mysterious letter, cannot forgive
the motions of the gift of Alcatraz
your free citzenry would bestow upon
my unborn daughter. I, oh mysterious sound,
cannot forgive the gift of flowers
placed on unmarked roadside graves
as salve for the living that leads them
to believe in their own virtue. I, oh mysterious word,
cannot forgive the piles of printing presses
tuned up to lie to the face of my unborn son.
I cannot forgive any longer. I began with myself.
The sea wind capturing dandelion seeds. The dried love of summer
like a preserved apricot in her ear. A drunken fight. Some bronze
keys. A golden apple. A virtue locked inside the furnace of the
only sun. Tell me that you love the winds beneath the pale willow
sweeping up the dew of spring lakes. Tell me that you love the rays
of a smiling face in love. I cannot say with words the sadness that
has echoed inside the cavern of my breast. You will have to tell me
with words that aren't there.
and marked by superstructures exposed as if they were splints
of some old army hospital, jagged and cruel in the summer wind.
A building for you and a room for you,
here, a warehouse there a dry school
and inside the common lack of art.
Choose a profession and you have chosen your character.
An actress there and a writer here,
a broken office manager warbling thin musics in the form
of business letters. A CEO, a restaurant owner. You
have seen everybody. Now you have to live, and
you must change your life.
Humble experience informs scribes lesser than me.
A once exalted position poisoned by fame and the
industry of immortality, where they freeze token folks
into bronze statues and shove black gold words into their
ever-frozen mouths. Too late for a lack of fame, too soon
to blossom with the summer winds. MLK said that,
only no one knew.
We reposed in old fortunes of a decadent labor camp.
Our room, built on stilts above the starving mad lusts
of people who wanted a simple kind of life found in a coin
or a friendly smile. Love-mad, the world you refuse to see
turns in the motions of time-locked whorls. A moon on my
birthday once mirrored in succinct metaphor
the photograph of our spiritual cities.
A bed of ancient dust called the Sea of Tranquility.
A cemetary without a name, tombstones jammed in like old
office files thrown in the basement. Nobody could speak
about the unspeakable. They had to learn. Concentric
barbed wires running with electricity and a world that
has as its reflection a barren moon.
Tell me lover, where does the earth find you today?
In sequins gathered by family crimes or in the beds
of lust unsated by all he offered you, a joy that
had never been unearthed but by his plying bone
and a contentment fettered by the statues the others
dared to touch? The only people who forget
are the ones who have nothing to remember.
A quiet flute in the shifting wastelands of cities.
Honest harmonicas and a can of soup, a tarp tent set
with clothes and hummings of the ancient humanity
soiled by new wardens who forget that they are the prisoners
to marked men.
I, oh mysterious letter, cannot forgive
the motions of the gift of Alcatraz
your free citzenry would bestow upon
my unborn daughter. I, oh mysterious sound,
cannot forgive the gift of flowers
placed on unmarked roadside graves
as salve for the living that leads them
to believe in their own virtue. I, oh mysterious word,
cannot forgive the piles of printing presses
tuned up to lie to the face of my unborn son.
I cannot forgive any longer. I began with myself.
The sea wind capturing dandelion seeds. The dried love of summer
like a preserved apricot in her ear. A drunken fight. Some bronze
keys. A golden apple. A virtue locked inside the furnace of the
only sun. Tell me that you love the winds beneath the pale willow
sweeping up the dew of spring lakes. Tell me that you love the rays
of a smiling face in love. I cannot say with words the sadness that
has echoed inside the cavern of my breast. You will have to tell me
with words that aren't there.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Any Old Station (B. 36)
Whose pale order approached behind masks frozen in speech?
The ash-work of Pompeii settled in our souls, and through the
Resonance of music we discovered the shapes of what wasn’t there,
A fascimilie of man and woman locked in a death embrace
And the lost last words of an landslide volcano.
When earlier we had been simpler.
A glass of wine in the Roman veranda
And sprigs of lilac in her charmed hair.
Now the sky has boiled black and burnt
With the edges of curled flame like the wrath
Of an ancient god, smoking cinders peppering
The air like ornaments to transformation.
The sequence of the sea’s waves lost our orders.
A broken lute lay on the shore in seaweed’s disarray,
Mistaken for a whale bone smiling white in the gleam-star
Of the sun’s wealth. Who knew old instruments could
Carry the resonance of such beauty in the glens of the sea,
Who figured that the discarded impliments of old irons
Could be fashioned into such a picaresque screen of
Antiquity’s lore?
Pompeii, Vesuvius. The beach, antiquated in looms
Of wind and the skein of sea spray, a shop for the
Senses and a chart for any old road to immerse itself
In time.
The ash-work of Pompeii settled in our souls, and through the
Resonance of music we discovered the shapes of what wasn’t there,
A fascimilie of man and woman locked in a death embrace
And the lost last words of an landslide volcano.
When earlier we had been simpler.
A glass of wine in the Roman veranda
And sprigs of lilac in her charmed hair.
Now the sky has boiled black and burnt
With the edges of curled flame like the wrath
Of an ancient god, smoking cinders peppering
The air like ornaments to transformation.
The sequence of the sea’s waves lost our orders.
A broken lute lay on the shore in seaweed’s disarray,
Mistaken for a whale bone smiling white in the gleam-star
Of the sun’s wealth. Who knew old instruments could
Carry the resonance of such beauty in the glens of the sea,
Who figured that the discarded impliments of old irons
Could be fashioned into such a picaresque screen of
Antiquity’s lore?
Pompeii, Vesuvius. The beach, antiquated in looms
Of wind and the skein of sea spray, a shop for the
Senses and a chart for any old road to immerse itself
In time.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
the lost highway
Drawn in relief, the ugly machineries have shattered
Into pale representation
Humble in life, our meals were nettle soup
And our thirst met with the steam of silver kettles,
Parching and rough.
But we sang and we joked,
We lived through the open door and
Outside of all doors,
When most of the rest lived from false
Memories.
I’ll sing you a war of lovers
A simple cutlass given to him by his father
And a winchester gun that shoots flowers,
But know that the worst shots came from words barked
For the sake of luxury’s memories.
And in the mist of battle’s penance our souls lost their lover’s
daggers which adorned them like gilt upon the quickened tang
Whipped out of cracked scabbard by the old cannon fires.
Know that the seeds of dandelions grow from our bodies
After we die, that during life our house slipped in shoes like
A walking goddess dedicated to love and her forefathers.
All of our lives
Are just windows in the rain
All of our days are subtle old refrains
All of our spite,
based in love's ruined memories.
Into pale representation
Humble in life, our meals were nettle soup
And our thirst met with the steam of silver kettles,
Parching and rough.
But we sang and we joked,
We lived through the open door and
Outside of all doors,
When most of the rest lived from false
Memories.
I’ll sing you a war of lovers
A simple cutlass given to him by his father
And a winchester gun that shoots flowers,
But know that the worst shots came from words barked
For the sake of luxury’s memories.
And in the mist of battle’s penance our souls lost their lover’s
daggers which adorned them like gilt upon the quickened tang
Whipped out of cracked scabbard by the old cannon fires.
Know that the seeds of dandelions grow from our bodies
After we die, that during life our house slipped in shoes like
A walking goddess dedicated to love and her forefathers.
All of our lives
Are just windows in the rain
All of our days are subtle old refrains
All of our spite,
based in love's ruined memories.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
The Idle Movements of Ancient Libraries (P.47 TB)
A poem, a poem, a small poem.
Here the women lay reposed in the day
Here the wild wolves sulk in labyrinthine castles, wary of the minotaur.
Hear the quiet fields, the silence from the end of the last war. There the bodies lay wrapped in ribbons of lilac and splattered rose red. There the fields lay until the bodies and the earth become one.
And the sound of old irons clanking like war desires in the rusted tombs of dead chivalry’s renaissance armor, and the music of swords open to the love of whores who brought us our finest ribbons to pin upon our helms before we marched in coated horses out of the marrow to tilt at dead machineries and broken gear teeth. And the languished ray of darkness sitting there behind us, we call shadows but we don’t know even why they are.
In the shaded glen, free from the company of men, lay our blossoms of nourishment in vessels of painted clay. In the pig pen, the slop is sluiced through troughs, and where we saw the farmer’s wife we knew that witches had been real.
In the lost decay of old formulas we wrote in our notations the workings of a simple tool, the ancient spade that mortars and smooths, that digs hallowed hollows so that our fire may keep in the cold stony bog until what the earth will say when it goes away, “It is day and it is night.” The woman stretched over a man, the two as lovers wrapped in sun and twilight, made lithe by the draperies of the stars.
And is it for us to understand the sound of the world’s (sic) words, the quiet moon and the taciturn smile of its cratered canyons? Is it for us to interpret the flows of even a river as it lazes out and ever? Hold on to water, hold on to an ocean, hold on to a love that never says “blossom,” and you will discover your true weight like Sirius the star.
The robot of robots in the office of offices. The sleek slap of laced ribbons flitting like tasseled whips in the lines of orchard dreams. Dusky scent like mirth and white vinegar. Trouble in the ancient talk. A fire crossed by water. Old light meeting new darkness. Old darkness amid new light. The end of shadows is where light begins to open, for void is a closed closet and light an open window. The robot office of robot offices.
In the lost decay, in the shadowed May, our whistling rain whirled red by the whipping wind has snapped our fondest nightmare. Dead insects in the shoebox of ancient memories. A glass of wine, a glass of glass, a liquid rouge blushed by the age of old grapes. You were born amid this. You were born amid the wild flits of an ancient wind.
Oh how terrible to be told! What worse than for the truth to be said, to hear with uncalloused ear the steady rumble of thunder’s lover, the lightning quick flash of truth shocked into the heart of the ear. “You are dead.” And yet never more alive with electric nerves flowing in fire flame the snap of sparkles whistling with the tone of human thought, with the desire of the polyglot who asks for a dessert sherry in four different languages. Ask, nay, demand, and you shall receive. Descartes was right but kept it in a lie. “Do we sleep or do we dream?” should have been “Do we live or do we die?”
And the saints were open to the sound of listening unlike some of us, unattuned to simple words like a drummer beating the march of war upon the breath of sweet lilacs until they wilt with loss of dewy sweet dangerous life.
You have come a long way for a short poem. You have come a short way for a long life. Time will not abandon you my sweet sad friend. The ticking of seconds is just a manner in which the measures of movements we call situations instill themselves through all the coordination of a drunk dream. Whistle through a thistle and shave your name from your chest, what’s ours is ours unless we make a gift and even then it is made more and not less.
Here the day reposes in the soft arc of women’s curved daliance.
Here the minotaur has already died long ago, and is wary of mere wolves.
Here dot dot dot you may begin to live period exclamation point
Here the women lay reposed in the day
Here the wild wolves sulk in labyrinthine castles, wary of the minotaur.
Hear the quiet fields, the silence from the end of the last war. There the bodies lay wrapped in ribbons of lilac and splattered rose red. There the fields lay until the bodies and the earth become one.
And the sound of old irons clanking like war desires in the rusted tombs of dead chivalry’s renaissance armor, and the music of swords open to the love of whores who brought us our finest ribbons to pin upon our helms before we marched in coated horses out of the marrow to tilt at dead machineries and broken gear teeth. And the languished ray of darkness sitting there behind us, we call shadows but we don’t know even why they are.
In the shaded glen, free from the company of men, lay our blossoms of nourishment in vessels of painted clay. In the pig pen, the slop is sluiced through troughs, and where we saw the farmer’s wife we knew that witches had been real.
In the lost decay of old formulas we wrote in our notations the workings of a simple tool, the ancient spade that mortars and smooths, that digs hallowed hollows so that our fire may keep in the cold stony bog until what the earth will say when it goes away, “It is day and it is night.” The woman stretched over a man, the two as lovers wrapped in sun and twilight, made lithe by the draperies of the stars.
And is it for us to understand the sound of the world’s (sic) words, the quiet moon and the taciturn smile of its cratered canyons? Is it for us to interpret the flows of even a river as it lazes out and ever? Hold on to water, hold on to an ocean, hold on to a love that never says “blossom,” and you will discover your true weight like Sirius the star.
The robot of robots in the office of offices. The sleek slap of laced ribbons flitting like tasseled whips in the lines of orchard dreams. Dusky scent like mirth and white vinegar. Trouble in the ancient talk. A fire crossed by water. Old light meeting new darkness. Old darkness amid new light. The end of shadows is where light begins to open, for void is a closed closet and light an open window. The robot office of robot offices.
In the lost decay, in the shadowed May, our whistling rain whirled red by the whipping wind has snapped our fondest nightmare. Dead insects in the shoebox of ancient memories. A glass of wine, a glass of glass, a liquid rouge blushed by the age of old grapes. You were born amid this. You were born amid the wild flits of an ancient wind.
Oh how terrible to be told! What worse than for the truth to be said, to hear with uncalloused ear the steady rumble of thunder’s lover, the lightning quick flash of truth shocked into the heart of the ear. “You are dead.” And yet never more alive with electric nerves flowing in fire flame the snap of sparkles whistling with the tone of human thought, with the desire of the polyglot who asks for a dessert sherry in four different languages. Ask, nay, demand, and you shall receive. Descartes was right but kept it in a lie. “Do we sleep or do we dream?” should have been “Do we live or do we die?”
And the saints were open to the sound of listening unlike some of us, unattuned to simple words like a drummer beating the march of war upon the breath of sweet lilacs until they wilt with loss of dewy sweet dangerous life.
You have come a long way for a short poem. You have come a short way for a long life. Time will not abandon you my sweet sad friend. The ticking of seconds is just a manner in which the measures of movements we call situations instill themselves through all the coordination of a drunk dream. Whistle through a thistle and shave your name from your chest, what’s ours is ours unless we make a gift and even then it is made more and not less.
Here the day reposes in the soft arc of women’s curved daliance.
Here the minotaur has already died long ago, and is wary of mere wolves.
Here dot dot dot you may begin to live period exclamation point
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
los lobos del sol, the lyricism of nonsense (FW 190)
Someone sliced this city in geared flame and left a swath of orange blood,
All the slickness on the streets in the debt of drugs and sex that gluttons collect
Like a whirling bracelet upon the arm of the baron’s dominde.
With the edge of fey fate we slipped the knife through the ends until they met
With a bridge of gleaming steel over the waters of shoals.
With the debts of old friends, we remarked on how easily memories become forlorn.
To this debt, we raise our best, we toast when our minds are wet with the lucid fumes of alcohol’s loans.
Hoy poder la tierra en un traje de azul, los firmas son regales en la piscina de tus suenos, la habitad es un major contenta y soy un major. Con el amor es possible para personas viaje con los pajaros y la major paloma de tus brazos. Un boleto de me historia es un libro de me via. Es la verdad, la muerte es una via del destrurian los peligrosos. Y con un cuchillo de nosotros somos angeles de la noche. Fortuna es marveloso para ti, ye la gente es su novia, con los fuegos artifices.
With rising strands of reflections we puzzle out the sun, with strands of desires fulfillment we descend upon the power of our blood unnoticed but in times of loss and want, where we are yours. We collect all the mess of the sickness swimming in trees, we excempt spiritual debts on the basis of compassion and need.
Hoy poder la playa del mundo en un carafe de naranja por tus amorres. Hoy poder una miraculo en los curios por tus santo de proteccion.
Yo ya major…
With engines of night we travel in repose like a sailor guided by his nose through the shifting whirlwinds of storms, with sails of daylight we gather our weapons of the spirit and search out banknotes to serve as our soul’s cloak.
En la casa de luna, un mujer de cinema no tiene la verdad porque es una triste soledad.
Los ciuadeds no tienen las coches de la noche, no tienen los guerreros de la negro, solamente los guerroes con los caballos de la luz.
In the engine, our thoughts are scrambled with the gears sickening speech. We adapt, and turn our minds to rocks and fires that have no measure of weight or heat.
Los avions del azur estan miserables de los peliculas y no tienen la amor.
The airplanes of blue, miserable as motion pictures, and they don’t have love.
In the dentistry of mercy, our stone teeth look unnerving, but it is how we survived. In the hospital of love, our claws scuttle like undeserving women across the ladders of social climbing, and perhaps this too is love. But in the ends, our knifes will mend all the sickness that crept through this dream, to be sent to the end means to live like you want by your seams.
On the 14th of December, we forgot to remember, on the 9th of September, the war surrendered and the lyrics of this song changed back to the pale embers that had begun in a fire of old parchment marked by old lore.
Tu estas una dio, la produccion de evolutiones y muchas muchas anos. Tu eres bonita y muy felicidad de los viajes y los jovens de la tierra. Las almas de amadura son corozons del batalles. Yo ya mejor!
Wilt them out until there is only spirit and form for the cowardice in their looks that stole and have torn your lover's desire as if from a supermarket aisle. You are a goddess amid rotting logs...
All the slickness on the streets in the debt of drugs and sex that gluttons collect
Like a whirling bracelet upon the arm of the baron’s dominde.
With the edge of fey fate we slipped the knife through the ends until they met
With a bridge of gleaming steel over the waters of shoals.
With the debts of old friends, we remarked on how easily memories become forlorn.
To this debt, we raise our best, we toast when our minds are wet with the lucid fumes of alcohol’s loans.
Hoy poder la tierra en un traje de azul, los firmas son regales en la piscina de tus suenos, la habitad es un major contenta y soy un major. Con el amor es possible para personas viaje con los pajaros y la major paloma de tus brazos. Un boleto de me historia es un libro de me via. Es la verdad, la muerte es una via del destrurian los peligrosos. Y con un cuchillo de nosotros somos angeles de la noche. Fortuna es marveloso para ti, ye la gente es su novia, con los fuegos artifices.
With rising strands of reflections we puzzle out the sun, with strands of desires fulfillment we descend upon the power of our blood unnoticed but in times of loss and want, where we are yours. We collect all the mess of the sickness swimming in trees, we excempt spiritual debts on the basis of compassion and need.
Hoy poder la playa del mundo en un carafe de naranja por tus amorres. Hoy poder una miraculo en los curios por tus santo de proteccion.
Yo ya major…
With engines of night we travel in repose like a sailor guided by his nose through the shifting whirlwinds of storms, with sails of daylight we gather our weapons of the spirit and search out banknotes to serve as our soul’s cloak.
En la casa de luna, un mujer de cinema no tiene la verdad porque es una triste soledad.
Los ciuadeds no tienen las coches de la noche, no tienen los guerreros de la negro, solamente los guerroes con los caballos de la luz.
In the engine, our thoughts are scrambled with the gears sickening speech. We adapt, and turn our minds to rocks and fires that have no measure of weight or heat.
Los avions del azur estan miserables de los peliculas y no tienen la amor.
The airplanes of blue, miserable as motion pictures, and they don’t have love.
In the dentistry of mercy, our stone teeth look unnerving, but it is how we survived. In the hospital of love, our claws scuttle like undeserving women across the ladders of social climbing, and perhaps this too is love. But in the ends, our knifes will mend all the sickness that crept through this dream, to be sent to the end means to live like you want by your seams.
On the 14th of December, we forgot to remember, on the 9th of September, the war surrendered and the lyrics of this song changed back to the pale embers that had begun in a fire of old parchment marked by old lore.
Tu estas una dio, la produccion de evolutiones y muchas muchas anos. Tu eres bonita y muy felicidad de los viajes y los jovens de la tierra. Las almas de amadura son corozons del batalles. Yo ya mejor!
Wilt them out until there is only spirit and form for the cowardice in their looks that stole and have torn your lover's desire as if from a supermarket aisle. You are a goddess amid rotting logs...
Saturday, August 8, 2009
How To Read Someone's Fortune
There are a few ways.
Look intently at them as if you know something about them. You probably already do. They are dressed nice, they are dressed poorly, they are dressed like the asshole who side-swiped your car this morning, or they are dressed like your grandmother the day that your grandfather proposed to her. Then tell them what you see in them.
To a man drunk on his lunchbreak from the office: "I see a sad turn of events in terms of your working environment. If you don't change your life, you could end up getting fired."
To an over-dressed woman at 5pm: "Your love life will flare up, but it is uncertain whether the future will hold a lasting love or a flash in the pan."
To a child-"You are your own fortune. Write it and read it yourself. Forget the slut ready to jump on any guy in town, forget the drunk who can't spell 'chickadee' when he is sober, not because of idiocy but because his hands shake to much to hold a pen or to type on a computer. Forget everything they taught you. You are the future, child. I am sure you know who the Beatles are by now. All you need is love. Or was that a line from ---?"
Look intently at them as if you know something about them. You probably already do. They are dressed nice, they are dressed poorly, they are dressed like the asshole who side-swiped your car this morning, or they are dressed like your grandmother the day that your grandfather proposed to her. Then tell them what you see in them.
To a man drunk on his lunchbreak from the office: "I see a sad turn of events in terms of your working environment. If you don't change your life, you could end up getting fired."
To an over-dressed woman at 5pm: "Your love life will flare up, but it is uncertain whether the future will hold a lasting love or a flash in the pan."
To a child-"You are your own fortune. Write it and read it yourself. Forget the slut ready to jump on any guy in town, forget the drunk who can't spell 'chickadee' when he is sober, not because of idiocy but because his hands shake to much to hold a pen or to type on a computer. Forget everything they taught you. You are the future, child. I am sure you know who the Beatles are by now. All you need is love. Or was that a line from ---?"
How To Be A Poet, free MA lesson
Here is a poem I dragged up
from the simple mechanism
of writing in stanzas like a poet.
You see,
you just take normal speech
and put it with line breaks
where you want the line to break
and where you want the words
to go. It is simple, not a trick
or a greatness, but just a thing
like a spoon or some cigarettes.
They teach students this in school
for thousands of dollars.
So if by chance you were thinking
of becoming a poet, or that you
want to be a poet, you can thank
me for saving you thousands of dollars,
all of you would-be poets out there
all of you real poets out there
and all of you poets out there who
already knew.
from the simple mechanism
of writing in stanzas like a poet.
You see,
you just take normal speech
and put it with line breaks
where you want the line to break
and where you want the words
to go. It is simple, not a trick
or a greatness, but just a thing
like a spoon or some cigarettes.
They teach students this in school
for thousands of dollars.
So if by chance you were thinking
of becoming a poet, or that you
want to be a poet, you can thank
me for saving you thousands of dollars,
all of you would-be poets out there
all of you real poets out there
and all of you poets out there who
already knew.
sequence in summer of night embers and daytime lovers
This night in day glenned softly with the down of timber flakes strung along the open meadow has breathed in musky sequence the art off all our fellows, for too true is it that they are dark and clinging but yet also, there is something in their being that makes the blades of grass and yarn of heather flow with measure of what cannot be measured, through mere fertile contenance of adversity’s pleasures do those who hate us for their speckled beings make us shoot like cannon’s blossoms into the art-arch of the sky.
And in this day gleaned night we rust in tombs prepared by automatons who burst in billowy dress the day when it is no longer day, who’s art in lies is no art at all, but pale unreason as meaningful as a quick drawn blade.
Earth shutters its windows in tired repose, ill-seen and unrepenting before the beauty of even the ugliest rose, for not are we meant to live like flowers but rather to spend our petals on our roots that grow tender by spring rain in the early morning hours.
This night in day and this day gleaned night glenned softly with the down of dandelion embers does spark life anew with loving dust and brilliant white wisps of curled soft whiskers feeling for the air that lends its flight to the justice of distant laws and letters.
And in this day gleaned night we rust in tombs prepared by automatons who burst in billowy dress the day when it is no longer day, who’s art in lies is no art at all, but pale unreason as meaningful as a quick drawn blade.
Earth shutters its windows in tired repose, ill-seen and unrepenting before the beauty of even the ugliest rose, for not are we meant to live like flowers but rather to spend our petals on our roots that grow tender by spring rain in the early morning hours.
This night in day and this day gleaned night glenned softly with the down of dandelion embers does spark life anew with loving dust and brilliant white wisps of curled soft whiskers feeling for the air that lends its flight to the justice of distant laws and letters.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
