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.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
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.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
agape
I tell you that you are beautiful,
I cannot tell the waitress that she is too
nor the man with a peckish face manipulating his dinner
with a cheap fork.
I tell the waitress that she is beautiful
through a couple of ugly dollars
that say "Have a drink on me, as is custom,
have a pack of cigs on me, as is customary
when we are rewarding beauty caged by
robot behavior."
Far better to reward broken robots,
the ones who paint the chaos of paint dribbles
across canvases of life, like the man who ambles
down the street with an antique cane, the woman
who in the middle of the night with the stars shining
few, speeds down the middle of my street in her
electric wheelchair, intent and with banner flying.
Tell me I am beautiful at the love novel factory
and I will point to my broken parts. You, if you mean
what you say, will understand, as you have always
understood. Emptiness fails to realize.
Voids entertain beauty in orbits leading to
loss, and only the black hole of the collapsed human heart
draws its own death towards it.
Tonight, I declare the obvious.
Love and trust are worth more than money and deceit,
which is not a question of value or measures
but a question of authenticity.
Can you buy life with lies?
(A marriage to a job and a car with a woman you
see for a few hours to have sex with is not a life,
but the worst deceit ever pulled on the human experience
by you and the others.)
Can a person fool another into loving and trusting them
for the rest of their life?
Like I said, hideous obviousness.
But, listen...the obvious should be beautiful too.
Who fashioned it so that those who speak in swords
about old wounds should be laughed off, persecuted,
written off as mad fools feeling out the horror of our
mutual prison? You and I in our half-measures of love?
Others in their full-measures of hatred?
The tattered spirit, much misunderstood, poisoning
our lives with pretensions of greatness placed their
by our own childhoods and derided as egos by
the miserable misinterpreters? Fuck them
and fuck me too.
The moon, some stars, a few rays of light,
a painted prison blooming like a garden
and a handful of old coins from the penny jar,
beaten copper amid the worn glass of the world.
You were the only one to show me your weapons
amid a people deluding others with things.
Light-knife kept in your boot, all I saw in
other shoes were crusted socks and outlines
of broken heels. All you needed was an interlude
to glint an edge from your ornate hilt. I needed
a hurricane of pages and letters, poor documents.
Let us walk as lovers separated in our two worlds,
I promise I won't laugh at your void, as
You have never insulted my emptiness.
Too many beautiful words, so few weapons.
Words without hope, weapons without wisdom.
And so on...
I cannot tell the waitress that she is too
nor the man with a peckish face manipulating his dinner
with a cheap fork.
I tell the waitress that she is beautiful
through a couple of ugly dollars
that say "Have a drink on me, as is custom,
have a pack of cigs on me, as is customary
when we are rewarding beauty caged by
robot behavior."
Far better to reward broken robots,
the ones who paint the chaos of paint dribbles
across canvases of life, like the man who ambles
down the street with an antique cane, the woman
who in the middle of the night with the stars shining
few, speeds down the middle of my street in her
electric wheelchair, intent and with banner flying.
Tell me I am beautiful at the love novel factory
and I will point to my broken parts. You, if you mean
what you say, will understand, as you have always
understood. Emptiness fails to realize.
Voids entertain beauty in orbits leading to
loss, and only the black hole of the collapsed human heart
draws its own death towards it.
Tonight, I declare the obvious.
Love and trust are worth more than money and deceit,
which is not a question of value or measures
but a question of authenticity.
Can you buy life with lies?
(A marriage to a job and a car with a woman you
see for a few hours to have sex with is not a life,
but the worst deceit ever pulled on the human experience
by you and the others.)
Can a person fool another into loving and trusting them
for the rest of their life?
Like I said, hideous obviousness.
But, listen...the obvious should be beautiful too.
Who fashioned it so that those who speak in swords
about old wounds should be laughed off, persecuted,
written off as mad fools feeling out the horror of our
mutual prison? You and I in our half-measures of love?
Others in their full-measures of hatred?
The tattered spirit, much misunderstood, poisoning
our lives with pretensions of greatness placed their
by our own childhoods and derided as egos by
the miserable misinterpreters? Fuck them
and fuck me too.
The moon, some stars, a few rays of light,
a painted prison blooming like a garden
and a handful of old coins from the penny jar,
beaten copper amid the worn glass of the world.
You were the only one to show me your weapons
amid a people deluding others with things.
Light-knife kept in your boot, all I saw in
other shoes were crusted socks and outlines
of broken heels. All you needed was an interlude
to glint an edge from your ornate hilt. I needed
a hurricane of pages and letters, poor documents.
Let us walk as lovers separated in our two worlds,
I promise I won't laugh at your void, as
You have never insulted my emptiness.
Too many beautiful words, so few weapons.
Words without hope, weapons without wisdom.
And so on...
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