Archive Page 2

19
Jan
10

This Means Dead

To all the great advice I’ve been given:

This Means Dead

A cigarette is beautiful.
A thing that unites me with
The back-alley crosseyed man
Searching my dumpster.
When he asked me for one,
I affirmed and thought about tossing it
And my lighter to him.
But that thought was inhuman.
Make no mistake, your relationships
Are the heaviest
Components in your life
No, I have no change
For your booze well pockets.
I have none, change.
The beautiful things that bring us together
Love, sex and cigarettes.
Et cetera, that make us ache.
Those must be beautiful.
The most inventive poets
Must know received forms
To rebel against.
I have none,
Change. I’m learning that writing
Is not poetry, diary
Entries are not art forms.

I know you don’t have a thing
Until it can be given. To control
What could control you. I cannot
Give up this writing. In that vein,
I’m told a life is not life
Until lived. To me, this means
Dead.

12
Jan
10

Two Beautiful Songs. I really hope you enjoy

I beg, listen to these songs while doing something other than really, overtly listening to them. They’re meant to reach an inner part of your psyche that is not so…rational or intuitive.  I don’t think either piece is “music” as we are used to. More like classical compositions, that set a very tangible mood, leaving you to fill in the blanks as you see fit.

The first, by Mogwai, is one that’s kept me in an uplifted mood so far this winter. It may even be a little too uplifting, but I need that in the dead of winter. Maybe you do as well.


The second song, performed by  Grouper (actually the solo project of Liz Harris), is a hauntingly beautiful piece. The lyrics evoke a very hypnotic, engulfing sense of what Love might be. One of the better “love songs” I know of, its a very deep and emotional reflection on the ever-elusive feeling of Love, whatever that thing is. But, at least for the first few listens, I recommend listening without the lyrics, so as to think of the singing not as narrative or voice, but as an instrument. I think that’s the first thing Harris wants her singing to accomplish. But, the lyrics certainly deserve contemplation, as they are very well written (I’ll post them below the video, which is an unofficial accompaniment to the music). After doing so, I think you will find a very modern view on Love in the lyrics. To reuse a previous adjective, a very haunting view of Love..


This feeling doesn’t go away
I feel it moving through me

I want a love I had inside
Want to feel it moving through me

In dreams I’m moving through heavy water
The love is enormous its lifting me up
I’d rather be sleeping
I’d rather fall into tidal waves
and go where the deepest currents go

I opened a mirror up
and saw a true love
I let it separate in two
the water rising up over my head

In dreams I’m moving through heavy water
the love is enormous its lifting me up
I’d rather be sleeping
I’d rather fall in to tidal waves
and go where the deepest currents go

In dreams I’m moving through heavy water
the love is enormous its lifting me up
I’d rather be sleeping
I’d rather fall in to tidal waves
and go where the deepest currents go

11
Jan
10

Three submissions to MOSAIC

Its been a while since posting. So, I’ve decided to put up a few at once. According to my instructor, “Its never too late to say something”. I am inclined to agree. Though, it may be too late to be heard…

Seasonal Depression

A river of salt is smeared
Down the walk and I realize,
It is not just the cold
That abominates the winter.
Not just the leaveless, stretching,
Witchfinger branches
Nor a miser sun that shares no warmth.
Not just these. And though the swelling nights
Encroach upon my days, shortening,
It is not just these. But winter comes,
I have no falling nor hibernation.
I have no defense against this rape
And pilfering of warmth.
Lesser life just dies or sleeps
While I have nothing to shore
Against this Siberia of the mind.
I have nothing for a naked psyche
But crunching salt beneath my boots
And coats and gloves. How nice
It would be to birth into spring,
To awake again, warm or warming.
But now, winter looms above the buildings
Descending upon all the naked students.

On Watching a Cello Orchestra with Soprano and Conductor, 11th Floor, Thompson Library

I.

Poor posture cellists,
In medulla oblongata
Of this spinal tower.
Your fingers dance on necks,
While sawing string ribs
With wooden rapiers –
You are musing me and I write
Anything these days. But I swear
You are different Cello Orchestra.
Keep sound checking.
The soprano is sitting two seats
Away, warming up and though
She is beautiful in voice and body,
Your stroking of throats
Make my hands shake.
II.
The lost orations,
The conductor’s archaic
Language matches no cadence
Of the cellists.
He does not rhyme well
With their beautiful instrumentation.
Coat-tailing diva! Your wizard wand,
Followed only by my eyes
Like fruit flies
Buzzing about my head.

III.
Solo soprano, though beautiful
And womanly strong,
I can only tolerate
Second-hand Italian.
For some insolent reason,
I am told the best conductors
Perform their worst songs
Twice.

IV.
Stairs down from eleventh floor.
Concert above and behind me,
The music only echoes
Down the stairwell, chasing
Me and though I wish it could,
That moment will never
Catch me again.

Rubbernecking on I-77

There’s a hard rain on
the highway. My windshield wipers are
heartbeats after nicotine
fast fast fast

There’s a slowing pace
in my lane.
A truck rolled on its side;
like me asleep in bed.

Hopefully the driver
-And possible passengers –
Are like my sleep after nicotine:
In bed on my side, my heart beats
nic’tine nic’tine nic’tine

Surely the passengers and driver
are nicotined hearts
in the sleeping car
on its side.

Surely they are
refusing to be
snuffed
out

08
Dec
09

Yeats’ Gyre and Very Real Smoke

Smoking my blue moon cigarette
–Blue moon gyres every third day
–These days
At foursomething ayem
On backalley porch when
A guy not looking bummish
Walks to my dumpster
Prodding around with
Plastic bags in hand
Until seeing me.
Then, he fiddles
Trying to play cool
As if he were ashamed,
And walks away headdown.
Dig  on!
Man
I think nothing less of you.
I would have thought better
Had you continued prodding.
These hours we keep
Us away from reality.
Dumpsters are reality –
Whatever you were scavenging
Food, clothes, recylcables
Or maybe just thrifty knickknacks
Keep at it – scavenging is reality too
And I simply aren’t as real as you.

Beautiful it is when I breath out smoke
Not knowing where it stops
And my december breath starts.
Its all smoke to the eye.
It all looks like nicotineless mist.
That is, until wind shifts
And then its real smoke to the eye.
It cries.
And now its my turn to be ashamed.
To walk away headdown

08
Dec
09

The Most Justified White Lie: On Kurt Vonnegut Jr.’s Epitaph

All was beautiful
The truest prophecy
Of promise
And doom
That I can wrap
A feeble brain around.
All certainly was,
Even more than,
Beautiful.
Pretty in spite
Of no reason
To be pretty.
Living despite
The calling only
To survive. Real
Living.
and
 the greatest lie
uttered by sanity.
The epitome
Of knowing otherwise
Yet conciously misinforming.
DELIBERATELY
And I thought You
A great purveyor of
Truth – As if you were
Handing me some hope
On your tombstone,
You uttered the blacksheep
Half of your epitaph:

Nothing hurt.

08
Dec
09

Sweetsick

The poetry does not come when I want to write
It comes when I want to live or not live very well
Like a sprinkle after flood or A
Plus after bad paper that is bad analysis.
And maybe poetry is bad analysis.
Some kind of infusion of some kind of passion..
Some kind of bad analysis.
Imperical only in inspiration.
And that is pseudoscientific bad
Analysis

Repeating rep’tition
Circles danced around my wants and needs and time
– A simple sweetsick racetrack –
racing from one end to another means
When there is no real end game only
More grapes to eat endless grapes.
And they are all a dark dark ripe
They are all dark dark ripe
The dark dark grapes are ripe
With a call to be yielded
To eat their darkened sweetsick.

And the poems come
When I want to live or not live well
Not when I want to write.
The sweetsick is when I live
And post-sweetsick is writings

08
Dec
09

Guard Dog Portraiture

The german shephard next door
With strong mostly-mature body
And baby eyes.
If you ask me
He’s guarding the neighbor’s stash
If you ask the dog,
He’s guarding his master
Not his stash.
I think the neighbor would deny
Having a drug stash guard dog.
But he would confirm his guilt
In the the way he used his words.
But for now, master is gone out
And dog has found
One open window
A small window like a picture frame
That only his head fits through.
Sending yelps and cries
Into the incompatible outside
For his lon’gone friend.
He howls: I love youuuuuuu

And he cries for want of comradery
And yelps of abandonment.
But he will jump and  yowl
In joy at master’s return.
Forgivingly forgetful.
Until then,
He cries for all the real reasons 
We  should cry.
Still, this is why
All loving people
Are trampled.




The reason for all this is not reasonable. The reason, strictly art, Still makes no sense to me.

The Wheel

August 2017
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