Thursday, June 24, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
A basic Savagery
I once wrote a poem
That I thought was of me
A song of myself
A person to be
But upon further inspection
And deeper reflection
It came to the surface that alone
Is not to be
In fact to find alone is not to be
And not not to be
But not to see
Not to hear not to feel
Not to want
But dark
For to be is the inverse of me
It is, fact, the we
I saw it creeping through the black
Leaving behind a golden track
It still reminds me
From under the rock
From under the shade and
The safety and security and hate and cynicism
Every once in awhile
It comes to the party in a black cocktail dress
Showing just enough leg…
Just enough to wonder what’s beyond
But Christ we all know what’s there
“Why yes I know him
Indeed, the thickest of skins
A real man’s man
Oh What a deer
Vest he is wearing…”
I saw it creeping through the black
Leaving behind a Golden TRACK
A hunter, a gatherer, an assimilator are they
A curdling crisp air built in a flood plaine
THOMAS what a coincidence a derivative
Of the word and of the paine
The inverse of me
Is we
Without we cannot be
The inverse of me
That I thought was of me
A song of myself
A person to be
But upon further inspection
And deeper reflection
It came to the surface that alone
Is not to be
In fact to find alone is not to be
And not not to be
But not to see
Not to hear not to feel
Not to want
But dark
For to be is the inverse of me
It is, fact, the we
I saw it creeping through the black
Leaving behind a golden track
It still reminds me
From under the rock
From under the shade and
The safety and security and hate and cynicism
Every once in awhile
It comes to the party in a black cocktail dress
Showing just enough leg…
Just enough to wonder what’s beyond
But Christ we all know what’s there
“Why yes I know him
Indeed, the thickest of skins
A real man’s man
Oh What a deer
Vest he is wearing…”
I saw it creeping through the black
Leaving behind a Golden TRACK
A hunter, a gatherer, an assimilator are they
A curdling crisp air built in a flood plaine
THOMAS what a coincidence a derivative
Of the word and of the paine
The inverse of me
Is we
Without we cannot be
The inverse of me
Monday, May 17, 2010
Euterpe
This happens, doesn’t it
Everything has a volume
Not an empty or full volume, no
It’s all empty and full
But a volume
And I am turning them all down
Not consciously
But so consciously that I don’t even
Know
And that’s always been the secret
Hasn’t it?
Live, dead, meaning, not meaning
Bright happy happening fiction
Volumes of knowledge and experience and life
A simple knob creates one from the other
God’s fairest equalizer
Everything has a volume
Not an empty or full volume, no
It’s all empty and full
But a volume
And I am turning them all down
Not consciously
But so consciously that I don’t even
Know
And that’s always been the secret
Hasn’t it?
Live, dead, meaning, not meaning
Bright happy happening fiction
Volumes of knowledge and experience and life
A simple knob creates one from the other
God’s fairest equalizer
5th gear
the fragile
a metaphysical bug zapper
at 1400
headed due southeast
I Saw him
Dressed in denim shovel
In hand the savior had come
He was no diviner
No soothsayer
But a simpleton in
“necessary” garb
for he repaired while we slept
shielded from our cast aversions
he creates lines for us to dwell upon
and within our lives
lines connect
lines divide
that bug zapper, the lines were pulling me in
who is this mystery, such thankless work it is
repairing these lines
thankless for a reason
i’m sure as hell not thankful
the fragile
a metaphysical bug zapper
at 1400
headed due southeast
I Saw him
Dressed in denim shovel
In hand the savior had come
He was no diviner
No soothsayer
But a simpleton in
“necessary” garb
for he repaired while we slept
shielded from our cast aversions
he creates lines for us to dwell upon
and within our lives
lines connect
lines divide
that bug zapper, the lines were pulling me in
who is this mystery, such thankless work it is
repairing these lines
thankless for a reason
i’m sure as hell not thankful
Monday, May 3, 2010
a prayer
What, did you see Galileo
When, gazing through your
Glass, eye
Why, did it blind you so
What, was the empirical fool
To, gain from such meta
end, deavours
what, if your eye were diseased
where, did you find hope then
were, you not more lost after seeing
nothing, now seeing nothing but
knowing, and having seen everything
now, nothing
why, should the light blind you so
why, is the light there
When, gazing through your
Glass, eye
Why, did it blind you so
What, was the empirical fool
To, gain from such meta
end, deavours
what, if your eye were diseased
where, did you find hope then
were, you not more lost after seeing
nothing, now seeing nothing but
knowing, and having seen everything
now, nothing
why, should the light blind you so
why, is the light there
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Metamorphosis
Icarus has come between me and the sun
His void is a wasteland
An ethereal longitude
All things shall pass
At home with the sweat
Drip from his concerned brow
But fearless
It is an opera of hoops and hollers
That keeps Hektor
That nothing is O K
Constant threat and change
That he is constantly inadequate
Constantly at odds
And constantly tested by
The men in white coats and their
Spears and shields
This is peace of mind in war
Fear dwells in the dust
And apathy
So let it not settle
Be not content with the music
Sirens oh the sirens
It is not cute and there is no solace in it
Vapid charybdis hides in these crystalline waters
I can hear their whispers
A temptationless whisper is a howling feral dog
I float above behind my (e)yes
His void is a wasteland
An ethereal longitude
All things shall pass
At home with the sweat
Drip from his concerned brow
But fearless
It is an opera of hoops and hollers
That keeps Hektor
That nothing is O K
Constant threat and change
That he is constantly inadequate
Constantly at odds
And constantly tested by
The men in white coats and their
Spears and shields
This is peace of mind in war
Fear dwells in the dust
And apathy
So let it not settle
Be not content with the music
Sirens oh the sirens
It is not cute and there is no solace in it
Vapid charybdis hides in these crystalline waters
I can hear their whispers
A temptationless whisper is a howling feral dog
I float above behind my (e)yes
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Never leave home without your hammer, a word with the Orientals
Are such sporadic incantations
Of inebriation
Harbingers
Flares, desperate screams
By some bestial lord jim
Drowning in a sea of
Gramophones
~ OH GOOD SIR, YOUR MANNERS ARE QUITE KIND~
eccentric exo-centric ex-centric
Why’s wise is why is wise why
Is why’s why is why wise wise
Is why why’s why wise
Devastator
Manipulator
Verdant foliage
chromatic ecstatic
It is bad when one thing becomes two. It is the same for anything that is called a Way. If one understands things in this manner, he should be able to hear about all Ways and be more and more in accord with his own.
Of inebriation
Harbingers
Flares, desperate screams
By some bestial lord jim
Drowning in a sea of
Gramophones
~ OH GOOD SIR, YOUR MANNERS ARE QUITE KIND~
eccentric exo-centric ex-centric
Why’s wise is why is wise why
Is why’s why is why wise wise
Is why why’s why wise
Devastator
Manipulator
Verdant foliage
chromatic ecstatic
It is bad when one thing becomes two. It is the same for anything that is called a Way. If one understands things in this manner, he should be able to hear about all Ways and be more and more in accord with his own.
A Brief Repose
The setting sun a contrast
To the spring of our lives
Reckless
Final stop of our day
Approach the base of the temple
Take off your shoes the children are watching
Start circling, stalking your prey
warmth
First flight of stairs
and my cold feet are browned
a smiling priest excuses us
I had a fear of heights
Second flight of stairs
The incense are burning like
The breath of great Achilles
A funeral pyre of cowardice and foolishness
Clouding the sky
Emanates from the center
Third flight of stairs
Out of breath but how many
A six armed shiva in this lonely place
Arrive at the top
Wind between our hair
The pinnacle of an empty lighthouse
First time in the center, there is less
At the peak than at the bottom
To the spring of our lives
Reckless
Final stop of our day
Approach the base of the temple
Take off your shoes the children are watching
Start circling, stalking your prey
warmth
First flight of stairs
and my cold feet are browned
a smiling priest excuses us
I had a fear of heights
Second flight of stairs
The incense are burning like
The breath of great Achilles
A funeral pyre of cowardice and foolishness
Clouding the sky
Emanates from the center
Third flight of stairs
Out of breath but how many
A six armed shiva in this lonely place
Arrive at the top
Wind between our hair
The pinnacle of an empty lighthouse
First time in the center, there is less
At the peak than at the bottom
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Stoic
Advice for circumnavigation
Leaves much to be desired
And little to the imagination
Such talk leaves me feeling uninspired
Subject only to objectification
And as we sat in the café on searing
Bright days my thoughts drift back
To the mountains
Those rubber claws failed in my
Descent from the heavens
A fall, staring and grasping for the
Surface as it slips away
Like any other day
The snow gentle pats my
Broken back I lie staring
Upward feeling peaceful but
Not safe
“Your check when you’re ready”
the quiet walk home
amongst all the leaves
is too quiet
Advice for circumnavigation
Leaves much to be desired
And little to the imagination
Such talk leaves me feeling uninspired
Subject only to objectification
And as we sat in the café on searing
Bright days my thoughts drift back
To the mountains
Those rubber claws failed in my
Descent from the heavens
A fall, staring and grasping for the
Surface as it slips away
Like any other day
The snow gentle pats my
Broken back I lie staring
Upward feeling peaceful but
Not safe
“Your check when you’re ready”
the quiet walk home
amongst all the leaves
is too quiet
Monday, April 5, 2010
Breath of a Dying dream
your sanguine tunic
is not welcome here
your buddy is waiting outside
"COME ON DUDE, CALM DOWN"
your platitudes and attitude
are a plague upon this house
You once flowed with honesty
nervous, maybe, not
But this Icarus has found his
home outside the extinguished flames
such a dilapidated place it is
with termitic Victorian paneling
creaking floors Sirens cry
when the rocks were falling where
was your Sistine Chapel
When in the summer of our youths
you unhorsed our grace
What have you become
What have you made us
Five fingers penetrate the blissful air
Dagny Dagny Dagny
fledgling whispers are no match
for the ethereal symphonies
and there was no hope in this bottom
less pittances, and this womb has
become crowded and perspiring
Throbbing hoping to be called upon
Those satisfactions minutiae for
glass jawed students of Tiresias
your sanguine tunic
is not welcome here
your buddy is waiting outside
"COME ON DUDE, CALM DOWN"
your platitudes and attitude
are a plague upon this house
You once flowed with honesty
nervous, maybe, not
But this Icarus has found his
home outside the extinguished flames
such a dilapidated place it is
with termitic Victorian paneling
creaking floors Sirens cry
when the rocks were falling where
was your Sistine Chapel
When in the summer of our youths
you unhorsed our grace
What have you become
What have you made us
Five fingers penetrate the blissful air
Dagny Dagny Dagny
fledgling whispers are no match
for the ethereal symphonies
and there was no hope in this bottom
less pittances, and this womb has
become crowded and perspiring
Throbbing hoping to be called upon
Those satisfactions minutiae for
glass jawed students of Tiresias
Thursday, April 1, 2010
A palate
A serious of sweeps
A series of dents
A traditional buttress
A screeching anarchy
A fist fight
The rush
The catharsis
The release
The refraction
Shared
Perceived
Absorbed
Impotent in the hands of a young
man
but intent
Why?
One plucked from the sky by
an arbitrary wisp
a fate
harbinger
Dropped
Sun must’ve been in the eyes
A leather seeing glass fails
but perchance it is not over...
Will there be another
Possibly
Will the next buck
Remember the cruel visage
of a dying child
Definitely
How many will die
on the hells of the next incarnation
A serious of sweeps
A series of dents
A traditional buttress
A screeching anarchy
A fist fight
The rush
The catharsis
The release
The refraction
Shared
Perceived
Absorbed
Impotent in the hands of a young
man
but intent
Why?
One plucked from the sky by
an arbitrary wisp
a fate
harbinger
Dropped
Sun must’ve been in the eyes
A leather seeing glass fails
but perchance it is not over...
Will there be another
Possibly
Will the next buck
Remember the cruel visage
of a dying child
Definitely
How many will die
on the hells of the next incarnation
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Moshabbe
my jaw cracks
in brimstonish schism
this forest is too small
to be shared by such brutish hunters
cast off into obscurity
by a false necromancer
a singer of charms
she sits among millions
but so deafeningly alone
taunting solipsism
shameless mule
you are no martyr
no honest man
in brimstonish schism
this forest is too small
to be shared by such brutish hunters
cast off into obscurity
by a false necromancer
a singer of charms
she sits among millions
but so deafeningly alone
taunting solipsism
shameless mule
you are no martyr
no honest man
every line ever met
has been a liar
I stand here now
a collection
of these mischievous lines
for lines are little
more than shadows
and what is what but
a collection of shadows
i cast my own lines
here and there
struggling to keep them disciplined
but just as the ones i take
they are not to be tamed by
one man
or any men
symbols, chemicals, equations
ideas, emotions, perceptions
multitudes
lines
there is no form in creation
but in manipulation and summation
has been a liar
I stand here now
a collection
of these mischievous lines
for lines are little
more than shadows
and what is what but
a collection of shadows
i cast my own lines
here and there
struggling to keep them disciplined
but just as the ones i take
they are not to be tamed by
one man
or any men
symbols, chemicals, equations
ideas, emotions, perceptions
multitudes
lines
there is no form in creation
but in manipulation and summation
Monday, March 22, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
What would it be
if everything were singular
one meaning
would the world be happier?
or would it be a computer
a wasteland of simple things
and peaceful
would the artist exist
would we dance
or have anything to dance about
do we divorce this idea from our psyches
is this what we seek
Fuck peace
Fuck kind words and fuck agreement
everything in life is fighting for
if everything were singular
one meaning
would the world be happier?
or would it be a computer
a wasteland of simple things
and peaceful
would the artist exist
would we dance
or have anything to dance about
do we divorce this idea from our psyches
is this what we seek
Fuck peace
Fuck kind words and fuck agreement
everything in life is fighting for
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
this wasn't inevitably going to happen
BENITO CERENO MY DEAR FRIEND WHY SO PALE?
each rock of the boat upsets my guts
We embarked early in the morning, full of zest, without apprehension. As we progressed we grew hungrier…I would’ve expected satisfaction but quite the opposite. There will come a point when we are too weak to speak. when truth is untruth, then we will arrive.
stale bread broken head
solipsist whispers
accosting glares
denizens salivate
stear down
sirens why?
horizons and more lines
tangential inebriation DECEIT
Tie me down boys, we’re going!
A lion’s roar cauchemar is only beginning
here and now
I asked my computer what he thought today
He had so many opinions he didn’t think anything
He knew even less
He wasn’t oddly polite…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)