a new song

Sadness can always be fixed with a jazz rift that teeters on the left edge

A blink, he said, was all it took before she became mist

Rain often turns to snow when we close our eyes to senses

He offered her an olive branch but she preferred flowers, not fruit

Ice glazed over the rusted chain still secured to a now tireless ride

She sighed when a dozen pink petals spilled out of his letter

Smoke danced in swirled rhythms with each bus passing

He stared into the yellow lights of the passing midnight car

Thunder softened the blow

She no longer knew where she would go

White blanketed the dirty streets in crystalline innocence

Somewhere she was sleeping, he wondered if alone

Dawn spread slowly, pinking a tired city

She turned, pained, toward the sun

A morning dove above her broke the silence of winter

Perhaps, in Spring, a new song ~

 

 

 

 

There

There is warmth in(side) you

There is ice 

Touch it before it melts

Here on earth

It shall melt quick

There it shall never die

Quixotic notion

That you can taste the warmth with your eyes

Did God bless you senseless as those animals

That roam there

In a room built of lenses so their children could play in an African sun

There is danger in manufactured imaginations if we dare to materialize dreams

Shut that door before what is (in)side eats you alive

Melt before these frozen landscapes

Final exit

There is warmth

There

Do you ever start to look at words as you type them across the page? Personally, I do not care for words such as there, especially in a poem, but there was such a lull within its voice inside my head that I could not help but play with its notion. It helps that I’m currently streaming NPR’s First Listen. Beck’s latest if very ethereal – there is a hypnotic quality in the words as well as beat. Sometimes music resonates a state of mind that eludes a quality that is an essence of how I would define a part of me – this is one of those moments. Perhaps tomorrow this shall be a fleeting concept, but tonight I ride the wave of a guitar that promises a thread of existence weaving itself between awake and dreaming.

There is no need to apologize for posting bad poetry on a blog that claims no pedigree. I apologize anyway. Far, far way in pedigree-land, the fight for what defines (confines) poetry continues. Boston Review seems to be the hotbed of this debate at least once a year. (Personally, I think it is a conspiracy to make incoming MFA poetry students have something to talk about, and justify their over priced admission to a discipline that no longer embraces its roots.) I just came across this latest scuttle, having only skimmed the annual sacrificial lamb, which seems to appear every July. After the bleating ceased, the blood still pools and has been collected to keep the beat of the offence in question alive.

Why can’t we all just get along – is the Man not constantly trying to shake the creatives down until there is an outcry when things go too far. If only public pressure would produce more results, such as the President apologizing for his eyebrow raising remark against pursuing an Art History degree. It seems that everyone drinks the tea after they get to Washington.

Perhaps there is too much dreaming. In a land of excess, perhaps we should only practice erasure. If not another piece of art was created again  

There would be no more warmth

solstice eve

In this torn desert world there is no love because pleasure and desire play the greatest roles, yet without love your daily life has no meaning.

how do I continue in a life with no meaning?

And you cannot have love if there is no beauty.

beauty covers this world, does it not?

Beauty is not something you see—not a beautiful tree, a beautiful picture, a beautiful building, or a beautiful woman. There is beauty only when your heart and mind know what love is.

what is love

Without love and that sense of beauty there is no virtue, and you know very well that, do what you will, improve society, feed the poor, you will only be creating more mischief, for without love there is only ugliness and poverty in your heart and mind. But when there is love and beauty, whatever you do is right, whatever you do is in order.

this life, this world, seems out-of-order

If you know how to love, then you can do what you like because it will solve all other problems. – Krishnamurti, Freedom from the Known, p 86

Krishnamurti’s quote arrived in my inbox a couple of days ago. It made me sad for I have known for a long time that love has alluded me. This is a rather pathetic statement, yet it is an honest one. Krishanmurti would say it is a statement that misunderstands what love is. I do not counter.

Today, I found the longer piece of this quote and read it. So many bits of wisdom found in just four pages of rumination. I will simplify my conclusion:

To love, as K. writes, is to find Your child again.

At the end of the page, I wrote this as I my mind wondered, wandered…

Where did you go, my dear, upon the willows that bowed to feet still unbound?
Gone are smiles that grace an open voice that knows nothing of proper laughter.
Did those many branches entangle your spirit until the winter wind froze
all the pieces into fabric only used by common man, but, what is common -
what is man – when a talisman coin finds it way into an empty palm
lined with a thousand years of other lives,
yet this one remains uncertain in today’s noise.
Did you fly into that doves gaze when he pushed you high,
trying to catch the sky with toes, you think – stretch – just a bit more…
for there is no knowledge that it cannot be done.
Come undone – unwrap these frozen binds so we can
become friends again and our blood will circle,
letting nature pool until roots are neither for soil or kin.
When that last glimpse of the Sun rises before it sinks again,
grab it in your eye and hold it – then let it go
until your mind sees it inside. Look for me,
on that side, a star – a light of you,
gone golden. 

Then inwardly you are completely silent. Do you understand what that means? It means that you are not seeking, not wanting, not pursuing: there is no center at all.
Then there is love. ~ Krishnamurti, “Freedom From the Known”

Is it not the way, that the night I wish to sleep early is the night that there are a thousand thoughts.

You have posted. I tab the mark, so tomorrow night there will be a bit of joy. Six tabs open.

What happens to those dreams that burrow into our minds and drip into the stars? Tonight I still taste you from last night, but who were you for it was a dream that I discovered your soft skin. We sat at a bar waiting for something to happen when we happened and I realized the crowd – I realized our passion – I realized I was in a dream.  I continued dreaming but lost you in the fire.

Passion is something that becomes misery if one burns their own candle too brightly.

No one ever accused me of being too happy.

Tomorrow I shall quit pretending.

It is a slow walk down to the graveyard when you do not know why you have been summoned to locate the hole.

Rains fell today here. Tears fell even harder there.

She opened her mouth wide until the pain poured forth destroying everything. They changed the course of flow over thirty years ago but it doesn’t matter for she must have finally taken her last abuse.

How much abuse can a tree stand before it splits open?

Mazzy Star sings about something and her voice reminds me of a jewel that went dull under the starlight.

He called himself a punk kid who ran with the artist crowd never knowing he told the Talking Head to stop reading sad poetry aloud at the local cafe. Today he shakes his head saying, it was David.

You never know who you are talking to until you are grown-up.

I grew up way too fast – at 14, I was 40. Does that mean now I am almost 70?

Emily Dickinson wrote of possibilities. I wrote tonight on possibilities.

Art is not dead. Poetry is dead, maybe. Nietzche was not God, but I think he died anyway.

If you have read this far and are scratching your head just know that this is not what I meant to write but there are too many people reading this for me to write what really needs to be said tonight. Alice Coltrane sang the blues today.

Listen to the rain – no one listens to her until she cries and the guitar plays flat against that slidebar that makes a warble.

There are not enough grovelers in this world.

Shame on your for wanting more.

This is not the land of the rich and plenty.

I have plenty of american dreams.

Taxes or death shall keep me from any.

Dig my grave with your silver spoon.

How about them apples , Mr. Washington?

Guess we learn something after all – it is a road to freedom but how that freedom is defined depends on the eyes seeing.

Thine eyes have seen the forest from the trees and she sways.

Sweet dreams, dear one, I shall tuck you under this wing of silver light and pray you awake on the other side of morning safe.

See you inside this place we call space.

picasso baby / there will be blood Z

I fell yesterday. I fell hard. It would be wonderful if this was about a somebody. It is not.

I look at the dog – the road greets me – there is a flicker of beige out of the corner of the right eye I roll left into the dogs eye I get up and shake my leg.  Move. Dont let it set too long – get moving – knees starts bending – foot hurts but it is bending Im bending. Im bleeding. Dripping red. Drops of blood. Sprinklers shooting. Move. Dog follows me – I still hold her black potty bag in my other fist. Water jets reveal the ugly truth. There will be blood. I must choose: suck the metallic brightness or leave a trail. We soldier on. Good soldiers. I soldier on. The body metamorphosis. 

True story – jogging with dog, getting reading to step from the grassy field to the road and boom – stepped into a hole – I shook it off – actually biked to work – the shock came later. All day yesterday and last night, I kept imaging falling – it was unnerving. It is amazing how the body bounces back. There is a quarter-size bruise on my knee and the knuckle road burn – the hole has already closed. Perhaps there is something to eating clean. I had more to say on this  - but I shall show a picture of it instead of boring you with my commentary ~

IMG_1232

 

I think I’m in love with Georges Bataille. I am nearing the end of “Guilty” and cannot get over how certain thoughts resonate. He makes me long to be in that place again where I imagined dreams before sleep. Where I believed there could be communication between levels of awake.

This is what it looks like to come out of one’s shell

metamorphosis

Need a bit more encouragement to leave your shell? This was shared with me tonight after I mentioned that I’ve become a fan of Marina Abramović. Jay Z did a performance piece for six hours at the Pace. The energy of this video is amazing -

 

sweet dreams ~ 

 

 

“I am the soul in limbo”

our demons lurk in the dark recess of living and crash upon us in the darkness of our dreams yet we find ways to persevere to carry our heavy loads forward until we find a weightlessness that may last a minute or years. many of us cannot pray about these horrors or ask that they disappear for there is a comfort in their shadow that reminds us why we are here. do not pity the person who wears the badge of ugliness or worry the friend whose tears never break for it is the reality that feeds their being and we must consider our hunger a vestige of living.

It is interesting to read your posts sometimes. I pause and wonder who is behind the words. Who, though, is perhaps not as intriguing as ‘What’.

Tonight has fortuned me time to read at least two of your blogs whose confessionals give me confidence that the idea of this platform is indeed the possibility of art. Art in its many forms. Art as words – art as action – art as a movement that brings all of the ‘who’ into focus.

Art was on my mind earlier today while listening to my weekend ‘lecture’. As I seem to draw further and further away from religious dogma, I find more usefulness in said dogma. There seems to be some conduit, some energy, that allows me to focus creatively while sitting amongst thousands of people ready to worship. Perhaps the divine really does wish me to be an artist, though, there is no doubt that these expressions are perhaps not divinely wrought.

“Who are you?” And she, without a moment’s hesitation: “I am the soul in limbo” ~ Nadja, 1928

Today, André Breton’s “Nadja” was one of my used book shop finds. I was searching for Bataille, but found Breton instead. Unbeknownst to me, “Nadja” is considered THE surrealist romance novel. I’m a bit perplexed by this as being halfway though the book and finding its opening a memoir of events and the introduction of Nadja a possible real person. Meh, what do I know…

…i know this… Breton posits “Who am I” early within this novel and continues the dialogue. If you read the last posts of this blog, the poem with no name, you will know that its words contain great turmoil; it is written in ugly truths. It is a true story – it was written hours after the incident – a female biking home late from work almost hit by a cyclist in her lane going the opposite direction. When she expressed in angry tone “what the hell” and perhaps called out asshole, the man came after her to ask her why she had to be so awful. The event has left me shaken- yes, a bit for safety on a secluded trail at night, but more for what I have become “who am i”. This blog is not a confessional, but I will confess this – at 40, perhaps it is time to reframe the anger and tear a few holes in the exterior…

I shall leave you with two things if you are still here:

1) a picture from “Nadja” – it was the selling point of the novel – Breton uses photos of Paris and people to help tell his story. This one is of the clairvoyant who informs him of his fate to meet a Helen (imagine French spelling). This made me smile for I once had a palm reader tell me I was to meet someone too… years later, I’m still waiting.

IMG_1195

2) ideas kept pouring forth (inspired in part by a few of the things that the young pastor had used for his intro – one being how one artist chose to represent the human population with a grain of sand for each person)…this had me thinking about art – how i desire my art to be an interaction for thought, for inspiration, for participation, for action. One idea that came to mind was a way to represent those that die everyday due to starvation – to build a floor to ceiling plexiglass box with slots running the length – the slots would be for the observer to become artist by dropping in a piece of candy every time a person dies of starvation. It would be an ongoing commentary/recording of this travesty – and yes, the candy is intentional as statement. (At first, I thought fast-food wrappers but was not sure how that would work.) Below is a quick sketch on my phone during service.

IMG_1194

i.

your wife is a lucky one

who pauses in a heated argument with a stranger to check a hand but it was somehow reassuring to verify the instinct that you would not harm me even as i watched your chest rise and fall rapidly not from chasing after me but from the adrenaline of our confrontation

madness – it was all madness

this life is madness and i let you in

i think you regret even at this hour that you turned

perhaps your dream has already become a wooded path at dusk that shall grow noisy with things that scared you as a boy

damn dna

or is that making it too easy 

you repeated so many times-  why did you have to be that way

you did not like my answers 

i am a bitch

i am a cunt

we almost crashed because of you yet it was me in the wrong but that is where we agree and if i could become invisible

WHAT THE HELL

it is never the words but the condescending tone that damns us all

you never expected me to stop, slam the brakes until the tire skid sideways

a girl alone

you never expected me to bark back

a girl alone

i am a dog, you see, sir, and if you look, the hand remains empty

a girl alone

you told me of my luck, that you are not the sort to attack

a girl alone

i bit my tongue

most of us have been attacked in our lifetime 

there is no luck only circumstance and the rest of the way home i wondered about that blown tire that kept me from riding my other bike and how we would have probably crashed or i would have hit a tree, a different outcome

maybe not

you are still on my mind and you become  blue then your white t-shirt  and your face is kind despite our yelling

how ashamed that i never became a flower but remained a thorn

your wife is a lucky one whispers between piano keys and fan blades and midnight air 

i am lucky [as you said] that you are not violent and i said yes and that i am aware that another man may have shot me had he a gun

a girl alone

and you flinched

why do people surprise that i understand consequence

why do we resort to violence

the answer is so easy

she is a lucky one

ii.

the wood tick cracked under the pressure of  thumb and forefinger while the black spider continued her journey up the bedroom wall

where are you in this abyss of daytime night walking that whispers with yesterdays memories a shard of light into our other selves the ones that do not die with the last season even if we felt a cold blanket of forgetting but we do not forget we just reremember our ending and continue forth wondering why a sidelong glance from a stranger is the lost yes of a lover or was it a glint of anger as if we have stolen something that they have left forgotten upon the desk where things like keys coins receipts and business cards go awash upon each other until a collage of lifes art is canvassed in a way that no one dares move anything for it may upset the balance of our remembering so we make more space upon its surface for it is all surface in this place this plane of our existence yet when we close our eyes when we reach out against the tide to hold onto a dream that woke us awash in tears for we do not wish to be pulled away again there lies the gate that she held open for you when you first promised to never forget her gift a breath that blew the dandelion seeds into a swirling world of greens yellows and blues it is called world and we walk among it as we await her call back to the ocean that shall draw us back we can never remember our beginning but we continue to long for yesterday because in it lies a promise some of us hold too tightly to this not realizing that we are awake walking we are asleep breathing and even if we create a memory from the bits of fabric buttons and thread left upon our desk it is simply a patchwork of what we have done living but it is not until our eyes open beneath the vast blue of her womb that we shall see that yesterday was a mirage and today will be not a memory but photograph that shall never fade

Forgive the jumble above as it is simply a response to finishing Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean At The End Of The Lane. I oft do not read much popular fiction, but this one had me intrigued, so I saw it on the cart and snatched it home for my one day off this week. In 90s heat with index gone redline, I read it outside, for it is that kind of book. A book that you would squirrel away under a shade tree near an ancient creek and read until your mouth had turned to cotton from the heat of the day – your child self never imagining to take a mason jar of water, only a handful of sweets to while away the reading hours. This is a book that can transport the child outside of the adult body. As the book reminds us, we are all still children living in adult skin. Some of us never survive our memories, and others of us can never quite forget the canvas of yesterday that goes repainted while the premise remains the same. Pain may ebb at the edges of our childhood visions waking us from our adult sleep, but for many of us we recreate a new waking in order to live.

typing these words i realize i have told you nothing – perhaps that is the best way to approach a book about remembering for we each weave our own story so that the quilt that covers us in sleep buries us deep with a promise of good dreams even if we get chased by a night scare or two hopefully your escape key is still there the one you learned about in order to vanish back to here for me it was an ornate iron bench as black as night but it stood stately no matter the scene and if i could manage to wiggle my child body under its body and wish myself awake my eyes would open to find the bed beneath me and the desk of yellow oak my grandfather made just to my right it was the room of reality but while laying there my child mind wondered which reality was really real

I have read some wonderful blog posts lately about memory. Not rambling, non-coherent ones such as this, but a discourse of intelligent dialogue that made me start wondering about memory. I posited to one blogger (shall try to track back to them tomorrow after my day is done) that it would be interesting if we lost our memory at age 40 – 50 as a right of passage. We would remember enough for normal living, and if need be, our job skills would come back almost immediately, but everything else would be new. It would perhaps save many who are haunted by yesterday’s pain or what might have been while plaguing many more with sorrow for a photograph of yesterday would just be that, even if their face was within it. Would we live life differently if we knew we started over midway through breathing…

when the day fades

IMG_1171

may we enter into the color she promised behind her moon

golden rooms

the Stalker keeps whispering in fragments and the day gets drug into night until there is no stopping point to which there must be a breath taken or the tide shall drag one deep into sand that offers no quick release of a wayward footprint that vanishes as the moon rises above us at uncountable feet but it is certainly in the southern sky if this is the northern hemisphere – what did he mean about the strong what happens to the vulnerable if they fail to find a caretaker to take their hand – this hand continues callused deep from digging a framework for a structure that must be strong

If we are trained to strip our sleeves of any visible imprint, does that mean we are meant for a solitary death. These sleeves stopped growing while still growing because buttons were a cause of suffering if no one was there to thread needle with string. Does the Stalker’s prophecy board up these strong walls’s windows and doors.

(a poem – a dream – a whisper that would not stop until it was inked along the pulpy side of a tree split, how her rings glowed in the early years until someone learned slash and burn – forgive this final engraving upon your hardening shell)

i want you
to follow these steps
forget form in this fiction
it is the ability to move
to create action
friction between us
without going under
drowning in that made up
benediction that crossed us
holy until we spilt his water
upon dirty black soles
that always squeaked and we
knew he was upon us

i want you
to believe these things
but someone told me
your root has gone rot
you taste bitter now
vinegar traps fruitflies
bitterness wells on my tongue
sweet and your thick
molasses taps deep
do not learn anything from poets

i want you
to weave between this
and her golden plume
rid of these plastic borders
paint orchids, no, just one
for Georgia and i will cut it
open planting this final seed

i want you
to remember this memory
not to bury the roses
come winter, plant sunflowers next spring
Van Gogh painted the house
yellow, his flowers
died in blazing golds

-anish

is it possible to write everything into a puddle right here before the clock strikes eight strokes past  - is it fair to write everything that is puddling in this grey matter to melt this white screen, perhaps invoking a primal scream, burn, upon an innocent – is it okay if i reveal the shit marrying in this empty pool that has left detritus at your door – no one reads this anyway, so we are okay – okay, but do not breathe a word to the landlord where these burns came from or he may come for me, or worse yet, you, when he finds out more than one has knocked at this door – follow me into this field of summer’s thorns – explore this forest floor filled with pined for moons – did you lock that door – together we shall run until our shadows shed their clothes, it is the nakedness of humanity that will keep us warm on a nite of zero minus degree- do you mind if we kiss inside this dream or is that not…two minutes to midnight and there is still half a stream to fill with nothing and that, my friend, is the brilliance of freeing the beast inside this secret palace of escape – never lose faith in your final dream – AWAKE ~ now, v-

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