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.


If it aint what you lost that is more than you can bear then maybe it’s what you wont lose. – Black

fatigue had already set in as the hill approached. music fading in and out testing the final wire of semi-broken earbuds. the song came on beneath a layer of slow breathing. it was the kitsch lyrics that caught the quiet of the morning

No, it aint. I got what I needed instead of what I wanted and that’s just about the best kind of luck you can have – Black 

the peddling became automatic as the lawns blurred past. vision became the inside of the song. there was no turning off the energy remembering walking into that room, the beeping. the oxygen pumping. this heart pumping.  i realized tears were coming. there was no room for their escape. lungs already taxing. why so many years later this flood could come despite our breakdown.  you knew this shadow. a life without a road. it wasnt what you wanted but needed 

Let me finish. I dont regard my state of mind as some pessimistic view of the world. I regard it as the world itself. Evolution cannot avoid bringing intelligent life ultimately to an awareness of on thing above all else and that one thing is futility. – White

Cormac McCarthys words tonight remind me that the body continues dying. somewhere you may be breathing. it was not your desire nor your belief. who was more the professor – you or me – death was always black and white with no inbetween

Cormac McCarthy leaves us rather unsettled with “The Sunset Limited”. McCarthy pens another story that captures the dark side of the human psyche – but not without reason. This short play reminds me why there is genius in brevity; an art to minimal poetry…the tale lingers long after the page ends. “The Sunset Limited” is one of those short works that begs to be reread after you’ve contemplated its words. I stood with White, understanding his skepticism of this world and God. I cheered for Black to succeed just to see where it would take the ending. One wonders if McCarthy knew going in how this tale would end. I cannot tell you who ‘wins’, but will say, it was wonderful to wade into the depths of McCarthy’s blues once again. 

although our story ended before it ever began there shall always be a forever and again. this isnt a candle. this is the promise of a beginning when the darkness begins. if that darkness never comes then it shall be a surprise to all of us who forever wondered but never worried a path. do we speak in hush tones as we walk the road alone. perhaps it is the shadow that never escapes into the sun. if that is this fate then it was never undone. but somewhere there is almost a slice of your laugh remembered. you shake your head at this ability to stop living while breathing. it was what killed us in breath and what will kill the ability to live. there is no sunset limited tonight only the limited. you said you believed in what stood before you. did you after this shadow grew invisible. do you now ~ 

[bold quotes are lines from Cormac McCarthy's "The Sunset Limited"]

The Sunset Limited

The Sunset Limited (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

the third eye blinked

the lava rock has gone out, you know when the smell of burnt oil tinges the air making it gritty and black though there is no visible sign of permeation- the air has been tinged with sticky residue of rolled incense that was lit in homage to an unseasonable summer night that has closed eyes remembering a campfire high up in the rockies under stars that tested the notion of diamonds for certainly they contained facets far beyond anything as dull as a chunk of earth cut into mans vision of perfection at the cost of skin and innocence – another cup of coffee but no one waits for this body tomorrow ergo we can play with the dawn as long as the eyes hold and she promises more shattering passages as i contemplate why no star has ever come for me and no beauty has ever blessed my face beautiful…yet there is no mystery as jeffrey foucault reminds that humanity is found on the rocky roads we travel alone when the car finally died with our hope for another sunrise ~ 



If you read this blog, you’ll know that most italicized, minimal punctuation posts are more stream of thought than intended content….rather a way to gain clarity, testing  if there is really anything to say. I’ve been inspired to write for several days, but at the same time, a self-imposed mute button continues to click when the fingers get close to the keyboard. Tonight, however, there was a need to share today’s finds. Above are the three books found at the used book shop – I am rather in love with them all. Granted, I’m only half through the Anne Carson, “The Beauty of the Husband”, but am quite bitten by her poetry-prose. Her writing reminds me of Susan Howe, both have a style that captures your eyes and sinks your soul in your heart.

I look forward to sharing the one on the left very soon. “Nox” is a replica of the book Carson made as an epitaph for her brother. When I saw it on the shelf, I was in awe for two reasons – 1) it is a New Directions publication (I collect) 2) it is actually a box holding an according style book inside — it is a treasure. I think a gasp of delight escaped when I opened it. Actually, my mind already played out a dialogue that one of the employees would stop me, asking for it back, as if they had decided they wanted (we know they take the best stock as it comes in…) Ironically, at check-out, a young clerk smiled and said, “Oh, I just brought this back. I’ve been buying too much lately.” I didn’t offer it back to him as I had in my imagined dialogue, but did thank him for returning it. I hope he knows it went to a good home.

I shall leave you (if you’ve come this far) with a rather odd poem written the other day on a gallery page of ArtForum. It isn’t wonderful…it isn’t even edited, but there is something about reading people’s poetry on blogs that helps me to remain inspired – sometimes because it is so unique or so awful or so normal or so beautiful….bottom line, it reminds us that we all have a voice. ~

coffee gone bitter
too many tongue bites
this partner an inanimate object

Borges seems to be channeling satan
or is it god or is it me

Jorge suddenly appears in yesterday’s moon
there is no today just in our mind

a bare foot tests the air – too warm
perhaps the prayer did not work

a folk song of Dar’s or Guthrie
carry me blindly into confederate flag country
will they skin me mistakenly

feeding the monster and she still hungers
no longer satisfied with mere visions
perhaps he will lay down beside me

a dream a symbol gone astray
a short poem with no beginning

this universe has broken into eggshells
we are all racing toward the blue pond

who are you today if yesterday is still visible
on the horizon a vibration behind blue eyes

nothing surrounds this embryonic layer
one puncture and it will be done

even if daddy left you a broken dream
a punjab will fix your sorrows with warm quilts
and sugared tea

he has come to take us home




outside we burn, inside we cry

i. the fire has gone, yet i still drift in its broken embers filling our little universe with cathedral scented mystery – and a strange calm fills this night gone october cold despite it is july’s corner of the calendar – how his voice makes me long for another year, but we cannot swirl dead fires alive if frost has laid ground – do you hear her voice echo his, together they capture the nightingale whose cry alights a forgotten stretch of hollow that we found when bent on moonshine and hand rolled cigarettes – do you remember that? how these nights stretch long after the solstice when humidity drips down my spine and memories cling like those hungry kisses that never left me clean – dear god, where do we travel to when we are dead gone walking with the rest of them – did you save him or does he wear that peculiar brand of hate saved for sermons of brimstone and fire – i pray 

ii. i pray them all safe, i pray them all safe, but it is too late, isn’t it -you never came to save them – if you were a song, you would be all melody and no harmony and each chord would burn our ears for there is nothing beautiful about your dream – may tears spill from your eyes onto our universe but only – only – if they promise to finally destroy all our memories – - tomorrow, will there be a small hand reaching, only to grasp an empty hollow and a damp embrace of a grandmother who will just stare up,  the clouds swirling dry, no rain blessing this horizon ~ 


(i. was inspired by the wood smoke that filtered into my place while listening to the music that can only be described as melancholic. While writing, an alert on my phone caught my eye regarding the 19 firefighters in AZ – their death to the fires seemed somehow to echo what I was writing, as well as the verses of several of the songs playing which often refer to woods and  smoke. Death seems a theme today. Dying into ones dreams. Dying living ones dreams. Dying trying to save another’s dreams. Perhaps viewing “Peter Grimes” today weighed more heavily than once thought…it was the first time I almost cried at the opera. Please know I do not make light of the firefighters passing – I knew a fire jumper – it is a sad night.)


DMMO "Peter Grimes"

DMMO “Peter Grimes”

It may seem odd to end this post with “Peter Grimes”, but in another way it is not for Peter Grimes is a greater commentary on ‘we the living’ who are often not really living in this world. It is a terribly depressing opera, but one of the most brilliant of all times. “Peter Grimes” was monumental Benjamin Britten for several reasons, but mainly because it made opera alive again in England after the war. What should be said about the character Peter Grimes is that he seems to represent the outside; one who does not fit well with society. He is condemned for his inability to conform, and will eventually die to his fate of society’s hate. It is an interesting commentary on the marginalized which has me thinking more and more about a question posed recently in another debate: “Who is Bartleby?” from Herman Melville’s short story, “Bartleby”. While watching PG, I could not help but think of Bartleby and begin to wonder if Britten and Melville were addressing the same thing. Despite both being composed long ago, do we not still question and persecute the same…has the outsider ever been given our grace. ~

(If you ever have the chance to watch a production of PG, please do, for you shall not find many operas that afford such a large cast upon the stage for the majority of the production. Several times I had chills come upon me as the performers voices surrounded me – literally. Our small opera building only seats a few hundred and my last-minute seat was first row on the end. See those ropes, half the time the performers stood there…it was an amazing afternoon.)


what would be your effect?

smoke rising out of humid bowels non-navigable, and there is nowhere to look down – cover me in ashes of dreams turned over twenty years yesterday when ice skid down our bodies, brown glass frames, and life was a competition, running side games while stilling burning dollars on imaginary stories of X  & T – it mattered not that everyone thought it a whores duty, painting red lines down white stripes, but you wore those colours well and no one ever caught on that it was sunday’s attire stripped  because you had already said grace and the priest’s ten hail mary but you were in hell already so a match lit that final penance before the final nail bit cedar and i swear the trees played a secret concert to serenade us both as gravity pushed us closer, but there was that damn barrier called fantasy versus reality -closing the blue umbrella,  it was the taste of salt that made me realize that the forecast never said rain ~

~ interlude ~

Reading more from Joseph Cornell: Theatre of the Mind:

To watch a group of museum-goers gathered around a series of Cornell boxes is to observe public voyeurism. (p.37)

it was a blue, dark, perhaps purple, glass – up close and personal, no one else around, it drew me in, but the light bulb was dim- damn urge to find a small opening to tear it apart finding what was hidden from me….  he created his fantasy

“I caught you looking…” (p.37)

Paint not the thing but the effect it suggests… Mallarmé  (p. 29)

Joseph Cornell

Joseph Cornell (Photo credit: rocor)

Pärt portal – trance typing mixed with question

if the rain can fall down upon this body and melt frozen bones into waxen forms that shall melt when the sun peaks above tomorrow’s horizon, then there is something to be said of redemption when we are blessed with nothing but the sound of her voice amongst the broken limbs and bud-less greys that shall someday spread blooms – are we not all dead until a kiss falls upon our faces, even if those lips are no longer youth’s bloom – dear one, are you not alive as you dance upon my stage for it is music, a somber note of iced tears that fall this April day and no one whispers his name any longer – perhaps it is the dead who keep this rhythm, measuring lengths of our shadows – no one knows, i do not know as this sorrow pours out of a fractured vessel in which nothing stays solid – he questioned about this soul and there was no answer, there is never an answer for when we dig beneath the surface we only find bits of wax and a frayed string

We are awful beasts – monsters of human existence who roam on two feet, though, one wonders if we should all be in cages made for four. Today is a day of contemplation for factions of the world – today is a day of nothing for many more. I truthfully could not say which faction holds my hand, it is a daily struggle at best.

It matters not what you believe (not to me at least), but there is something I shall leave for question: how do we explain our thirst for violence? Are we not that far removed from the beasts of four-legged existence – or is it as Freud theorizes: we suppress until our aggression breaks free. Perhaps it is none of these…

and they beat him until his bones broke – they beat him until his skin ripped – they beat him until his blood flowed – what man could do this to another human – what man could stand witness – what man… how she must have felt the earth quake and her bones turned wax as she tried to place one last kiss upon his face, still uncertain if today would mark their fate – if an eternal love does last ~

≈≈ ≈ ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈ ≈≈≈≈ ≈≈≈ ≈≈≈≈

(10 minutes – 15 max…tick tick tick…but there is a message gnawing at the back of this that eats & eats but there is something else that has gone starving – what is it that we want to feed upon in order to satisfy an insatiable hunger that leaves us forever empty – is it our need for a quality that is beyond this personal intake, this personal tug-o-war as we grapple in a sea of stimuli only to place a shield of human resistance to avoid a shock that shakes our shell – REBEL HELL – this is not a life of resistance but a life diving off into the deep end hoping it is not too late to experience drowning while still remaining above ground – we are free to breathe deeply when our mind is floating nicely in a river of dreams)

 See… see! This is what happens when you have two classes exploring Freud. Seriously, it is rather serendipitous for Freud’s theory of consciousness and memory had just been explored in Walter Benjamin’s essay on Baudelaire (still reading). Benjamin goes on to explain Freud’s concept of consciousness in conjunction with stimuli helps us to handle the shock – fright. If this is not assimilated properly then we have a host of issues that can manifest in our dreams. What is interesting is Benjamin’s further exploration of how Proust and Baudelaire produce writings that are prime examples of this type of consciousness and involuntary memory.

(it was nothing but a dream but it took me to a place again and again and we laughed like children – it felt good to laugh despite the pain…there was pain, wasn’t there? it was dark in that cave of existence, but all that surfaces is an orange neon sign that tells me the bar is open – when are we going to sing again? when are we going to dance our way to freedom? it was in the shadows that the light seemed to stream from a pinhole that led to your face as you smiled far off from this resistance)

All kinds of minds make this world go round but it is the mind that is perhaps a bit too open that leads us into a kingdom of images we would have not otherwise seen. I have always reasoned that it is those with a touch of madness that touch us because they have a vision of obscene purity, if such a thing exists. It is upon these waves of genius that we float and drown and die until we recreate our own being if we allow opening to it. That is why it makes sense when Robert Gupta speaks of music and how it heals us, how it can become medicine, for in the hands of the creative mind there is revolution – a revelation of the spark that creates a flame that creates a fire that builds until every inch of their creative self ignites producing an explosion that does not burn the receiver, quite the opposite, it sets us down a river on a raft that should be labeled lifeboat – music bridges the pain and the beauty until we cannot hear anything but the silence of




simply / nostalgia / red

she dips in nostalgia / time has crept behind her and whispers something (keep holding on) and the horn blows / waking her from a dream that swirled between sheets of music and a bed for making what she now lays in / waiting (holding on) / and he used his time to find her only to say that time had gone away, but she knew the danger of crossing a nightmare when you are only wearing human skin (holding) it all together / do we ever escape our dreams when they shatter between those aged cracks that gather all our tears after we wake (were we awake all along) WASTED ALL THOSE YEARS (holding on) even after the doctor said it was a project of solitude/ stop, he said, holding on – but she did / will you dance

can we pretend that this is the beginning and not the end

i’ll keep holding on until this horn’s solo ends but then we must disappear before the sandman lays his dust again and we crumple under the weight of plastic skin and flesh clothing

let the years come / let the fear dance between our arms

hold on

keep holding on

until we both turn/ simply red

it’s all i have to say 

(horn solo ends)


monumental – a day to document, not for what is eternal, but for what has risen before us, begs us to raise our eyes beyond a pink sky that shall host a comet’s wing and pardon gestures of who hates our inability to forget a travesty painting this world a shade of red whilst pretending it is light-white, who dominates our pressed page today lays out the world’s transgressions in white when it is the calm of blood read – do we offer no refuge anymore for the bird that flies southward to warm when there is no warmth in a closed hand hiding its seeds to some of humanity. Did death walk over this grave this morning whilst looking for a frozen patch, but it was rising in a fog caught in a gale of grey wind, something played along its edge, a smell of cinnamon and we thought it was a child’s stone with its rock and offering in that candle flame, we can only guess who shall say prayer for the forgotten. No one is forgotten if the verse is left open. Didn’t we untie those pages together letting the vowels sing long whilst screams averted to barren wasteland. Wandering this leaf strewn path one of us now walks, toying with one tiny red string left dangling, remembering, a bond despite that hate dipped in white – She must be your true love and i, must find that empty bowl to gather what is left of our history – we paint tomorrow in invisible ink. Seek refuge, this window shall continue to not don a screen ~

dust- /blue notes**

this darkness fails to fall completely as night falls upon us and there is a dirty reflection too much glass glazed with human produced dust, dusting every surface
no rain has caused us a dust bowl but we wait for November to make a prediction.
in that glass, will the moon rise. we’ve risen above it, a cloud not of dusted
humanity but of read humility, it arises thick grapes of wrath rung from machines
bleed me pink flush so that i can welcome your gaze upon these leaves that shall
bespeak of no moves, no pathways, no rhythm from a lowly alto moan.
we are dust in the beginning and in this ending, will you cover me with a
smile knowingly it was what she inspired of anyone who took the tome to read
contemplate her dust as it rested upon humanity as only Alice, dear puss,
could tame that beast.

(Fourth week of ModPo class and delving into Gertrude Stein. Today I spent quite a while reading Two Lives, a biography of sorts on Stein and her companion Toklas. The above poem was inspired after overload, jotted down as the sun went down in stream.)

**I’ve contemplated closing up YHC for I’ve been working on another blog. If the site goes empty, please know I’ve not stopped writing, just redirected… we shall see, blue notes still falling.

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