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| LYNX 41 C
Posted: 6/1/2009 12:32:34 AM | Yes, but sparks fly,
what about metaphysical-cality?
There is something in us that tends to sense or commence flight and arousal, no?
the french word 'furor' [but known to us as a German word] also means excited exaltation, frenzy, and other excess
So I wrote this:
such a phenomenon
you would call furor
this tender peregrine
drawn away
(abstractus)
from the body
(animus peregrinator)
while we are away
(ekdemeo)
to go abroad; to emigrate;
(ek tou somatos)
so as to sojourn away from
(peregrinari a copore)
with loving madness
(insomia amatoria)
the romans called free
workers peregrines
now it is our heart which casts
freely and in hope of catches
" Fore while we are in this tent (en to skenei), we sigh with anxiety; not
that we would be unclothed, but that we would be further, clothed, so that
what is mortal may be swallowed up by life | |
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| LYNX 41 C
Posted: 6/1/2009 12:36:57 AM | Yes, but sparks fly,
what about metaphysical-cality?
There is something in us that tends to sense or commence flight and arousal, no?
the french word 'furor' [but known to us as a German word] also means excited exaltation, frenzy, and other excess
So I wrote this:
such a phenomenon
you would call furor
this tender peregrine
drawn away
(abstractus)
from the body
(animus peregrinator)
while we are away
(ekdemeo)
to go abroad; to emigrate;
(ek tou somatos)
so as to sojourn away from
(peregrinari a copore)
with loving madness
(insomia amatoria)
the romans called free
workers peregrines
now it is our heart which casts
freely and in hope of catches
" Fore while we are in this tent (en to skenei), we sigh with anxiety; not
that we would be unclothed, but that we would be further, clothed, so that
what is mortal may be swallowed up by life | |
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| LYNX 41 D
Posted: 6/2/2009 8:54:21 PM | LYNX 41
D
Words are appearing and making a sentence.
The sentence says imagine being dead. You try.
But you know nothing of the dead so there is nothing
and words stop.
And start again saying return to morning.
Not just any morning.
The morning that drinks up all preceding mornings.
The morning that constructs the rooftop fountain.
Saying go to the sea. With your ear screaming
go to a bountiful sea of yesterdays, where the ships
sail from nowhere to nowhere, the ships
just sailing and the tomorrows draining through the earth.
Return and start again. To the winter that hides itself in the snow.
Enter the house, remove the dead birds and climb the stairs.
Remove the colors too. Now the dead birds and the colors are gone.
They are in a box on another page. There remains the upper room,
devoid of dead birds and colors, it has only
the dead, the morning, a fountain, winter and a house in the snow.
Which means a pale horse is galloping through flourished air.
A queen with small hands would like to touch herself by touching another.
The azalea blossom pressed, the almond tree's ash.
The black arrow in the bull's eye writes a scream, writes
glass throat / love song
silent sun
embryonic howl
guardian door
sleep-walk
song love / throat glass | |
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| LYNX 41 D
Posted: 6/2/2009 9:26:48 PM | LYNX 41 D ....Lynx has travelled to land of Death. Death in imagination is not death.
Death is the greatest imaginer of life there ever was. At Death, another house with the same rooms is being constructed. Each and every time breath stops and the blood settles and the body is ready for the final destination. You caught me when this smile appeared on this face, but it was not my face, and each hint was a million, a gazillion variations of this face and this architecture that attempted to define this wisp that sped out of my hands and escaped into the inexact art of description. | |
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| LYNX 41 E
Posted: 6/4/2009 8:58:32 PM | LYNX 41
E
Waiting for the LYNX 41, the tempest came down with a deluge and torrent
of pronouns, a foul rain of I's and Me's, of You's and He's.
But only briefly, all at once, the way it goes and then it was over
and someone was singing
O Baby come home to your deep star shining.
Soothing voice soaked through and through shivering in the dreadful I.
But this was the land of marigold and SUV, dollar store, mattress store.
The land of plenteee.
Here is the onion to peel, entrance to an obsidian obsession. Call this road
the never-ending red.
Wither direct action of dimensionless children.
Sing the ash slowly naked, white language of three suns.
Sing tyranny on the installment plan, O baby come home
your deep star still shines.
But you know all that in the way you know every dream builds another you.
The scrunchy bone was fun you wanted to type to be a type to fly through glass
to type the long tango story and the part where Stalin stayed up all night, sent the maid servants
away, signed the death warrants, and did the crazy old killer dance with the commissars.
And your wounds are not badges. And you grow not upwards or downwards. And your day and your day and your day.
Ends in water, ends in pulsed texture. In television shadows, the deeded propaganda, Bakunin's boots and a shot.
Rhizomes beneath the floorboards.
Synovial media juice for the corporate mustard seed.
Score a sad bird in the ceiba* and sing
O baby come home the deep star shining.
* Forrest Gander describing the music of Coral Bracho's poetry. | |
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| LYNX 41 E
Posted: 6/4/2009 9:36:03 PM | LYNX 41 E ...Oh baby come home....the star burnt out.
Blackness as thick as Stalin, Hitler. et al descended....
then ascended into the minor devils, you name them.
If I is the problem, let me propose that nothing exist.
...except for dimensionless children who look you straight in the eye
and tangle with taking turns. Who do not understand the poison of status for the first two seconds of existence. | |
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| Please Release Me
Posted: 6/9/2009 11:28:13 PM | please release me let me go about my way
today and for ever after
i am nothing more than a thread of silk
possibly from a tusk of corn in a ripe golden field
found in the highest Andes valley
I am called choclo
and my core is thin
thin as pond ice in October
she put that shard in front of her blue blossom
Sue Binder did, naturally curly,
it was bigger than a pizza pie,
the section of ice had fissures
if you don't release me and let me go
I shall possibly
learn to drive a vehicle with at least 2 wheels
and leave this instant
since I can no longer keep the grass green
watering it only with tears,
bone meal I created and my own liquid | |
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| LYNX 41 F
Posted: 6/10/2009 4:33:34 PM | LYNX 41
F
Sit down in the drift and a pocket of night comes to you.
It could be the heat. It could be this sentence
turning to day. Turning today. Of black mirror.
The camera lucida & Pepper's Ghost.
The stand aside revenant.
You inhabit a room like a sail
that swells and fills
with a fluttering of white wings
and eventually gives way.
To a visitation of seas.
Then one sea.
One blue desert and the sense of a ship.
And the sun.
An endless burnished blade.
Everything in clouds. The bus driver
wearing clouds in a long room of clouds.
And the wings return.
Beating imperceptibly at first,
they gain to the whump whump
of rotors in the television of shadows.
The other television that yields
the uplifting bombs, rising out of desert sand,
backwards flying back into planes
flying backwards to the home base.
And the wedding party reassembles.
The incinerated child unburns.
Limbs and heads fly back, reattach to torsos.
Blood seeps back into dancers.
Eyes blink open. Legs kick. The table resets.
Goat cheese, olives & a kiss.
The sun the only blade. | |
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| LYNX 41 F
Posted: 6/10/2009 9:19:27 PM | Deathmasks
If death masks were enough to
Smother thoughts of you
I would melt down the gold from my soul to
Fill the
Void.
Vain is the day I live with you in
My rearview mirror
And you lie in my
Metatarsals
Like
Desert sand.
I long to live without you
Like I long for the Spring after
Too much Winter.
God I want you right now
And you are so far
Away
Why?
LPGOF | |
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aka,om
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Joined: 12/6/2008
Msg: 2411 | |
| Please Release Me
Posted: 6/11/2009 6:42:01 PM | awe, it's ok petitelittlebuttercup, Many of us have tried to live on the Lord Penguins shadow. (and failed). But let me assure you, His Lord's heart is as big as both poles, and your release is far more easier than you think.
He might suggest starting your own thread though? Trulio?
But then, hell, we're all peeing in the same pool anyway.
and hey, not to worry, eh, he's always spanking himself. | |
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| LYNX 41 F
Posted: 6/11/2009 10:31:51 PM | Lyns 41 F...
slope of mountain, railway building
this is america, this is the man
who left behind a child starved to touch him.
but wham! goes the sledgehammer
fifty cents home, 20 cents for the week's food.
when he sleeps he dreams that the child can touch him.
War is war and war is just the dirty fact of living.
without weapons and rewind.
even now.. upon this sorely tested, forgetful ground. | |
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| LYNX 28
Posted: 6/11/2009 11:44:35 PM | LYNX 28
I don't know it. Never rode it except in the way of the ride. Let's ride.
Mr. Vertigo shrieking cool blue and a rain lily to trumpet a miniature song. You are not sure but what rides with you rides through you. Wisteria constricted in the pines, the bougainvillea scaling the cathedral, something like that.
Something like the body of Hart Crane drifting beneath the lost green waters of 1932. I'd give you a nest of slithering neologisms for that. I'd give you tomorrow's mantra for round two of our new collective.
Are the trees shaking in the higher wind?
And other things.
Such as O Bus Driver.
Your telepathy in my head
sings STOP REQUESTED,
thought I saw angels
but I could have been wrong.*
And of the day of the eyes' rebellion, when the dawn will drain out the sky, wouldn't you know it all the snowy egrets of the nucleus. A world of headless enumerations. A stiff-legged St. Valentine envious over there. Right there. I mean over here. In this lion-hearted statement. With the pitched light and a sequence of strip malls. Racing by. Right outside the window. See what I mean?
I don't know this route but I know its lynx. You can ride it straight up into the other side of hell. Where you bust through a flaming throat and the body floats through a house of moons. You won't even shed one tear as your shadow burns.
You might imagine Mayakovsky on the day he named his balls Marx & Engels. On the day he shot himself in the head with his Stalinist cock.
So to say-
events overtake us.
And other things.
Such as. My time with the optometrist and the overwhelming urge (stifled) to spell out the chart
F-E-L-L-A-T-I-O
Did I get it right Doc- 20/20?
Typically, around here on Sundays, the grass begins its next resurrection. I begin my weekly struggle with convexity. Briefly thrown asunder to the subterranean exit strategies of my snowy egret. I reassemble myself in red time with the immaculate contraption, the gestative voice. At first it goes squeak squeak. Then it goes “ Hello Evanescent Afternoon, Little Ghost why do you cry?”
So to say-
this life overtakes us.
And other things. Such as The Great Ventriloquy. Such as.
O Bus Driver.
On a throne or in the head.
With a wheel in the wheel
and four faces of four.
I don't know it at the bottom of the world, the last pages in the text of tessellations, never found the high in the high with the trembling leaves. What I recall are the rain lilies low to the ground. And because of this had to say hello again to blue dogs in the fields, had to say this is my green chair, my angelic sky late with the sun, my untitled tongue still warm. Above all had to say I don't know,
Don't know this route but I know it's lynx.
All my azalea dreams and other things.
One fine day went down.
Into this asymmetric century,
adagio wind in my soul.
*Line from Ian Anderson's (Jethro Tull) “To Cry You A Song” | |
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| LYNX 28
Posted: 6/12/2009 8:26:03 AM | You are pound for pound
The best poet around;
Your depth and command
Must come from unseen hands
Guiding your pen.
You belong on a bookstore shelf, my friend, and I don't say that lightly. | |
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| LYNX 28
Posted: 6/12/2009 11:11:01 PM | A war, a story occurring at the line where the snow begins
and below it is lovely too
false white azalea blooms, hummingbirds flood the lower boundary layers, some mistake you for food, only, night stops this,
it reoccurs shortly in dream
long horned and bored spruce beetles, slate black,
are attracted to your salty skin, and citronella, they are easy to brush off,
but not the mozzies who detest lemon grass
when it blooms, rhododendron, it is sticky, and very sweet, claus-less nectar flows, berries appear in clusters, black huckleberry, vaccinium but not cranberry
a zapus saltatus, jumping mouse leaped in to the ice cream bucket and out again
But they only endure this for a few days
It might rain or snow, but above the lenticular cloud, the so called
raw-ity of what is above shows ? up as a series of vertical perches
He who hath seen this from afar can travel in a straight or curvilinear oxymoronic line and see the little ones arise from the bottom mud, dace, and devour the pollen of water iris aright, slender stallions of the shore, gracing green amber, and the dace like fleas, shedding the same frequencies underneath the surface | |
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| LYNX 13
Posted: 6/13/2009 9:58:28 PM | LYNX 13
One of the better odometers because meanwhile the tranny in the cowboy hat lowering her diaphanous tulle to provide the second thing. This being the assumption of her oracle, in order to read from the Lynx text of pataphysics, not the green one by Alfred Jarry, the other one with the pages like silvery flying fish impregnated with Celan's loss and jouissance.
Her voice tending to spill out syllables of white staccato rodeo, we learned to slow her down with offerings of our prosthetic limbs and bicameral proto-languages. In return, the hybrid mouth yielding an abundance of interpolation theories obtained via real and Lynx methods. A ladder uncountably rung.
Simplest forms are hierarchal.
Typical bottom and top spaces.
Respectively being.
The island diminished of birds.
Onward to Maslow's apex.
With some sex thrown in.
For good measure.
Mauve of course.
Then increasing complexity.
Occurring with endpoints.
Ranging from.
The poetics of Abyssinian gun-runners.
To the lush Spanish tongue.
Naturally we had color revolutions.
Along the perimeter.
And the laments of Black-Scholes.
After deregulation.
And sans Glass-Steagall.
As well as other episodes.
Of both types.
Some being.
The crushed thorax of
the unpurchased violin.
An infestation of panic-monkeys
in the airport bloodstream.
The drip-drip of pig-mouthed troubadours.
Souls large & throbbing.
A crab in the Buddha's pubis.
The exile of the affirmative mouth.
Snow melting before moonlight.
One lonely gold flame igniting.
The hop of the one-legged white crow.
The Galapagos islands in escrow.
More than a little bunko.
The demolition of the flowery mind.
Then a bridge after smoke.
A free market of sleep and a flash.
Of jaguar in the periphery.
Finally, the hybrid mouth gone silently into.
Us.
In this.
Together.
But not knowing.
The facts such as they are.
The boarding pass becoming,
the verb to touch, a caress
on our collective faces,
smitten of unattainable grammar,
shivering in our doldrum organs,
our internal warring nations.
Do we know a peace
long enough for daytime viewing,
even as the State
passes a plausible deniability
through us?
And with this.
All at once,
realizing a third you
which is not possible
except when riding
and speaking
otherwise
assimilated elsewhere
of exceptional velocity. | |
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| LYNX 13
Posted: 6/13/2009 11:22:25 PM | | cumbia bacan para los amantes de la buena musica dedicada para mi amorsote soledad | |
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| LYNX 13
Posted: 6/14/2009 8:56:35 PM | LYNX 13
....aay, the many words to describe
fall short of giving birth
to only one.
sex acts occur on a thousand basis
a million and understanding never
enters the two individual act.
come here and witness the tent caterpillar
in its seventh year the trees wear silky tents.
in this fog... knees snapped to attention.
the young are only young to be young
and the old are only old to be departing.
How very brave is the sky, how very brave
is my attempt to live under stringent conditions.
How truly magnificent is the attempt to mimic
eternity, I spit on the street, will you forgive me?
I did not mock Shakespeare, Toltstoy, Hart Crane. | |
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| LYNX 13
Posted: 6/14/2009 11:10:25 PM | | Tolstoy, not Toltstoy. But according to a book of John Updikes, what a cranky, self-involved individual who could write with such magnificence. A gift is a gift. | |
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| LYNX 13
Posted: 6/19/2009 1:37:35 PM | Such a pleasure and a pain to see you back BM, a pleasure cause well, I'd buy the books without hesitation and a pain cause well.....you remind me of how much I still have to learn.
anywho, I'm sure I don't have to tell you who this one is in tribute of....
stretched over ice.
in my office there is a perfect
circle
a malcontent
sung from the tip of, rusted nails
delivered in odd angles as
black boxes
cities are apparently burning from
being cities
everyones surprised
the tragedy is in
most places
a storm brewing as an unopened
bottle
like
bookstores, gods on the downturn
and we all know how people
feel about that
most recently, (even now)
ice-cubes are playing Tchaikovsky
from the bottom of a
parched throat
so fuck
don't tell me the politicians are corrupt or
god's busy with foreign matters, or how you
were swallowed by a whore because
I don't give a shit, I'm
trying to write poetry from this
empty glass.
.. | |
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| LIFT YOUR SKINNY FISTS LIKE ANTENNAS TO HEAVEN
Posted: 6/20/2009 12:26:40 PM | LIFT YOUR SKINNY FISTS LIKE ANTENNAS TO HEAVEN*
Now that you've polished the guardian bulb
and so become free,
say on some splendid
August day,
the year 2026,
the skies more transcendent
the avenues more incandescent
the skin sluiced in I Ching semiotics.
Now that you drift with
the long and short bars
like bacilli of the outer planets.
* Title by God Speed You Black Emperor | |
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| LIFT YOUR SKINNY FISTS LIKE ANTENNAS TO HEAVEN
Posted: 6/20/2009 1:10:44 PM | | Hey you're fine PLBC (Margarita), quit kicking yourself. I'm just a guy dabbling with writing like everyone else and this is just a thread. You or anyone else can post anything they want as much as they want. | |
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| GATHERING STORM
Posted: 6/20/2009 1:11:11 PM | GATHERING STORM*
Once the cows in the pasture
and the sagacity of wet stones.
Thinking of her in the loneliest moments
besides the black tree branching to blacker sky.
The light trapped in that elsewhere life.
One prime number I couldn't.
Nor could I speak, I couldn't.
*Title by God Speed You Black Emporer | |
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| GATHERING STORM
Posted: 6/21/2009 7:53:47 PM | Grapes, cheese, sky, shoreline
should have added a storm,
which wasn't necessary.
My head expanded, shrunk into pain
You were the one, I the other
Disappearing merrily into the shades of history.
There is this nose that appears on others faces
visiting abruptly, reminders that you smelled
I smelled, the time that you and I migraned together. | |
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| GATHERING STORM
Posted: 6/21/2009 8:50:20 PM | death slips into my life
again and again
reminding me
to live freely
if i do
and if i don't
life will be gone in a flash
we are here
for the briefest
of moments
and the pr!cks
cry like babies | |
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