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| MAPPING HORIZON
Posted: 7/3/2009 9:36:09 PM | A Bedtime Story
In that dark place where black meets white
An explosion rocked her brain
Somewhere between the throws of sanity, death
Her bed quaked and trembled, the curtains overhead came down upon her like an anxious bird
The pungent smell of smoke
Assailing reality
Old and tired she crawled to the window
Half expecting to see a barrage of red lights, commotion
But instead was met with that transparent yellow
Of empty silence hanging from a lamplight
She vehemently claims this was not a nightmare
Inflicting pain, remembering but only pieces
Curling tentacles of morose illusion
Did she cry out in the night?
Alone and confused
Remembering another night a week or so ago
The room had quaked in seismic waves of fear
Bombs hitting her ancient heart
By rote in the darkness
She felt her way to the medicine chest
Grasping for her only means of clarity
In the blue bottle on the bottom shelf
With shaking hands she counted out one Lorazapam
Returning to her childlike stupor
The wet sheets
And her fear of dying. | |
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| Bedtime Story
Posted: 7/5/2009 12:34:21 AM | my God Autumn this is filled with images.... it's quite an incredible poem.....
I don't want to quote any of it and comment. It's just a great poem. Thanks. | |
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| Bedtime Story
Posted: 7/5/2009 10:57:45 PM | An Evening at the Club
papayas and limericks
on the shelf
cocktails
reaching into hands
the hands of primitive hairy
monkey creatures
but
such wonderful things
our hands
telling wrinkly stories of
living
with alcohol in the
bloodstream
mi corazon
mi manos
and eyes god the eyes
how they reach
and pull
me
to
you
TJJ | |
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| Bedtime Story
Posted: 7/5/2009 11:34:07 PM | Slowly Returning (The Wanderings of Fortunado, Part II)
I am ted turner and
Don Quixote the wise
intoxicating limericks for
lullaby eyes
I venture to know the sense of
Your mouth in the joyous days
Of Summer in the South
Fortunado is calling for venturesome
Capital as the pope calls for
World peace in a church in
Seattle
In a foolish vagabond excursion
I derailed a train in houston
why do I love your hands?
everywhere i go is an opportunity
for that chance meeting
with you
TJJ | |
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| MAPPING HORIZON
Posted: 7/6/2009 11:15:41 PM | At times I left easily.
It amazes even the fern
that I walked away, did not want
a summary, I was kind, I did not talk
why.Why? What did it matter?
Here the sun sinking West, here the sun rising East.
I stood in the middle, wondered why James was born
to Angela betrothed to James, walking away
to to the sunrise, erupting finally to a death
of significant dreams, wishes, finally a silence.
At times I celebrated birth, grieved death
Walked in a halo resembling privy
to an information that crested magnificence
resembled nothing resembling a hope
that mattered. Who remembers?
The fillers? the ones that did not matter. | |
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| DRIVE THAT WILDERNESS HEAD / EFFULGENT SAIL
Posted: 7/17/2009 10:18:13 PM | DRIVE THAT WILDERNESS HEAD / EFFULGENT SAIL
Teetering on the brink.
Man & Ship you might think it so
staring up into what begins
in acreage of blue starkness. Even
spend a few pleasant minutes sailing
before settling down
in the narrows.
And later, like nobody's business
there were two
red-capped cranes
right there in the ordinariness
of the subdivisions. So when you drive
into the further and below
of wispy cities in cumulus.
There will be an eventually.
Swelled promise of purple violence.
It comes. Idling in traffic, you watch.
And if, as the rivulets gush
over concrete and latticial green,
and if as each breath
seems surely Sisyphean,
still you watch,
still you feel,
the everywhere
of life
driving through, driving on. | |
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| DRIVE THAT WILDERNESS HEAD / EFFULGENT SAIL
Posted: 7/18/2009 10:38:03 AM | owning it
you'll leave me alone
if I show you my scars
Bytch!
they are mine
to carry
not wear
like military bars
of distant battles
(don't you know
veterans
don't like to talk about
the war?)
and your cheap sympathy
empathy WhOre
not worth the price
of dredging up that pain
again
guess we'll continue
to spar
you know I'm different
but you don't know how
now do you
czar?
LS 07/18/09 | |
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| DRIVE THAT WILDERNESS HEAD / EFFULGENT SAIL
Posted: 7/18/2009 8:27:29 PM | She had pu*ssy lips that ran like rail road tracks for miles without end
in both directions,
when the cops busted down the door of the motel room,
I offered them her cored out as*s hole as if it were a shimering gift from the polar regions of a far off nether star,
I sat naked on the bed,
the police asked question after question until they got bored and joined me underneath the covers in that roadside motel.
Why do men hate October? | |
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| DRIVE THAT WILDERNESS HEAD / EFFULGENT SAIL
Posted: 7/19/2009 4:10:40 AM | | The psychoanalytic relationship is Hegelianism par excellence, the patient feels he is in a fight to the death with the analyst for his own neurotic autonomy. His unconscious is commanding him, in ever such subtle tones, to enjoy his symptom. There are those patients as well, in whom the analyst embodies the perfect parent, in which case, are we still speaking of Hegel. The lack in which the patient feels and carries out in his empty speech must be made whole, since the onset of neurotic attachment or utter disavowal the patient has been a stranger in a strange land, cut off from all proper forms of communication. In the random bits of discontent that the analysand free associates on, one must hear his ultimate narrative, his relationship to the other. His confrontation with the Name-of-the-Father. It is much more than being deprived of ones own autonomy. Before the mirror stage, in the throes of anal and oral lack of control, the infant is the fed and diapered subject. If his living environment seems unsafe to him, the longer he will try and stay in these stages. Even when he gets a grip on himself, so to speak, it is too late, the emotionally dependent oral and anal stage regress psychologically to that of the traumatized infant. Relying on one own abilities becomes an unconquerable problem, and the insufficiency of the self sterilizes the subjects total outward and inward mobility. | |
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| THE OVATE ROOM
Posted: 7/19/2009 5:24:45 PM | THE OVATE ROOM
1
Speak out city or a sound
Say howdy hieroglyphic
hyperbola.
Powdered vowels & wigs.
The all out
bubbling up
and countercurrents-
Through you.
You might sleep
a voluptuary
slick thigh dream.
Heaven will surround you then.
The centuries widen.
With your mouth
you engulf a peculiar history
and the eye slit of reason glimpses
One form of bliss
a maid drifting
just below the wave.
Phosphorus night.
Somewhere a bridge.
2
Out of my brief swoon I built
a vessel. Gave enthusiasm to
crosstown traffic
and tunneled below
the occupying forces.
But that was another time.
I heard the pluck of strings
then. Gave no thought
to the Grim Reaper's
pajamas.
Knowing I couldn't
be touched,
I spoke freely in the Politburo.
3
So, out of that roiling cloud,
a visage. That's when I yielded
to the symmetry granted
in the self-help
section.
Often the smile was crooked.
I didn't mind at all.
As long as everyone could
really believe.
On the days I couldn't believe
I sang out of the
family throat
anyway. But peace
eluded me.
4
Now the white sea. Foam like clouds.
The distant autumn like a relic,
comes to calm terms. There is
no other.
Still. The presence of numina,
so speak the city fathers
of a vivisected language, unable
to translate and I tell you
I am comforted by what
cannot be defined.
5
An eye might fly straight up
through the branches at twilight.
Into the blue ink. Float awhile
waiting for a net of stars.
Then a fragment of shadow,
a window opening to syllogism.
There are obsessions
I'll never shake loose. | |
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| WISHBONE
Posted: 7/19/2009 6:28:12 PM | WISHBONE
Mouth opening a head.
Is that how another world begins?
Waiting on the sparkling scene.
Waiting inside the dissonant buildings.
Music accompanies exile
then understanding
out of cliffhanger you go
with a mimicry of righteousness.
Scarcity of no cloud.
Something always develops
like a dream expelled or exhaled
that is your sigh.
With appropriate hallucination
the beach sand crunches with silver tones
though hardly anyone walks like that
anymore.
Better to tremble a little.
Or listen for the other music.
One out there, don't knock yourself.
I'd gladly remove your knickers,
twist it up, make a wish. Snap.
I've thought of it all day.
Below the tattered trees,
removed the terror within, but
couldn't do much about the other.
It wasn't there.
What would you abandon?
What accompanies your winter?
I'm listening for the moment
when the oar slips
inside the wave, the wind
lapses inside the architecture,
the moment of abandonment
is there
shuffling about the hallway.
Someone has left the television on,
gone out to wander avenues
listening to night insects
in the twirring humidity.
The moon burning holes
in the eyes. The dilemma
of sleep's debt.
A gesture of romanticism
kissed into the infinite froth. | |
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| WISHBONE
Posted: 7/19/2009 8:28:15 PM | Some little girly girl
walking her sorrow silently
along the street, wisping her fingers
absently, presently along the buildings
which catapulted girly beyond romanticism, also neuroticism
(gosh darn! such looooong words)
through the dense corporeal or was it boreal forests
a sing of fortune came her way.
she understood instantly why men hate October. | |
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| WISHBONE
Posted: 7/19/2009 9:32:11 PM | Then I said...how beautiful and like supplications
are the words you so generously send
with such weight, grace, lucidity
did one ever sail away by the paddle
captured in the middle of the pedestrian stroke
how clever, how revealing unto we....
Life in your words has colour, has signals
approaches rarity, then flirts with light.
Light that rises all without exception
to the music of understanding the need
to embrace the question ...why so brief? | |
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| Black Mary
Posted: 7/21/2009 2:04:01 PM | A lengthy philosophical proposition was just posted to one of my threads: http://forums.plentyoffish.com/threadlevel.aspx?postID=8574584&ref=0&PageIndex=12
"Me... and My Shadow," message #278. I thought it might be of interest to you. | |
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| Black Mary
Posted: 7/22/2009 11:35:58 PM | some little shadow
a slit box experiment
pierces out a wand of golden light
embercatious dawn
fed up the stars
worked us all outside of ourselves
to become slugs
no one stepped on them
as they were very dark and salaginellous
they were as mucacious (or polymucoscharrides)
begetting soil, Knut Hampson, and dutch fragments
once the mason put sand there, numerous,
motions occurred, but it was odious to them,
as all cats know-em, in this case, mi gato negro,
en choisica, amma damma | |
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| HOW THE SLEEPING STARS
Posted: 7/23/2009 8:07:08 AM | HOW THE SLEEPING STARS
What is that noise climbing the walls like ivy
and who built the mountain so close in to us?
Don't they know how we shudder at proximity like that?
Your shoes make you float in my way of seeing.
I had a thought of mating tigers this morning.
Their frenzy frenzied a storm of birds, a deluge
of red and green feathers shook down from the trees.
The wind did a full tilt boogie spectrum.
Now why are the people laughing into their soup?
It's unremarkable the way lovers kiss through each other.
They only pretend to stop the world.
Georgie Porgie pudding and pie
licked the girls and made them sigh.
I've grown accustomed to this vague life.
Are you sure?
Yes vaguely sure.
Profoundly the old man began to swallow the stars.
The lights blinking out and all forgotten. | |
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| HOW THE SLEEPING STARS
Posted: 7/23/2009 10:07:23 AM | Antithetical New York
I tried to find the stars
In a miniature backyard in Queens
The telescope was still at home
Focused on M13
I sat inhaling and languishing
Lost in my perception of privacy
The one I live for every day
But in a city of millions
Even the Hari Krishna
Have built a tiny corner of reality
I longed to stop and listen
But couldn’t jump off the moving sidewalk
Someone’s finger was pressed down hard on fast forward
Or my daughter’s legs have stretched beyond a destination in a New York subway
The pigeons told me to slow down
But I was tied to my guide on an invisible leash
Stop! I want to taste
The flavour of each street corner
But to do so I had to remove myself
From the crowds and hover in an imperfect sky
How many tombstones can grow in one place?
Or grave diggers peddling their souls
I wonder if they can see
Over the structures of commerce
I will have to name this my filial experience although
I whispered discretely to my one way ticket home many times
Clenched in my fist - escape to wide open spaces
Beside birds who don’t have to beg for a living. | |
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| HOW THE SLEEPING STARS
Posted: 7/23/2009 10:27:02 PM | Take this old man who damn well refused shattering
Raised plenty of ....copies of his ...what is the word?
testaments to his wounding, let him live long enough
watch with some quiet sorrow the sputterings
preceding his last three breaths.
then...with some greater understanding...rest him in peace. | |
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| HOW THE SLEEPING STARS
Posted: 7/23/2009 11:57:19 PM | ...here is to the few who laugh, celebrate the chance
that is life, let them get away..clean. they also understood
the power of living. | |
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| HOW IT TURNS TO MIRROR-GLASS WHEN HEATED IN YOUR HAND / THE SOUNDS IT MAKES MAKE ANOTHER STORY
Posted: 7/26/2009 9:00:27 PM | HOW IT TURNS TO MIRROR-GLASS WHEN HEATED IN YOUR HAND / THE SOUNDS IT MAKES MAKE ANOTHER STORY*
An I moves through a you.
By and by and blue and blue - the statement is apt to return.
In the meantime I have decided to place
a penis smack dab in the middle of this sentence.
You may place your mouth on it if you are so inclined.
But I should warn you. I have no idea where it's been
or where it comes from. It might not even be a human penis.
It could well be the penis of a marsupial, an anteater or a baboon.
It could be a literary penis, its five letters
having fallen out of Irene's Cunt or perhaps Emma Bovary.
An eye moves through a ewe.
The statement has chosen to walk out the door. I doubt
that it will return. I have found it appropriate
to plant a garden of sunflowers - right here.
And turning to face the facts,
the sky being all we have ever really dreamed of
in one form or another
the zones having befallen us, begotten us,
and as the years pass we collect our faces
in rooms of mirrors. And there remains
one last room, mirror-less and filled
with glass voices speaking out
a final lexicography, yet hoping not.
And as what might be or is never known.
The mist across the eyes, veil of zero
unraveling. Or the morning's songbird,
memory of that or a crowded street
in joyous event - repasts among the ones you love
freely as a spinning wheel. You never want
the wheel to stop spinning. Saying good
bye and bye. The I's reticulum
immersed and floating in a house of dim seas.
* Two lines from Michael Palmer's poem “ Autobiography 5” . | |
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| THE OVATE ROOM
Posted: 7/26/2009 9:20:35 PM | msg 2461
I read through this page and felt lost much of the time. I read this poem "Ovate Room" and it was wonderful. I particularly like when you make objects take on a different form (ie and eye flying straight up). Imagery is so rich and textured. I still find myself having to study when I read some of your stuff.
In section 5 I really like the first stanza... really cool man.... "Into the blue ink"....... sweet line; feels like something worth touching.
take care and thanks for the poetry
Tenz | |
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| HOW IT TURNS TO MIRROR-GLASS WHEN HEATED IN YOUR HAND / THE SOUNDS IT MAKES MAKE ANOTHER STORY
Posted: 7/26/2009 10:21:24 PM | reticulum must be a property of retina
it ain't in my dictionary.
Adhere with passion surmounting latin dances
to memories that sweeten this passage
potent, illuminating and forgiveness entered my door
every day and I fed it!! especially with grilled cheese
piled with some succulent, sweet words that this one,
that one did not deserve.
hey, men with desert boots always tweaked
a hot spot of desire but never, never matched
a pond, alone, immersed, realized and final.
Until the circus came to town.
Ready to go, but ain't going.
Then in a frenzy gave the pause
to jumping into dancing...especially into wildness.
that never matched the full moon, silence
reverie..understanding that wherever
is easily nowhere, taste the night.
Then with suppressed delight
wide open eyes, wide open spirit
do not forget that the heart is the vortex
that welcomes the final night.
I cherish with some kinda of rock and roll
the hilarity that ensued.
then crept ah .....into centuries.
men's hairy chests were ultimately the best
Women's breasts round out the sky
the minute touch happened
Life took the highway to allrite.
Then when memories are food
let your fatal plate speak to love
that shatters with compunction
the ice that blocked your way. | |
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63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103 |
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