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Joined: 7/28/2008
Msg: 2567
ART PROJECTPage 115 of 115    (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, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115)
in these pitiful hours
where sleep has no place
(it should)
One image remains
a summer day
end of the day
light lingering
turning all swells of each mountain
I am high up...very high
there is a road I have travelled
Yet. I am nowhere near
earth's boundaries.
My eyes have seen a sunset
turned into a moody, sombre
purple, pink human's delight.
Below me.
Above me....darkness begins
a descent to honor
my appetite
for every thing beyond
what I can ever hold.
where is the carpet of the mountains?
There is a time I will travel....
into a lullaby of splendid sleep.
Joined: 5/12/2006
Msg: 2570
Posted: 1/1/2012 11:26:52 AM
Tell T merry xmas, happy bday, and happy new years from me, please
If my bunny gets any fluffier it's gonna catch fleas
"be a fluffy bunny, be a fluffy bunny"
she's the only one who'd find that funny..
Joined: 7/28/2008
Msg: 2571
Posted: 1/2/2012 12:26:49 AM
When he painted the Mona Lisa
did he leave an empty house?
Did he stop for a second
to push back his hair.
Was there ever a time
he was regularly human?
Was there ever a time
he chose to be deliberately insensitive.
why is that so easy?
He knew his circumstances.
Why does one paint
apart from the fragment
that is the life?

(Happy New Year pof poets)
Joined: 7/28/2008
Msg: 2572
OWS Poem #1
Posted: 1/8/2012 10:48:57 PM
is easier
why did you forget
your original
 Autumn Fantasy
Joined: 3/15/2009
Msg: 2573
view profile
Posted: 1/21/2012 9:07:40 PM
I have read The Artist several times now - so much of yourself in this poem BM. Little glimses into your life. Your dialogues are always facinating.
 black mary
Joined: 3/15/2009
Msg: 2574
view profile
Posted: 2/10/2012 10:04:50 PM

I swallowed your fragrance. No I didn’t.
But I swallowed something
and coughed up an ellipsis. Now I feed
on the entrails of the night’s blue stars –
a practice they say is guaranteed
to make an honest man of me.

The wind has died in the sail’s alibi.
The corpse functions as a relay station.
It’s outside the widow
hanging upside down, transmitting
presidential orders to predator drones.
We’re inside, snug in our beds,
whacking off to murder movies.

Your language channel gummed up with meaty goo.
So I fixed it with a slosh formula
and filled a syringe
with your discarded angst. It registered clean.
A tremble boot or two, then
I went hunting for freaks.
Joined: 2/19/2006
Msg: 2575
view profile
Posted: 2/12/2012 7:06:07 PM
me to,, though the title is kind of throwing in, I don't understand it...
Joined: 7/28/2008
Msg: 2576
Posted: 2/12/2012 8:28:52 PM
..lady had a way of frightening those in her space
heard her tell somebody that..."I have zero tolerance
for ineptness"
did that also include her love of food
and her friggen ass getting wider..and wider?
Do not ever imagine that one view is purer
than another.
 black mary
Joined: 3/15/2009
Msg: 2577
view profile
Posted: 2/14/2012 9:22:58 PM

Remember the night we became Cocteau
(though) not the autumn’s grace
You said sleep pretty people
I’m not human at all
The way her face of young girls went on shining
Knowing everything must end
Still I can’t think through ghosts
Memory being so often cruel
On the page it says exactly
Where I’m going
Your bad girls poking holes in the sky
It was night and the stars spilled out
Drinks and smokes amidst the banter of hipsters
There were good occasions in the society of gravity
Or was it the traveling days with lions
As the machines learning to love
Anything could happen
Just let me know
 black mary
Joined: 3/15/2009
Msg: 2579
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Posted: 4/9/2012 8:56:42 PM
^^^ I meant to say I liked that poem above.
 black mary
Joined: 3/15/2009
Msg: 2580
view profile
Posted: 4/9/2012 8:57:18 PM

Then came an exit of sleep-infested days and the nights preceding once of a neon jejunity. Exactly neon, noble and new with representations of living forward in a signed vibrancy that blinked Open All Night and Vacancy, colored gas of the future planet where your parents voyaged, your mother in heels, streamlined green and stepping out with your inert father. They were the last and you didn’t follow but wonder to mountain with another on the outskirts of cities. In the whirring gauze of orbital curvature desolate birds flocked home through a multi-eye. Then it was onto calm breathing in the restoration of the commonplace: family pet, stranger walking by, the success of an automobile. Except the quotidian archetype was a bit of cloud adrift fields of full-bodied Saturdays, pockets possessed of miniature eternities that bloomed and buzzed through anyone’s guess, and a valence that dovetailed in ache taut as the arrow of time. Once you even thought you might have heard something like the Hey You Kid voice of cosmic alignment.

-- discarded to return: something else.

Blackened gum spots to litter walkways. A cripple scratches in your conscience like a small voice of God. You smoke through patches and remember dawns of yesteryear’s absence. Men and women recall the security of factories, equate to happiness and plummet as they wait in line to wage war on time share owners with weapons of mass promise. In the text from somewhere high in a loft a piano is tuned. A drizzle of notes follows and so do you to the next limited hangout ordering sound bites: one method for refuting a summons from the Ways and Means Committee. This is how you listen for the humming engine of done. Pause and ask is this enough? It’s impossible in this world to trade neon for argon and so there you are like a swizzle stick in a drink going tink tink against something of a swirling exterior. Outside - the collective of doppelgangers lies down in the street to reminisce over their Faye Dunaways. Later they’ll knit a scarf of pronouns wear a house like a suit of mutual kindness. Scant sanctuary in the fog of this wrecked century we are living in an age that calls darkness light.*

-- revenant of a runaway: you once were.

Autumn flickers its tongues and pillars by the lakeshore where live oaks shade through their séance of lost images. The children of a present day giggle their bread crumbs into the ducks’ hissing group therapy. Anoles skitter palmetto. Farther back, swagger merchants are honey badgering, slinging mesmerize at potentials. I take the whole of it in and conjure my shun with a prayer that tastes in my mouth like a hand of broken fingers decayed through half-lives of xenon. Then comes the orange and the orange blossoms until it all falls like salt on physical silver. The miniature Camus in my homunculus is telling me: briefly it is night, falsely layered and gone liquid dreamy in the infomercial. When my indigenous selves feel the fluffy existential angst of so many missed cello lessons I can’t help but cry out. O Sister of Despair- is that me on the ground peering up your skirt? I need to feel better so I eat a martyr and touch the calming breeze in the eucalypts. The thump in the atria announces the narrative’s shifting tense and I float through like a balloon untethered to gain another sky.

-- round robin life: a sea of us.

It’s the strain in the voice I listen for. Because half the necessary and half the unneeded and so even a skinny trips me up. The pause vanished, swallowed up by the uninhabited crowd, got carried away was carried away across the long ellipsis. So I crawled through my animal and came back out emergent to a sainthood of rush hour traffic. The Gospel of Colossus tells a time of Jesus baptizing his gigantic rooster in the River Jordan, the afterwards of riding the sacred beast into Jerusalem to beat the bankers’ asses, the people following, inheriting all of the necessary, discarding wholly the unneeded; this beautiful story, the heresies we love. Frayed threads of the debate unravel, give way to an unbounded. The abracadabra waves its hands over a swirling meme-flux, manufactures the electorate’s Tao. Yin stands at the bully pulpit sniffing krypton labeled Sweet Drone Attack of Peace while Yang soaks through television screens spewing the helium miasma we call Gorgeous Asshole of Capitalism. In the streets of us this sea of us stripping away…mottled scales of our Stockholm syndromes.

--things fall apart: the center cannot hold*

She could for flight – her aviatrix in a Matisse sky. Occult sun curtained in cloudy silk, the hot pinks and washed out blues bleeding through and the longer blues dripping their glycol scent onto grey. She could for sleep – descendent nude spilling ochre angles and the angels of white spaces roosting obliquely on the crumbling stone. This world was made to flicker she said: the crow in the periphery, the tinge of lavender, the daughters of radon. In random night her spirit appears as agent provocateur in the center of a harem of Frida Kahlos. If all her roses are wild, if sometimes she tells the story of horses and turpentine pines, of the brush of history and the rain that falls upwards into a net of stars where loss is a statement of winter punctuated in undying ingle. If coming to in a flash of desert neon, with the driving leveled out, cross-country and simple, and Garcia on the radio singing See here how everything lead up to this day…*

-- arriving at the horizon: against granite

Hummingbird became the locus of tender perceptions. Wax depths of magnolia leaves and hibiscus shaped communal refuge. The ending it took to restore the sea to the sky. Father’s measuring stick being too short to record the length of the late romances. So now the door just hangs from its broken hinge, creaking or banging in the wind that emanates its cold blue distance. Thump thump in the atria. I keep trying to imagine how it feels to forage in a forest like an animal undreamt of. The days go by. Try to feel my fingers in the cool warmth of northern waters, a realm of August before time rolled away. I need simple words for saying no simple words for saying simple things. I need simple pleasures like counting women in church to keep me from wandering through Italy homesick for penguins, to keep the blue spiders from eating my soles.* A xenon script for the hypoxia. When the stranger train leaves the station you better believe I’ll be in my right mind better believe my cello lessons will all be paid for.

-- the noble air : once we were

The boom in the boomtowns, luxury liner living with the Eurodaddys and the dandies that once lined up at the argon merchant’s stall buying up copies of L’Con d’Irene. Grief – being the last partygoer to drink up all the dead soldiers. A ghost lifts you through the body of text to emerge into the sameness of stars. For rent day you retrieve a vision of lighthouse monarchs, prophesies of isotopes of the periodic table. An elegance of yesterday on the radio or the first waves of color, schoolbook photographs of the Wright brothers, their flight patterns arcing through the last century, longitudinally, enjoined to your own generational mayfly, there seems to be an applause, a pageantry of swirling dust, the barking choir of neighborhood dogs. Evidently the cool kids are reading Bakunin again. Frayed threads of the debate unravel, give way to an unbounded. Scratch scratch in the conscience, then…the exit of sleep-infested days, one prime number and all the night’s neon.


* “…we are living in an age that calls darkness light” – Stolen from the Arcade Fire song “My Body Is A Cage”

* --things fall apart: the center cannot hold – from Yeats “ The Second Coming”

* See here how everything lead up to this day…from the Grateful Dead song “Black Peter”; words by Robert Hunter.

* “…wandering through Italy homesick for penguins…” from the James Wright poem “Against Surrealism”
 black mary
Joined: 3/15/2009
Msg: 2581
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Posted: 5/15/2012 9:53:38 PM
‘I was wanting to get the feeling that things are incredibly lovely and out of this loveliness the most terrible things happen’…Leslie Scalapino.


The documents placed in correct order, neat stacks and a paper city is built. The mind NASCARS in the ADHD hours when it’s 4AM and a blanket of serial killers is flowing across the bed like a velvet river. Always, a pair of you, one being away sensing the rippling morphology, another like another train, with the speed of light, hugging.

Yet, who is that person over there, bereft of a physical state observing the two sumo wrestlers serviced by an omnipresence of Kim Kardashians ?

All my contraries float away hence the ventricular hiss each time on the merry go round.
A form of be still or be red. A form of adulthood akin to the section of an orange with few sections left since having slept long on the rose dark floor remaining in the shape of tomorrow.

Now we find ourselves here, within the Department of Homeland Security, drawing heavily on the work ethic of the abattoir, finding it invaluable. In our analysis we like to say ‘spot on’ and ‘paradigm’. A state of police for a state of mind and a home of our own good for looking good is a being absolutely necessary to umpire empire. Finally, in the fight for freedom, the time of trans-vaginal probes is at hand, with Halliburton skies burning oily rainbows, and all the apple pie of Abu Ghraib.

The sumo wrestlers might have finished even now they speak to the moon of mountains in the shape of men. They are in the act of not creating and there are craters nearby creators.

If I am conscious I am consuming and I can’t help it but I want to streamline like a new train hugging the speed of light, little sliver of theoretical immortality.

The scarlet ibis in allegory bite down on your bullet of longing, feeling sick.

I have put something over there so that I might go onward into all the Friday nights and their amazons.

So that I might say ‘Oh yeah…there’s still enough rain.’

* Line from the Camper Van Beethoven song ‘Borderline’
 black mary
Joined: 3/15/2009
Msg: 2583
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Posted: 5/16/2012 8:31:22 AM
Thanks for your kind words purfectmeow. I appreciate it.
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