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 AUTHOR
 60to70
Joined: 7/28/2008
Msg: 2553
SHADOW OF A THURSDAYPage 96 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)
I a went a huntin'
with gun witnessing men
they frankly shot that bird dead.
My mouth was shocked and open.
Who the hell needs meat?
I must admit...hamburger is more delicious
than partridge and moose and ..well elk is delicious.
and chicken is better dealt death... other than my hand.
And women with mouths filled with vowels
have a hard time with newborn babies.
I like that Italian woman I knew
who had deft fingers
and killed easily (chickens)
and had not one problem with ethics
concerning the afternoon meal.
Supper.
Also, she knew how to raise children.
Her man was so quiet.
In some kind of end.
Eat with great enjoyment..
every radish and chicken salad
you taste. Day begins at dawn.
Night ends with a sigh.
Vowels have no supremacy.
 black mary
Joined: 3/15/2009
Msg: 2554
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History
AUSTERITY MEASURES
Posted: 12/1/2011 8:49:06 PM
AUSTERITY MEASURES

You are crying from that sense of everything being wrong.

I think of making the perfect cup of tea, carrying it to the study where it slips from my hands and shatters on the floor. All of this occurs in slow motion imperceptibly over decades.

You are crying from that sense of everything being wrong.

In the town hall a Julius is a gleeful chorus of himself – I love to steal…uh huh uh huh…

When all is said and done will you sleep with me?

Only in the wilderness of a cloud

Oh yes gaze down
Upon the surface of ponds
Into the eye sheen of suns

Stick figure chains
Opening the sky’s angles

For bread like diamonds
And Satan falling again
Floating in brown flurries
Autumn leaves of blackjack

Scrunch and secure the earth’s last resources
The king’s armies passing through garden plots

Mosquitoes machined and nano-birds

I buzz too. Am separated and sealed
 60to70
Joined: 7/28/2008
Msg: 2555
AUSTERITY MEASURES
Posted: 12/2/2011 11:31:00 PM
Against every odd
I cannot figure
folded into every nightmare
I awoke from
against every ocean
that mercilessly wore down
any epoch, any rock
there is something serene
scintillatingly, secure
my flannel sheets.
a warm, haunting candlelight
my hand on your mouth
shhhhhssssinnnng
history.
 black mary
Joined: 3/15/2009
Msg: 2556
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History
ROMANTIC DOG
Posted: 12/18/2011 6:09:48 PM
ROMANTIC DOG
(This is my last communique from the planet of the monsters…Roberto Bolano)

In life Roberto Bolano never inhabited the streets of Orlando
In death he walks slow becoming one with the prostitutes
And when it rains he seems to be swimming
A pelagic thing gracefully moving through the depths of a dream
Swallowing the lower clouds and spitting them back
Just to watch them float upwards
Like the corpse of a lion

Its his vindication
He will remind you of that
As you meet up with him somewhere
Maybe on Colonial Boulevard
Coming at you like an oncologist
Disguised as a detective
Inquiring about the facts of American history

Or you might find him on Portale Street
Stepping out of the body of the Korean postman
(The one with the bad attitude)
Sardonically admonishing
Try reading more Borges
As he hands over your John Ashberry
 60to70
Joined: 7/28/2008
Msg: 2558
ROMANTIC DOG
Posted: 12/18/2011 8:43:35 PM
john ashberry visited me
just about a time
when I got a cheque
for being homeless
and less than worthy
of a university education
which..I thought would save me.
a contrarie...what saved me
was this muscle in my head
that failed, then fired...
then expired
into surrender.
we go either humbled
or surrendered to a fatal
peace, piece of my action.
sayonara.
 NaiveAndWitty
Joined: 1/23/2010
Msg: 2559
ROMANTIC DOG
Posted: 12/19/2011 8:45:55 PM
Some great stuff in here! It is a great read.

Keep um coming everyone.

Naive
 Truthisee
Joined: 12/7/2010
Msg: 2560
ROMANTIC DOG
Posted: 12/19/2011 9:34:27 PM
Or you might find him on Portale Street
Stepping out of the body of the Korean postman
(The one with the bad attitude)
Sardonically admonishing
Try reading more Borges
As he hands over your John Ashberry


wow.

talk about putting people the fuck to sleep.




















"to holy water baths burning direction
into the stare of ghosts
and minute blurs casting decisions
lifetimes regretting them
you and me and us
them and they and who
fight or flight half breaths
of the last breaths taken
by those finding purpose
souls still belonging to gods
flesh still belonging to satans

while drowning
in the complacency of human

conditions"






..
 black mary
Joined: 3/15/2009
Msg: 2561
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History
ROMANTIC DOG
Posted: 12/19/2011 10:35:41 PM
wow.

talk about putting people the fuck to sleep.


Truth-Are you saying the poem was boring?
 Inicia
Joined: 12/21/2007
Msg: 2562
ROMANTIC DOG
Posted: 12/23/2011 10:05:01 PM
God sit No a More
do you question who
Rises for a God that
is greater than flesh
or Soul. In Divinity
Find your comfort
Or in the sacred
Or the profane
and hold steady as
the gc l ock unwinds
in times free moment
I find my self exactly
where I landed feet
On the Ground
Grounded once again
when dancing would
be the divine response to this
tepid fire....

I have been here before but never introduced myself I am deanna Hello All...
 black mary
Joined: 3/15/2009
Msg: 2564
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History
ART PROJECT
Posted: 12/29/2011 1:56:49 PM
ART PROJECT

In your last delusion you were saying you considered yourself the object of all language. Is that correct?

Tweeting into the void one compares the meat of the heart to that of the gluteus maximus. One finds that the root numbers of all things could have been manifested…

In the years since sweet Henrietta what have you written?

Mostly of the dissipation of fear. I’ve learned to wear anxiety like an old coat stitched with patches of laughter like army insignia.

How long has your father been missing?

For as long as I can remember missing him.

How should I file the last report? Does it go under Japanese cherry blossoms or would it be the Drake equation?

My sigh dissolves in the white sky. A miracle we both saw.

Recently you were asked if you would ever remarry. I was busy at the porn screen searching for the correct scenario and wasn’t paying attention. Please re respond.

I’ve given up the lottery and as to religion am unable to escape if the ending…

In that case behold the update to the code pink which is haunting yet remains optimistic here in the depths of the Even Greater Depression when the police and army come…

My radical passivity is like an unboxed AK-47 and a drum as well.

Have you considered becoming a woman?

I have become a disciple of Flannery O’Connor going so far as to obtain a peacock.

What is the nature of the disease of addiction?

In the center is a sleeping infused with erasure; avoidance obtained via relationships with objects and rituals.

Does one escape with the eyes?

Only with the eyes, let those that have them build houses out of clouds.

What is the message of the 99%?

Themselves in the street.

What is the message of the 99%?

One hopes for a production of Ubu Roi received with welcoming arms at Ground Zero. A haunting yet optimistic impulse to shake it on out.

My life is often desolate and filled with nostalgic yearning out of which I tend to fleetingly lean into thoughts of suicide. I’m ashamed to think this way. What should I do?

Establish yourself as a third party. Upset the internal election.

How do you go on vacation?

The way a sparrow falls. In gorgeous silence through the depths of the world.

How do you celebrate yourself?

Like a platypus I make myself up with left over parts from the hodge podge of existence.

When will the poem begin?

In the evensong of the winter solstice among the arguments for Jupiter and again in the pre-dawn as Mercury’s syntax rises becoming visible.

How do you know the poem ends?

One feels it in the flesh like the need to masturbate.

What about your enemies?

Each has moved on through the throat song of evolution. Now they live on the outskirts, off in the hinterlands, in luxury burrows, growing fur and surviving well through the hard winters…

At what point will you give up on poetry?

Sun cut throat*

Have you bothered to read the Myth of Sisyphus?

Once after swallowing a bottle of Pamelor.

What was your experience?

I fell asleep and dreamt a pretty girl was singing 500 Miles to me.

How did that make you feel?

Like a small boy in Montreal with a desire to grow up and become a horse named Seabiscuit.

In my own dreams images of my family weave through me sometimes with a nostalgia both false and real. Also I feel each of my past lovers incorporated within my cells in a way that is both sexual and healing so that all the old hates and hurts go away, taking leave from both sides of the ledger. The only thing is I have no body because in my dreams I’m a house made of clouds which is what existence feels like to me. What do you think?

I’m thinking of Marvin Gaye coming through from heaven.

What do you think of when a woman is naked before you?

The sun jetting out in birds of plumed fire but not yet. That and Marvin Gaye
coming through.


If love were to be described as a country what would its political structure be like?

Everything is based on Fibonacci sequences and the cadences of the sea. Somehow even Charlie Chaplin rises out of these simple precedents.

Is the poetry of Jim Carroll relevant to my life?

Like it or not the city and its constructs. Even the countryside has its own skyscrapers. All is to be counted even the one thing that remains. As with moths, in the company of gulls genuflection is the appropriate response to grace.

In the middle of your life when you found yourself in a dark wood having wandered from the straight way did you begin to read self help books?

Buckets of sky blue paint.
A flamboyant spread a down-turned hand
Its fingers flowering scarlet in jeweled vibrancy
Or in wounds.
Miniature swallows animating sallow dusk
Have been replaced
With red caps of sandhill cranes
Another life.


* Sun Cut Throat - Last line of Apollinaire's poem Zone
 Inicia
Joined: 12/21/2007
Msg: 2565
ART PROJECT
Posted: 12/29/2011 2:22:37 PM
Not going down for the count... Can't shake this wakefulness. but sleep I take for it is the way of the walkers....and I walk.... today...
 Inicia
Joined: 12/21/2007
Msg: 2566
ART PROJECT
Posted: 12/29/2011 2:24:18 PM
Sleep I take for it is the way of the walkers and Today I walk...
Not for the count shall I sleep through another wake up call..
But I shall sleep for it is the way of rest for the walkers, and I am...
 60to70
Joined: 7/28/2008
Msg: 2567
ART PROJECT
Posted: 12/30/2011 7:57:22 PM
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.
 brawnydog
Joined: 5/12/2006
Msg: 2570
ART PROJECT
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..
thanks
 60to70
Joined: 7/28/2008
Msg: 2571
ART PROJECT
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)
 60to70
Joined: 7/28/2008
Msg: 2572
OWS Poem #1
Posted: 1/8/2012 10:48:57 PM
Clever
is
easier
than
simple
is easier
than
clever
why did you forget
your original
message?
 Autumn Fantasy
Joined: 3/15/2009
Msg: 2573
view profile
History
ART PROJECT
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
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History
SKANKING FOR HEGEMONIES
Posted: 2/10/2012 10:04:50 PM
SKANKING FOR HEGEMONIES

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.
 Brizo
Joined: 2/19/2006
Msg: 2575
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History
SKANKING FOR HEGEMONIES
Posted: 2/12/2012 7:06:07 PM
me to,, though the title is kind of throwing me...as in, I don't understand it...
 60to70
Joined: 7/28/2008
Msg: 2576
SKANKING FOR HEGEMONIES
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
History
LONG AGO YOU NO LONGER SLEEP ON STAIRS
Posted: 2/14/2012 9:22:58 PM
LONG AGO YOU NO LONGER SLEEP ON STAIRS

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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History
LONG AGO YOU NO LONGER SLEEP ON STAIRS
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
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History
THE NOBLE GASES
Posted: 4/9/2012 8:57:18 PM
THE NOBLE GASES

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.


NOTES

* “…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
view profile
History
I HAVE SILVER AND I HAVE DOLLARS AND PAPERS TOO*
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.

I HAVE SILVER AND I HAVE DOLLARS AND PAPERS TOO*

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
view profile
History
I HAVE SILVER AND I HAVE DOLLARS AND PAPERS TOO*
Posted: 5/16/2012 8:31:22 AM
Thanks for your kind words purfectmeow. I appreciate it.
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