Paris Epic; The Ending

Posted: Wednesday, May 11, 2011 | | 1 comments

Paris:
I did not overstay my welcome.

 I learned to say thank you 
so thank you

all is procession
ebb, stung by flow
here's to the endgame, love, here's to (no longer mine)
paris

suis nue

sommes nus

finally naked in the face of

thank you



 paris,
oh

 /paris



le fil blanc

Posted: Monday, May 9, 2011 | | 0 comments

Hello; there is a poetic voice more adept than mine; smarter and more reptile. 

The naivete in mine and the lack of ulterior motive and the potential for these things to bring in pain. Poetic voice or voice poetic? I always seem to be skirting the edge of the right question while earnestly asking the wrong one, but I am getting closer. I am beginning to understand, I am beginning to shed this skin and accept that which I was confronted with.

The hardest thing is to believe; zenzero's voice over time and space, from the past but speaking to my present. The hardest thing is to believe, especially when All Is Wet. Dani man piano hand Dan my head's A ROTA sul serio and help me help myself come back to Assisi's 3 sided revelation.

As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.

As if you could, Kate. All Was Wet and that was the living end. For this there is no word tender enough, no word violent enough.

In a world where nothing is ever enough - it never will be. I'm changing the question and the premise by letting go of 'enough' letting go of 'never' letting go of future tense used in the present tense situated. Temper the electricity within. Be well and be still. Remember the 3 corners and move so slowly as to seem without animation, so quiet so still and move most of all with relish. Purposeful movements to articulate what rolls from the soul outwards.

Be unafraid of catching anxiety as if it were a highly contagious and ever-lurking malady.

Give up the vice of fear.

Look inwards and consolidate, construct. And remember most of all;

this is what you came here for. this is the answer to the unicorn clap in the woods, the covert call for trees to answer back, your direct(if diluted) link with mother nature and the nature of things, the hours in pere lachaise spent speaking to souls and asking for love, guidance and courage, asking them to tell the universe you were waiting -

This is the answer.
This is the alchemy of a soul.
This is when it gets the hardest
This is when the sea of a man is taken by the worst tempest
This is rougher waters yet
This is what you asked for


Be still.

So that you might learn how to say Thank You.

Posted: Sunday, May 8, 2011 | | 0 comments


.
chirp chirp cherubs
jubilee! frolic
phantasm girl-gods
english with round lusty
vowels
living lushly
loving lightly
chirp
chirp
cherubic
.




fragments

Posted: Monday, March 28, 2011 | | 0 comments

I.
If bending, gathering
a pausing outwardly
shy flower

a season pouncing
so listen, awaken expectantly
soil
is speaking



II.
life had not wings
but hands
as violent as ours
and clumsier,
like a child,
swinging.


III.
i love the night
i love the quietness of you asleep next to me
i love the 3am parabolic silence
that leaves you with vertigo
for a day afterwards
i love the night
i love

this night, this you

endroit fashion week

Posted: Monday, March 7, 2011 | | 0 comments

les gens rougeoyer;
l'astre du jour qui blanchant, suspendait le plus foncees
et le heure meridian le future a 12 heures apres
avec le soileil de minuit
et tous la tape-a-l'oeil
faire les autels
les
paroissiens, parisiens
l'astre du jour, d'endroit;
les niveaux tendanciel

Posted: Thursday, March 3, 2011 | | 0 comments

weather friends, sky confidant for confessor brings me

sun to crank the wall down on, spring to hint at renewal and other

soon to come bright tokens soon

brings me quick strange night hailstorms 
opens the other up to wakefulness

the other

and his reality regulations so now my physical body has stopped behaving and it's all sorts of closed up

protection maneuver and full of tangles aches others
weather friend pins up la lune but
the moon cycles regular as ever even as I

do not

Posted: Sunday, January 23, 2011 | | 1 comments



Tropic clouds, nature as a stage and here is your show;

the stage was 100 miles wide
the stage was water the stage was a water earth horizon tessellation
oh yes, oh yes and when the lights go out
mountains, painted, as if by free and easy strokes,
a stormcloud with the inclination to let in godrays
skies with the intention to rain

a story 

of woman of water and their wiles
rebonjour to rebirth, 
grasslands below an organ gathering breath in and out and up to
the soil who is in a chivalrous moon, thinking of
woman of water and a rebonjour to rebirth
every stone a generous use of space, these rockeries
a masterpiece, you are
hanging precipice 
and the emancipated peaks of evergreen
voluptuous
the stage was 100 miles wide, and it wasn't yet enough
not for this high minded season

Be tender, now, curtail normal patterned brocade
sky playing water and singing the wind
this is lie-down traveling so
let's lie down

Be tender, now, and watch,

this kingdom of dirt

minor flowers behind the kingpin bloom-erangs 

the stage was 100 miles wide;

these are the immediacies
of your recalled tomorrows.

work: LAURENCEAIRLINE 2011 COLLECTION

Posted: | | 0 comments

























Posted: Wednesday, December 1, 2010 | | 0 comments

L'idée que l'on peut se faire en secret de la poésie ne limite pas forcément celle-ci. Mais comme les rêves inavouables elle risque de causer des troubles de mémoire et d'empêcher la formation régulière d'un monde supérieur à celui où l'oubli est utile à la conservation prudente de l'individu.

Il faut effacer le reflet de la personnalité pour que l'inspiration bondisse à tout jamais du miroir. Laissez les influences jouer librement, inventez ce qui a déjà été inventé, ce qui est hors de doute, ce qui est incroyable, donnez à la spontanéité sa valeur pure. Soyez celui à qui l'on parle et qui est entendu. Une seule vision, variée à l'infini.

Le poète est celui qui inspire bien plus que celui qui est inspiré.

 Paul Éluard, (Ralentir travaux, 1930)

Posted: Monday, November 29, 2010 | | 0 comments

Yes, I know this itinerary by heart;
(and heart alone)
your water-color eyes, up to down to up again, yes
I know this itinerary by heart


every arch I trace with the hollow of my hand,
you're blossoming forth
blossoming forth
fervid, feverish,
I trace your every agony
back to its skin source


You, feverish, me, gushing, fervidly and


In a dream I stream-line you into open air life,
I burst at your lip to follow the buildup build-down of angles to
the sacred upswing down-swing of your tailbone,


Yes, I know this itinerary by heart;
(this itinerary, dear heart)

Posted: Wednesday, November 24, 2010 | | 0 comments


You can walk by such a place, where the stretched tissue of a field is humid,
thrumming with beloved matter
flora, fauna, fleshy nature, apple tree leaf carrion
Remember, then?
How the sap wept golden?

citrus setting
sun
The soothsayers have withdrawn for
Winter is what autumn knew would happen.
You feel no ghost here, only a soporific chorus, chanting:
let us have peace.
the shattered head answers back:
and I believed I was loved, (I believed I loved)
A wild patience has taken me this far --
the length of daylight,
This Far North, wild wild beyond-ism



La vita e Bella // Life is Beautiful

Posted: Friday, October 15, 2010 | | 0 comments

Posted: Wednesday, October 13, 2010 | | 0 comments

I could rationalize us all to a kind of death. If I wanted to. I could, but then I'd be dead too. Not ready yet, not yet.

We see what we can. Then we do with it what we imagine we must. But in all reality and any reality worth speaking of, we simply continuing doing what we CAN and we never get beyond that hump.

Yeah, that one.

Once upon a time, once upon this time I watched this breath dwindle until it became unnoticeable amongst the other aspirations, let's, let's, let us. Forgive me of any and all sophistry because I don't want to mince words any more, I want to speak plainly.

We see what we can, and we do what we imagine we must.

It is the time of the year when night comes to us quicker.

By 8pm we are there.

Once upon a time, once upon this time, we saw what we could, and did what we imagined we must.

It is the time of the year when night comes to us quicker.

By 8pm, we are there.

after taking the time to cool off, let's discuss this like adults, whit

Posted: Thursday, September 23, 2010 | | 1 comments

in the down-greying of a 1 something 2 something am something paris sort of city night, bones tired and bent, deflated.
I saw LEAVES and I saw GRASS, but darlin’  I saw no LEAVES OF GRASS.

I saw leaves. Brown, chez moi chez the natal soil of this blood flooshup organic system human woman-girl trying to get a real, a really real answer from dead pages and a dead man

BROWN, looked like they would make that almost appetite savory sort of CRUNCH that leaves who are,  brown and crimpled, simply supposed to make A sound, specifically a that sort of former sort of a sound

but the leaf squished in .5 seconds, and unceremoniously with an imagine SSSCHLOOOP future sucking noise, popped back into place. a leaf form. a perversity, a
LEAF FRAUD
YES yes let me tell you WHIT. There are no leaves of grass here. Maybe they were and the paris handful-ers got em or the scene box of a gallery’s fluorescent glow shriveled them all of but they are all
IMPOSTERS.

let me tell you whit...
man to man.


sittin pretty and and that distance, Whit,  WHIT.
THAT DISTANCE...

from THAT distance, which was 4 times hit by bullet blood dawn dam horrors
ooze,  and spreads and agonies are cried towards whichever is closest, above or below
agony which lived and fed and
was backed by the pulsing, beating, quaking vein of your HOMME, LIVING, HOMME,  HOMME, DYING,

YOU, WHIT, YES YOU THE MAN SOUL AND YOUR PEERS THOSE WHO BREATHED YOU AS YOU MOLECULED TO THEM BACK IN 0 two yes oxygen same time alive)

 as a creature who could INCUR these four time bullets,
and these bullets they OPENED YOU UP.
WITHOUT SUCKING IT ALL BACK, RELEASE AS A CANNIBALISTIC THING!,
bringing YOU back WHIT to where it  crawled out of\
sucking all of it back like SCHLOOOP a leaf SOUND NON LEAF see?

These 4 bullet morality wakeups were truly at least somewhere nearest nearwest of HEROIC. horrible, heroic, the man as the enemy and the man in double jeu HIMSELF
age old centuries won HEROIC  EXPECTATIONS FOR BLOODSHEDS

21st century?

21.21.21.21.21.21.

21 apathetic and half assed prone to itching sting BINGS, STINGS,
that give us no awe and no distance

no shut up
or shut eye

because our war, whit’s war, well  isn’t as democratic anymore in its casualties


BUT MAN TO MAN, put on your hat take a pipe, cigarette, smoke as you want
tell me about that indian squaw your mother saw
did she make an impression on you,
did you leak
your dreams
did you leap
and make it
was she
leaking
did you make it

nod one, twice, three times i fling you out my window only because i trusted you most.

regardless,

there is a slow emerging theme;
one I console,
until
It is
always strange, always home
paradise we are, to paradise returning

regardless,

I AM PILGRIM and I AM I AM I AM

Posted: Tuesday, September 21, 2010 | | 0 comments

Posted: | | 0 comments



(this ain't no chess game and you ain't got no right)

well we all want a little bit of something or other
and the ability to make a laugh sound like a laugh
you're gonna say- don't smile! child, I knows yas
gonna say bridges are bridges
but when they don't cooperate
gonna say walls are walls!

(this ain't no chess game and you ain't got no right)


rattlesnake territory: II

Posted: | | 0 comments

The basin of an afternoon, the last double digit of a minute before single before two. 
The problem with two idealists being together is that we are perpetually set up to be disappointed. 
We continually set the table for resentment. Resentment. And a constant dinner guest it remains,
always lingering under anything and everything, lo fi hi fi, micro and mega.


WAR;THOSE WHO BREATHED YOU AS YOU MOLECULED TO THEM BACK INTO 0 two yes ZERO two oxygen back into yet the
same time alive)
resentful gift gottens of any kind of war because we are AUTUMN ALIVE, and Septemberly SHIT at scholarship

there was even, in this healthy vert 3-4 paris handfuls of grain impostors peeping out between neighbors, give em the ol 5-7 between the thighs between bureau et that femme,
got a soul like a dawn l’aube that wants to open
the sullen break-in dawn, feeling the distances between their:mine vernacular.
It’s not the time to think of Agnes, or other ghosts,
and the exhaustion of too many days so thin, a weaving dialogue halfway to a song
This could have been my town.
she's
writing this could have been my town
she's 
writing this city home

Posted: Saturday, September 11, 2010 | | 0 comments

Wanderlust

Posted: Sunday, September 5, 2010 | | 0 comments




PILGRIM

Posted: Saturday, September 4, 2010 | | 0 comments




I am the Golden Man.


though cunts fill for multiple reasons, 
the women have no soul. 
on the third-take or on the triple-thought,
just another wave of hookers selling themselves out to the previous generation.


Decay;
What im talking about goes further than busting a nut in a 7-11 bathroom, or behind a southside chicago bar
This is no answer, but what it is I am not one to say.


The product of today, become the consumers of tomorrow, all in the name of due process and democracy.
(such a whorish town.)


though cunts fill for multiple reasons,
Theodore Roosevelt did not have this kind of masturbation in mind when he would wrestle live bears in the Oval Office, 
Carter doesnt travel to north korea because the switch is sweet.
by the third-take, Decay.




I am the Golden Man.
but Pilgrim, Pilgrim?
that doesn't exist here.




I am I am I am I am I am I am 
I am I am I am I am I am I am 
I am I am I am I am I am I am 
I am I am I am I am I am I am 
I am I am I am I am I am I am 
I am I am AM I AM I AM I I AM I AM I AM I 
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I















deron's, The original Golden Man

Thailand ( Give Me Mobility or Give Me Death)

Posted: Thursday, August 19, 2010 | | 0 comments

almost there

Posted: Thursday, July 15, 2010 | | 0 comments

Vol Farouche // Untamed Flight

Posted: Thursday, July 8, 2010 | | 1 comments


Contez, parmi de l’heure, quelque august
le fleur nue qui se devoile comme si c’est 
perdus aux paradis

Je vais nu, disons, j’ai fleuri


THE WELLSPRING, SPRUNG.


Fûmes Deux.
cet baiser d’ete jonche...

fûmes deux,
regonflons avec le avant-gout
si vif, vif, vif
le frisson finale

et
pli selon pli
 je deviens decroche;
en plein suspension deja

 Fûmes Deux.
 muet, muet
fûmes deux.

deja mûr
si
deja mûr

un seul éclat de rire
fûmes deux

Deux,
qui c'est plus près de
SEUL


Proclaim, within an hour, esoteric things,
the naked flower that undresses itself as if lost in a paradise

I go nakedly,  let us say, I have bloomed
 THE WELLSPRING, SPRUNG.
 We were two.
the kiss of a scattered summer...

we were two...
swelling with the first-taste
so bright, bright, bright
final throes
and
fold by fold,
I become unhooked
Full Suspension Now.

We were two.
 quietly, mute
 we were two

already ripe
so
already ripe

a singular burst of laughter
we were two

Two,
which is the closest to
SEUL








a roar into "everyplace and noplace"

Posted: Tuesday, June 22, 2010 | | 0 comments

i am 'the woman', i am she, she is I. Leading character 1.
you are,  ' the man', you are him, he is you. Character 2.

misè-en-scene: the same as always 4 walled white and a perversity
the woman, waiting
woman:man, when the woman is suddenly not beautiful to him, when
tongue in cheek-ing is more than the norm and
the woman in the man chase for that attention
chasing, always chasing, " THE WOMAN"
in some sort of infantile refusal to shred the shit as "THE MAN"
does, between breaths, butchered antagonism
because THE WOMAN tried to make THE MAN
'Home"
And it Doesn't Work That Way Around Here, Lady.

a bruised ego is easier to deal with than a bruised soul, so let's go, let's go and
misè-en-scene: the same as always 4 walled white and a perversitythe woman,
THE WOMAN
steps away from THE MAN
THE DROOLING UNTHINKING MAN, SO AS TO AVOID THE POTENTIAL CONTACT WITH
animal TEETH
taking away the hand that
 tried? she is,
THE WOMAN,
FIN to FIN again, with another cast
A new Movie with new Scenery
And which doesn't impel the leading lady to projectile vomit
FIN to FIN AGAIN
WOMAN:MAN

CHRIS BENZ RESORT '11

Posted: Monday, June 21, 2010 | | 0 comments

My favorite, because it is a wonderful, hilarious, whimsical (and since my grandmother passed last week, tragic) ode to her era femininity. There's something seminally 30s-60s about the collection; seminal in its interpretation but seminal as in playing on those same shapes and colors and codes of feminine that came out loud and clear in the age of domestic wealth, domestically, one salary- age of woman woman the creature being

It's a collection that makes me smile, and makes me imagine my grandmother, a generation past of LADY. There's Florida weekends, debutante soirees with the sorority, there's going steady and there's military boys coming up to come down from the florida base to the hometown near you. when there was such a thing as 'introducing' a woman as a woman into her cultural womb, to be recieved





where belles were at their balls and there were such things as grand entrances and exits

I will always remember you strawberry blonde and beautiful and very very tempestuous. Grandma, for your crazy, for my crazy therefore, for your selfishness and naivete which gave way when it mattered to bedrock strength. a struggle, for you, always, because you were brought up to believe in shiny, beautiful things. I hope you arrived in whatever catholic heaven you wished for, divorced and all, to hell with them (in a handbasket) where your body didn't betray itself and you didn't betray all that you sought to preserve. I love you, i love you, i heard you, and you can stop feeling guilty now.

call to arms

Posted: Sunday, June 20, 2010 | | 0 comments

It is a secret which every intellectual man quickly learns, that, beyond the energy of his possessed and conscious intellect, he is capable of a new energy (as of an intellect doubled on itself), by abandonment to the nature of things; that, beside his privacy of power as an individual man, there is a great public power, on which he can draw, by unlocking, at all risks, his human doors, and suffering the ethereal tides to roll and circulate through him: then he is caught up into the life of the Universe, his speech is thunder, his thought is law, and his words are universally intelligible as the plants and animals. The poet knows that he speaks adequately, then, only when he speaks somewhat wildly, or, "with the flower of the mind;" not with the intellect, used as an organ, but with the intellect released from all service, and suffered to take its direction from its celestial life; or, as the ancients were wont to express themselves, not with intellect alone, but with the intellect inebriated by nectar.

Art is the path of the creator to his work. The paths, or methods, are ideal and eternal, though few men ever see them, not the artist himself for years, or for a lifetime, unless he come into the conditions. The painter, the sculptor, the composer, the epic rhapsodist, the orator, all partake one desire, namely, to express themselves symmetrically and abundantly, not dwarfishly and fragmentarily. They found or put themselves in certain conditions, as, the painter and sculptor before some impressive human figures; the orator, into the assembly of the people; and the others, in such scenes as each has found exciting to his intellect; and each presently feels the new desire. He hears a voice, he sees a beckoning. Then he is apprised, with wonder, what herds of daemons hem him in. He can no more rest; he says, with the old painter, "By God, it is in me, and must go forth of me."

Posted: Thursday, June 17, 2010 | | 0 comments

sometimes i wish you heard my unvoix voix without me saying it
and just did something newly impulsive
like come home and draw me a napkin picture

sometimes, i still want to be first as in a primieval primal premier feeling
oh gotta get there
and instead, i am left to my old dreams which are now overworn to fall apart
in the hands, or 4 walled white hells,

and sometimes i wonder if expectations kill it all

and that doesn't sound right, i wish instead.

I AM HERE I AM ME I AM NOT INTERESTING TO YOU
crackle

candle out
and there was something interesting in the WHY of it

i am alone, in lone animate
and i am sick of ringing phones and ALWAYS BEING THE WAITING ONE THE ONE WAITING

i gotta pull so hard from your source I rip,

leI guess.

no more one way convos

i cant want that ibn a way which doesn't want me

VOID OF THE VOIX POST VIVANTE

Posted: Wednesday, June 16, 2010 | | 0 comments


ERUPT

Posted: | | 0 comments

Anticipation; An Aubade

Posted: Friday, May 21, 2010 | | 0 comments


Anticipation; An Aubade


I.

My early joy lying complementary to me;
THE JOURNEYMAN, and These Epic Walkabouts.


and the day-anew, taintless, with its brindled sunshine,
and shadow striations covetous of the liminal objects which shift change
its fundamentals,
Playacting, this something so alive newly and so newly alive!


These Early Joys,
This Sunlight Parquetry

Marvels of the foot-fall variety, a foot upon pavement, tile, foot on and in
 a pine needle bed unmade;
branch-twig-litter-leaf Magnificence, in Mashup
appreciating the sonorities of nature’s collision casualties
gently absurd, and baldly unashamed


Nature Impulsive
whose coquetry blossoms as a perennial flirtation,
author of the ceaseless, fervid, resplendently redundant,
billet-doux
shapeless, eyeless, readerless; receiving end impertinent,
 relevance,
rushed into flame then!
Floosh,
Extinguished.


II.


Protean Walkabouts; Paris, Year Unimportant.

The bravura of this city proper,
properly robs me of my morning obsessionals,
canceled out by dawn’s sun-spotlight, lit, naked, exposed, de-robed
 by
The Full Flush of A Morning


These early joys, and the city in an aubadinal deshabille
Incarnadine, the atmospheric rechauffage
rose rosy rosier by
bursting, buoyant degrees
until the first, coy Day Peep!

Emerging from the dark, a night heavy
and smug with sensuous love, sagging, pregnant, engorged
reckless; vainglorious, and
 bargaining for a delay of dawn’s delicious UP and OUT surging.
and yes, my early joy, these immeasurable microcosms,
DAY PEEP galaxies, alive conceived birthed within
and living then, BEGUN, during
the pause between seconds and half-third-fourth-second partials
those erstwhile halcyon whispers,
those early joys,
those thrumming, humming rumors

Always a Surprise,
down wind
night’s wind-ing down, downwind,
and Nature as the Emancipator: WAKE UP!
a libation, the sudden, burbling, violent arrival of SUN upon MOON,
cycle heavy, the true
Wilderness of the moondeath sunbirth now front (&) center
sauntering minute
luminations, ruminations,
claque one, three,
organic machinations...

rip, roar, Rise;
ripped, rises to roar,
and in a roar,
ripped,

A roar, RIPPED
so that it may 
Rise!.....
...
.
.
 
[dawn].
 
III.

My early joy, being sole confidante to the caress of the first spotlight of a [dawn],
the reveal, the unveiling of man and Journeyman’s alike
Collective FIRST NATURE.
Pre-evasion diversions, neatly and evenly packaged
as detours, the come-off-come-quick-  Let Down.
All of it,
saccharine, cloying, candied and forever afraid of loose lipped liabilities,
full-toned timid, yes forever shy from the nature’s caprice,
of BRIGHT LIGHT retina burnt verity

Here, No, we are not, not yet;
Yes Here, straddling the day’s vital animal eruption
we are quite far from asking a day to
to freely admit its error of including a day’s inevitable sulfur over-under-tones.
No, Here, here is only: to Begin, what is and what will always be
irreverently already Begun.
And we aren’t yet convinced of ourselves, haven’t remembered our SELVES and therefore despite ourself we remember.
Here, Then, and only in these early dawn joys
do we let go,
deshabille, every one of us,
a day blitz pilgrim,
every one of us
every..

[dawn]


V.

In my early joy, I hallucinate you here
whilst pining for various something else-s,
during this natal dawn’s requisite ease off,
a mid-hour turnaround,

How fine! How rare,
these early morning joys, an aubade avalanche,
soft yet persistent,

how Fine, yes, how Rare

my early joy and

THESE INWARD MORNINGS

IV.

Nature Impulsive,
My Early Joy

Awaiting
Anticipating
the
[dawn]



Linguistical, Lugubre

Posted: Thursday, May 20, 2010 | | 0 comments



I wonder if I am in a unique position to notice the variances and metamorphosis the english language has been subject to in the past 50 years, being an etrangere abroad, an expat never quite pre-patriate to begin with. Perhaps even my sad lack of talent in linguistical adaptation has lent me a window into the language of global english that my more adaptive peers have missed. The effects of dissemination, adaptation, of english having to adapt from any native definition of a language in itself, geographically bound and held to dialectic standards...what sort of english is coming across the lines, virally, over telephone wires, in the corner cafe...

There is some phenomenon completely unique to the language that gives me pause when I think of english, "The Language". I came to Europe for people to tell me how irrelevant I was with my heritage and language, and was promptly kicked in the ass by the absolute magnitude of anglo saxon culture as the GLOBAL trans atlantic, pacific, ocean to ocean to country border alike, relevance of english as a median. 

Here, it doesn't matter that I speak with eloquence and delicacy, because english has been swallowed and regurgitated to the point where nuance is either irrelevant or unidentifiable. Perhaps equal parts both. And the state of the native english on its respective, natal soils?...I am now T-2 years uncomprehending. But the linguistic implications for the language strike me as hugely important.... If anything, the time in between has given me the opportunity to revisit paperback teachers with an almost vacuum-state which lends itself solely, conditionally, to some sort of philosophical prime for mental arrivals. To be irrelevant is to be FREE, suddenly, horribly, grotesquely, impossibly, wonderfully, woefully FREE...

and what to do with said freedom?
As a sponge, mid soak, as always. Remain, regenerate, renew.

I do wish there was some study relating to global english in a psych-linguistic context, however. But I dare to bet that these studies will only come much later and much too late after the fact to have any in house relevance to reality as is or will be during the 10 years to follow.

They say cyber space is the the place to create a community; a touchstone for like minds. But I sit back, looking, waiting, as always. Time and place dependent, still hoping for that electric shock to open the mental pores of another mind, that surpasses the normal 21st century questions of dependency or responsibility and draws from that eternal feeling of necessary communion. The base need to be revelations unto themselves, to have collaboration and not acknowledgment, to have heard the clarion call for that exultant existent OTHER..

It might be a major percentage in naiveté, in absolutist youth. But that minor percentage, the latitude and agonizing depth of it, well...can't say I fathom that disappearing in some cloud of smoke resulting from a maturity BOOM either.

So we remain;

A Sponge, MID Soak

Paperback Lessons, Redux

Posted: | | 1 comments









There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's own safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane, he had to fly them. If he flew them, he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to, he was sane and had to. Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle.

"That's some catch, that Catch-22," he observed.

"It's the best there is," Doc Daneeka agreed.

oh dear god, whitman, dear god yes!

Posted: Tuesday, May 11, 2010 | | 0 comments

the lesson the day gave unto me; Whitman

Posted: Monday, May 10, 2010 | | 0 comments

I say the profoundest service that poems or any other writings can do for their reader is not merely to satisfy the intellect, or supply something polish'd and interesting, nor even to depict great passions, or persons or events, but to fill him with vigorous and clean manliness, religiousness, and give him good heart as a radical possession and habit.
Walt Whitman



O Me! O Life!
 
Walt Whitman

O Me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;   
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;   
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who  more faithless?)   
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;   
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;          
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;   
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?   
   
                                                        Answer.

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;   
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

suddenly it was word time once again (monomaniac) redux

Posted: Friday, May 7, 2010 | | 0 comments

Figs


The proper way to eat a fig, in society,
Is to split it in four, holding it by the stump,
And open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist, honied, heavy-petalled four-petalled flower.
 
Then you throw away the skin
Which is just like a four-sepalled calyx,
After you have taken off the blossom, with your lips.
 
But the vulgar way
Is just to put your mouth to the crack, and take out the flesh in one bite.
 
Every fruit has its secret.
 
The fig is a very secretive fruit.
As you see it standing growing, you feel at once it is symbolic :
And it seems male.
But when you come to know it better, you agree with the Romans, it is female.
 
The Italians vulgarly say, it stands for the female part ; the fig-fruit :
The fissure, the yoni,
The wonderful moist conductivity towards the centre.
 
Involved,
Inturned,
The flowering all inward and womb-fibrilled ;
And but one orifice.
 
The fig, the horse-shoe, the squash-blossom.
Symbols.
 
There was a flower that flowered inward, womb-ward ;
Now there is a fruit like a ripe womb.
 
It was always a secret.
That’s how it should be, the female should always be secret.
 
There never was any standing aloft and unfolded on a bough
Like other flowers, in a revelation of petals ;
Silver-pink peach, venetian green glass of medlars and sorb-apples,
Shallow wine-cups on short, bulging stems
Openly pledging heaven :
Here’s to the thorn in flower ! Here is to Utterance !
The brave, adventurous rosaceæ.
 
Folded upon itself, and secret unutterable,
And milky-sapped, sap that curdles milk and makes ricotta,
Sap that smells strange on your fingers, that even goats won’t taste it ;
Folded upon itself, enclosed like any Mohammedan woman,
Its nakedness all within-walls, its flowering forever unseen,
One small way of access only, and this close-curtained from the light ;
Fig, fruit of the female mystery, covert and inward,
Mediterranean fruit, with your covert nakedness,
Where everything happens invisible, flowering and fertilization, and fruiting
In the inwardness of your you, that eye will never see
Till it’s finished, and you’re over-ripe, and you burst to give up your ghost.
 
Till the drop of ripeness exudes,
And the year is over.
 
And then the fig has kept her secret long enough.
So it explodes, and you see through the fissure the scarlet.
And the fig is finished, the year is over.
 
That’s how the fig dies, showing her crimson through the purple slit
Like a wound, the exposure of her secret, on the open day.
Like a prostitute, the bursten fig, making a show of her secret.
 
That’s how women die too.
 
The year is fallen over-ripe,
The year of our women.
The year of our women is fallen over-ripe.
The secret is laid bare.
And rottenness soon sets in.
The year of our women is fallen over-ripe.
 
When Eve once knew in her mind that she was naked
She quickly sewed fig-leaves, and sewed the same for the man.
She’d been naked all her days before,
But till then, till that apple of knowledge, she hadn’t had the fact on her mind.
 
She got the fact on her mind, and quickly sewed fig-leaves.
And women have been sewing ever since.
But now they stitch to adorn the bursten fig, not to cover it.
They have their nakedness more than ever on their mind,
And they won’t let us forget it.
 
Now, the secret
Becomes an affirmation through moist, scarlet lips
That laugh at the Lord’s indignation.
 
What then, good Lord ! cry the women.
We have kept our secret long enough.
We are a ripe fig.
Let us burst into affirmation.
 
They forget, ripe figs won’t keep.
Ripe figs won’t keep.
 
Honey-white figs of the north, black figs with scarlet inside, of the south.
Ripe figs won’t keep, won’t keep in any clime.
What then, when women the world over have all bursten into affirmation ?
And bursten figs won’t keep ?
 

hipstamtic APRIL

Posted: Sunday, May 2, 2010 | | 2 comments