busy signal throbbing;

high sun hazy paris pass-ways 

can take the liquid stain off a morning

terrasse-ing for the sake of terrasse-ing 

is not terrasse-ing

at all


(they could talk, then agree with themselves.)

and the adjectives, they are all wrong

don't get me started on the verbs

skyward // vers le ciel

in the world of the living,

wonderment organizing itself

(announced by) 

its simple existence

flowering, womb-ward

beats its pulse, and this pulse beating

at the first suggestion of

the stirring of new seasons

---

dans le monde des vivants,

émerveillement qui se construit

(ou annoncé par)

son fait d'existence
floraison vers la matrice

bat son pouls, et cet pouls battant

à la première suggestion de

le bouillonnement de saisons nouvelles

springtime's manifesto

Let's get loud, let's get playful.

Let's get in, out and around it and arrive at some other conclusion, yeah?

Let's be a  poet.

Let us be as we are,

let us remember what it is to be so painfully interested in the 

Art Of Being.

The art, and the being. Both simultaneously.

Let's for a moment forget what we are afraid of

and forget about having to arrive at conclusions at all.

Let us, 

let's,

 shall we?

oh, 

YES!

qu'elle dénouait, se dérouler

what she undid, itself to unfold

Somehow, along the line, this fille grew into a girl who is unrecognizable to herself in the frozen still frames of a camera.

Forget mirror image, we can avert the eyes with pathetic practiced ease; but somewhere in the vomit of pixels lies solid (heavy) evidence.

And here all I can grasp are the surface textures which are both the sum and the riddle, everything, is, coming, undone! 

Downy hair on her cheek and she is made of netted skin, a confectionary's quick sharp hand among the most delicate of elements. 

Skin which threatens to dissolve into the given surroundings, any environment, oh yes, any mise en scène, atomizing, this basic blanket for being so ready to dissolve.

Everything's knit, everything's cold. This is a spring that is not for me, winter sits in bones, calcium cold.

The elements, all of them, are harsh, and she is solid and she's making sure to tie all the appropriate knots, but just barely. Just Barely.

And my conclusion is never to give in, my manifesto doesn't include that clause, and so I do the only thing I can do in between this heavy existential freeze; wait for the calamity that follows coming completely undone, and try to relinquish my panicky sentimentality for being whole.

into the green

Étretat

poems of privacy which are ripped from terra firma and put into
we must, cliff-side, make allowances for the dramatic
in the charged white
and amongst low anchored clouds
and the sea's quiet welter
a wave's organic agitation
if i have heart, then a mountain has heart,
if i have eyes then together we look on
perched on chalk hips
and if I have heights, then, our heights
higher
is it just me, i ask spindly cliff cabbages, is it, the sea bleached plaited grass, me
or is spring specifically lacking this year?
is spring a bit sad? less about arrivals than moon and sun pre planning?
but if i have patience,
we have patience
So,
Patience!

Speaking of love (of)

speaking of love (of which Who knows the meaning;or how dreaming becomes if your heart's mind)i guess a grassblade Thinks beyond or around(as poems are made)Our picking it. this caress that laugh both quickly signify life's only half(through deep weather then or none let's feel all)mind in mind flesh In flesh succeeding disappear

you shall above all things...

you shall above all things be glad and young
For if you're young,whatever life you wear

it will become you;and if you are glad
whatever's living will yourself become.
Girlboys may nothing more than boygirls need:
i can entirely her only love

whose any mystery makes every man's
flesh put space on;and his mind take off time

that you should ever think,may god forbid
and (in his mercy) your true lover spare:
for that way knowledge lies,the foetal grave
called progress,and negation's dead undoom.

I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance

I came down yesterday with a dual infection of inspiration at the hands of the painter William Turner and the poet e.e cummings. Is there a link between the two, or am I imagining it up, strand by strand? Because it fits too well, loves, they fit so well.

aha. both were die hard romanticists. What did Nin say? to being full of passion, heroism, the vanishing traits of a people, the quiet fading of that which inspired the above? I think not, good sir.

And so now apparently, at 5 am on a full moon night, I have solemnly pledged to singlehandedly restore the romantic movement.

... really should have seen that one coming. It was inevitable, really.

Oh what an ambitious little dreamer girl I am, I am, I stay.