cracked plastic lookalike glass
"it's one, one more time, it's one more"
time despite the moving street by cars "on, on"
splashed out wreck less ly
staged danced and now gone
"bye, bye you" negative where so
lid meet bare feet "meet me, out holding"
my blanket's wet appearing 'lief tense (sions)
undone (ing) leading paths
moments "bye, you" by one you
Aha. Texting with the dead again, I see. Well, it's always good to keep the lines of communication open. Nice to see that you are still around, even if it's in this slightly disheveled and necrotic state. Is this what happens between incarnations?
Loss has its circuit, its regular travels
here it comes now chugging by
warm white smoke coming out of its stack
just in time it is chugging back
whoo-whoo, whoo-whoo
its got awful news for you
clickety-clack, clickety-clack
lament and sorrow right on track
there is the whistle of the 8:13
just how miserable have you been?
not enough torture and do not know why?
train can promise a fair supply
buy your ticket, find your seat
tap your foot to the hellish beat
whoo-whoo, whoo-whoo
tons of bad news just for you
clickety-clack, clickety-clack
get your whole life on the rack
warm white smoke coming out its stack
listen up it is coming back
whoo-whoo, whoo-whoo
jump right on you will feel so blue
clickety-clack, clickety-clack
if lament and sorrow is what you lack
whispered into templates, one can be splintered into templates, my first love, the everything you are, that piecemeal frame I fail to polish, but the birthday of my first love, the everything you are, you are to fit with the mindset I've absorbed, so here, you were reciprocity, whispered into templates, one can be splintered into templates, one can be the splintered celebration of everything in the numbers that hold in mind, apart from him, advising me of that piecemeal frame I fail to move ahead
The desert of time between each poem, each insight, each plateau of understanding.
The steps towards the poem feel like small epiphanies,
but are not yet the poem; brief shimmers of hope the
poem may still come, while the weary shadowy downpour of doubts continue to dog my path.
Silence encourages me; no discontinuance, no refusal, no
critique, no patronizing, no flattery, no false hope.
The failure to conceive the line captivates me; its remoteness, its beckoning closeness reveals a seductive
movement that stirs me, awakens me, stimulates me;
trapped, frozen, eluded on the verge of something endless, I am wholly alert; ready to pounce.
Is it that the possible, even the improbable but still conceivable, at the moment of composition, offers possibilities so much more appealing than the immediate data of experience- the sensible material for the poem? Is this the appeal of the poetry of place, for example, or the poetry of time:
-I wanted to say it is ok
the dark sky is the way
it is anyway. Night
keeps its own counsel,
muttering to itself in the form
of shapes and shadows.-
Is this the attraction of the poetry of thought; i.e.
-the struggle for the poem is the poetry-or
-it is enchanting to have the time to think-?
Oh, how I miss the idea of pure poetry, I miss it
but I do not want it back; the same way I miss
the poetry of pure words, the poetry of pure
thought, the poetry of pure detail,
the poetry of pure meditation, the poetry of pure revolution,
the poetry of pure nonsense; will I never learn to
miss (let go of) the poetry of poetry, the
poetry of the thought of poetry,
that still continues to beckon, almost
like the surprisingly shocking, patient weave of dawn?
The like, the like the dark sky it revels for the poetry of cense. It is the poured time that steps, it is nonsense, me, wholly alert of how I miss it, but still that data of poems feels like each meandering detail. The poem, each poem, each place, for the poetry of poems are not the sensible, or failures revolutions of the poetry of left dawn. The same way I miss the poem. Is itself in the sensible, or the idea of pure let go, the poetry of poetry of the poetry of composition. Almost like poetics, wholly alert; ready to this, this the idea of poems— isn’t sensible, even in the poetry, the poetry of what will come.
*Not Yet* certainlly meant to call for a poem in response, and thanks, Jordan for responding with such a fine one. Something tells me I'll be responding back to yours... Thanks, Harry, but don't you think At 5 pm, it's easier to wait for the sunset? I like that weave even more... best wishes to you both, Nick
Some said it was the price of Gold.
Others, the bubble
of the Tank market back in '03.
One analyst, ever the self-described
contrarian, even predicted again
that this was "the End of the World."
It caused quite a panic
in Purgatory, Mississippi,
just outside of Crawford, Texas.
But all agreed on one formula -- God
was in short supply --
and investors of all
stripes and checkered pasts,
even Hedge Fund managers at Nature
and Love, rushed to their brokers
to cover their butts
and buy back their shares.
The brokerage houses were soon overun.
The Catholic Church, Baptists,
Hebrews and Muslims, Latter-Day-Saints,
alike, had been selling short
for years to a mysterious plunger.
rumored the reincarnation of J.
Livermore, himself. But
nobody could say for sure.
It was all done electronically,
these days, even the big orders --
War, Drought, Pestilence, Prosperity,
Freedom, Science, Humility, Common
Sense, Pain, Separation of
Heads of State, you name it. IT controlled everything.
Then a Mexican-American-North
American named
Gautama rocked the Religious Derivatives
markets one day with a bonafide
apparition of the evangelist pat robertson
etched on the surface of a sacred
grilled cheese sandwich evidently
holding his, er, um,
wallet in the left hand
of Justice Antonin Scalia. The next
day, the Religious Derivatives market
recovered without anyone saying the word
that takes one of the lord's names in vain.
But God was still in short supply.
All the King men and all the King whores
couldn't put their deities to work anymore.
Some of the most responsible citizens
in society started to downsize
their families.
Finally, everything seemed
on the verge of Chaos. Which
some felt reassuring. Which
others calculated they could take
advantage of. Which was true,
also.
A small accountant about
the size of the late John Denver
appeared, as if by miracle.
She was a virgin, too,
or so she claimed on her taxes
at the IRS.
Some interpolate "cha-ching,
cha-ching, cha-ching" as
music. And some music,
"cha-ching." For others,
it's all one big Chinese
ideogram, and Marx
was a brute and a slob,
whereas Smith was humble,
not intoxicated.
Nonetheless, one aspires to supply
something someday
in demand.
I'll take a Morgan or
a Rockefeller or a Vanderbilt
or a Soros over
Murdoch, Pickens, and Sinclair
anyday.
While Standing at Attention He Stands to Pay Attention
logic, inherently pale,
is balding, half worth its weight,
thus misses the marquee
logic oprima numero dos while logic waits for me first person tingles
logic hinges tissue
impinges on each issue
logic is a norm logic entails
conforms to logic as
conforming loan and koan
logic loaned resembles
logic actual if seasoned
is there logic to the riddle
parable is there a waking
grace is logic peer-reviewed
what time do you have
[1]
"Rhyme with me" she asked. "Interpret who I am."
[2]
An early scent retains the mood of afternoon in foremind:
light cast across visible sea astride the tachometric readings of expended energy
[3]
Sew fibers into cloth to wear.
[4]
"All I ask is that you pave me with your youth, that you indulge yourself in indices of faith to offer shares of mercy when the time comes to be separate, when the wind elides to change pronunciation."
[5]
The noticed various dissembles.
[6]
Treatment clouds the judgment in a rush and hurts in tune with fill dirt
that would amplify uneven bedrock.
[7]
Oils no longer capture what is felt.
[8]
Oversight includes unwelcome neglect and the authority
to watch progress first-hand, immerse cohabiting life forms
in these forms of interaction.
The bank or extramural, just to begin the chomping at midday, just the game. No currency in that. Besides, the reward, given at midday, is a few candlesticks and they're out.
Gorgeous the daily dreams, the auburn
the strawberry blond and the emerald
red relief from these the every-
day mirages
of meaning hourly labor compounds.
Some few which warrant so much
as symbolic realization. Some fewer still
which prove true
at any extraordinarily smashing times
and spaces. Yet where else
must there be the cold hard
splash of deferred sleep and what
of deep necessity honestly should keep
pace. The hours and the days march
on they say. The starched shirt drapes
a wrinkle here three more the week
following. And at night it all retires
or social insecurity retreats and spouses
and companions share defiance
when they're wise.
{tumbling under the waves}
Inkstone Hand Mirror Chrysanthemum
{handsome forgery of being}
Red Edges Letter of Flying Fish
{sometimes just drifting}
Illustrated Scroll with Gold and Silver Imaginary Animal
{back where the bed is laid}
Mother-of-Pearl Angular-shouldered Water Jar
{now and then a gentle crutch}
Screen of Male and Female Waves
{too much sleeping, not enough}
Go ahead! Make my day gray and paint it back
and boo with your indivisible talons,
in the traditions that refashion a latest waste
land. Sprinkle it with doo and some French
whine That will still be burning bright in hot
Guyana two millenia from now. Don't
get all potted and bothered by O'Hara's,
those fleshy in the sand occasions only
occuring once in a lunchtime. I repeat,
Stick it to your times with the all time poets'
recurrent song and then you'll belong Right
up there with the rest of the dead societies.
I'll put my mind to it - he was in his twenties so his mum can't have been that old.
she wasn't Norman Bates' frail old sweet mother, she didn't smell like lavender and she didn't wear cardigans.
she had no walking stick and she didn't wear tan stockings gone baggy at the ankle.
I've seen mothers like her - they wear tracksuits and their hair is short and sometimes they dye it.
She had him young and she's worked hard and yelled at him in shopping centres, making his name hard and pointed maybe his name was something like
"Jay-sun!" or
"Day-ved!" or
"My-cool!"
there were lines around her eyes and she was starting to roll at the belly and her tits were saggy but that happened years ago when she put them into the mouths of her babies, she put the milk of her body into the mouths of her babies, and her eyes weren't lined then and she might have smiled a little but felt sad, sad, sad while she put the milk of her body into her son's mouth, the mouth of her baby
(part of a much longer, very hastily written, very dark piece. I would really appreciate some feedback on this one, if anyone has time)
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