Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

A look will set you free—a look at truth. B ecause the book is written, you will read. C ompulsive searching doesn’t make a sleuth. D iscovery descends from knowing need. E viction doesn’t equal exodus. F orsaking duty doesn’t equal free. G reed’s green is not what colors graciousness. H ell’s hate...

Prima. This is prima.

This is the children's book kids don't get...that I want to underscore with meaning, but can't define too clearly within my personal canon.

Inspiring. Thanks. A lot.

And what is black in this poem...powerful, recurring, evasive, in focus and not requiring definition but longing for clarity and hidden in shadows behind depth and wonder? What's the black ness? How I can I meet it, say hello and ask it questions? Where is the enlightening black that backs us up? I...

I like that this is happening "again"--the finite speaking, the ultimate experience, but the history inherent within.

Flypaper breaks my heart...at least as much, if not more, than gluetraps for rats and mice...not that I like either one. But vermin are trapped in their element, on the ground, in corners and in shadows and filth. But flies...even though they're born in crap and like to play around on corpses...flie...

How can I remove the respeck in my brother's eye, when I have a log of doodie in my own?

Fruits of redemption and cobs of corn
are peeked upon where husks are torn.
Something's rejected, something's worn:
remove rejection, we're reborn.

I have a hook in each poetic foot,
a baker's spectrum dozen kind of light;
I had a shot to place what I would put
away with you who blew away blue bright.

The Holy One says as much: that One will be the one who wipes away all tears...but in a place where there is no crying...which begs the question: is the Holy One a liar or an advocate of truth within its paradoxical complexity? And that's supposed to be our image's origin....

revolutionrabbit wrote:I don't know how I feel about it after i let it be posted.
earning the last line.

I didn't post, but I allowed: life's not whated, only howed.

danke. gracias.

She said it happened when her Dick went limp. He’d never been the biggest, but was strong enough—had never been that tall, but reached to levels she could never reach herself. His trunk had definition more than bulk and held a head that swelled beyond its means. Her Dick went limp; she now asked wha...

We grant the blessed Mary prays for us, but no—she doesn’t take our souls in death or conquer death or more give life. Were thus the case, on what would Jesus spend his breath? She’s worthy of the highest honor; nonetheless, she doesn’t claim equality with Christ, but wants humanity to understand th...

There's music to this? (Strike my question mark; it's a fact.)

Your beauty is a foreign language. You communicate intangibility like tiny birds who whistle once and dart away forever, never letting their improvisation scat be catalogued like lovesongs overplayed in stereo. Your beauty is a tongue I don’t possess within my mouth; I love it nonetheless. I love yo...