March 4-5 (23 in 24)
Posted: March 5th, 2005, 4:38 pm
22 pieces I wrote in 24-hours at the What-it-is Word Jam at the Scroll yesterday and today. It's way too long to read so you don't have to read it. LOL! 
But seriously... start anywhere if you want, read a little if you want... or it can be read as one composition (I hope)
edit - whoops.. had 'em numbered wrong.. there are 23 pieces (or is it 1?)
--------------------
1.
What it is
is just what it
has always been
only not the same
at all since what it is
is continual magnetic
flux. We are but
charged particles in motion
our force measured only by the
strength of our connection.
2.
I have listened to the siren
chant relentless intonations.
She sits on a ship's bow, her
back arched to bellow air currents,
her voice, a beacon to a sailor's
mission. I have heard her call him.
He points his vessel toward her and
in turn, I become a sea nymph,
luring him with song so he will return
unharmed. Rocks watch him avoid
collision. Gulls enjoy a hardy
laugh.
3.
We are interconnected electronic
ions, radiated matter by centrifugal energy,
We are the analysis itself of the motion of
mere objects approaching each other from the
perspective of displacement, each with the perception
of an entirely unique scheme. No predictions
can be made about the final state of our union
without properly calculating the equation, though
we do know the resulting velocity will be our
primary function. We whirl about each other, an
effect of a dance of matter....
And we do.
Yes, we do.
4.
I assume nothing but the position
to assume all things. I label myself
incompetent at discovery. I discover
all things through smell, taste, hand-held
reasons. I feel my way around walled spaces,
fingers caressing plaster corners until I find
a switch to turn the current on. Light is my
closest friend and most dire enemy.
Visibility clears nothing other than air.
How unfair is truth?
How unfair is blind vision?
How unfair is my decision
to bleed by piercing my
decision to bleed directly
in the gut?
I have marked the spot on my chest
with an X. I inspect the two lines I've drawn
which intersect directly at the apex of
my sternum. I kill myself with judgement.
Who am I to speak?
Who am I to allow the label I have
pasted on my breast to attest worth?
Birth confounds me.
Comfort annoys my purpose.
I am a solitary voice, each syllable
echoing off the space between
each syllable echoing off the space
between each syllable.
I sentence myself to
confinement within a
paragraph.
How unfair is each turn of a leaf?
But, ah, how following pages
insist on a turn! I am unedited
corrected text.
5.
Love is a cruel crimson maiden.
Sorrow swells her lids;
her salt-soaked cheeks regret
the win and loss, win and loss;
Her skin is sweet like pomegranates,
She lures you with lavender yet
Acrid is the scent of her perfume.
She tempts you with wildflowers
and a tender touch of fingertips to
palms and profile.
Love is a coquette, a vamp.
Her irises are candlelight.
They toy with hope with the
enticement of a snake charmer.
She lures you to believe.
She lures you to believe.
Love resides in a prison cell
decked out in the grandeur of
luxurious fabrics; satin covers
her body, silk decorates her windows.
She is a philanderer, a minx.
But oh, when you sink
your teeth into her flavor,
oh when you taste
her savory pleasure....
Love is a delicacy!
A fragility! A perfection!
Follow her when she summons!
Accompany her when she gestures!
Come to her when she nods!
Allow her escape when she flees and
she will call you again, donning an
unfamiliar face and red velvet
gown!
6.
Words make scents –
to linger in air currents,
persuading love to open
like lotus blossoms.
7.
what it is
is a knife shiv unloosed,
a stab into a black hole,
a shot-put launched at an
unspecific angle, the
physics of miracles, he,
she there and here,
synchronized by an upright
walking bass, tunes upon tunes,
melodies wrapped into each other
like a dna diagram, a litmus test,
a mobius strip strung around itself,
your sounds making music with the
rhythm between empty notes, mine
becoming a magnitude of error,
syntax blending parallel universes
into recorded sound we hear
only inside unfamiliar nods, gestures
of miracle madness.
8.
Nature is a fickle beast,
a devil delighted by temporary
servitude, motion, its adversary,
seasonal moon pulls dervished,
always a resolution, each time a fade,
autumn dispersed from branches,
limbs bearing fruit, spring emergence,
summer heat. Love is nature's veil,
every solstice, a virtue, a desire.
9.
Desire burned a whole in the heart
of a saint. He pocketed madness
with his keychain, linked it adjacent to
his top-lock key, threw the watch out
into rivertide onto a barge below,
dove in after it from a two story bridge,
impaled his heart on a rusty nail,
face turned up to suck in
silt and debris.
10.
I spun the fallen twist of a
turned word on a spindle, cracked the
rock of the axis of a roll of a phrase,
found two hearts melded like a card-game
hand, singular sets doubled,
lust soothed into caress, teared on a sheet,
and I licked off love to heal the ooze of an
aorta bleed, came into the orbit of he and me,
our bed, our sanctuary.
11.
I have captured rainbow prisms in
mason jars, kept them safe by breathing
auras into the holes I made with pinpoint
wisdom, the cap sealed with suction by a
rubber love connection on a glass heart.
Nightdreams are spectrum memories.
Give me a magnifying glass.
I will examine the prism prisoned to
report back discoveries. I will ink them
on charts, as required, for your perusal.
If you find my findings justify my findings,
please implore me to attempt to describe why
I have decided that the capture was
imperative to the expansion of hues.
I have captured rainbow prisms in
mason jars, but this is, to me, not news.
It is invention. It is penetration.
It is the coloring of universal
matter.
12.
bring me whole-wheat toast on a clam
halfshell, cream-spread the dawn with an
a la carte moon and i will stir tomorrow with
soft suggestions and sushi-crunch, in a meager
attempt at as for me, rushed in after weary
break, morning, my suggestion
13.
gold is glittered on the angels
of pen wings.
those who must fly,
do.
14.
rat-a-tat
rat-a-tat hit man blasted
pincushioned holes in a nightsky,
satellite moon daze, the floodlight.
we dance on terra cotta, shed fabrics,
clothes strewn in a ritual pattern –
worship love's resurrection with
a nature leap, hands held high
circularly embraced.
we taste death's probability,
curse it with unison chants,
rat-a-tat
rat-a-tat,
become hitmen
brandishing machine gun
rounds, determined to spray
holes in a dark veil to
allow love to seep through.
tiny streams of light.
tiny streams of light.
rat-a-tat.
rat-a-tat.
15.
All the love I ever had
sleeps in the pinpoint of
a second hand –
A broken pocketwatch,
chained to a belt loop.
Denim blues
bleached. Lived-in.
Torn. Ripped.
Ticktocktick.
Love is a slick
mistress.
16.
I can remember the hum of
poets, the New York City
skyline a silhouette backdrop,
staged improv, we paced, our
metered feet sans choreography,
less than a chance of a blank verse,
less than a chance of an unrhymed stanza,
we challenged love with offense,
we sang with the beat of Wisdom.
She was an urchin, begging quarter-time
with a tin cup. We dropped in our offerings,
clang, clang, the hum of poets voices,
angelic, pained. We pierced the
palms and crossed ankles of a Poet dead,
crucified him 'til our blood dripped from
his side and he arose, Sunday morning,
a choir praised grace while Wisdom
shook the coins. I can remember the
hum of echoed voices off the skyscraper
where we nailed him.
17.
Choice is the
child of dare and clockwork.
We remind ourselves of lost
options by archiving photographs
and film projected on an interior eyelid.
Did it happen at all?
Can we rewind it?
Where is his hand now?
Is it stroking the skin of a newborn?
Is it pulling the trigger of a pistol?
Is it wringing the other in despair?
Is it playing a woodwind? A chime?
Where are her eyes now?
Are they observing swans?
Are they witnessing murder?
Come back to the theatre.
Let us watch together.
Rewind the reel.
Choice is a grown child.
He challenges memory with
a photo album, faded, yellowed,
dog-eared, an unfortunate offspring.
18.
If I could meet Sartre or Camus,
I'd ask them what they meant
what was their intent,
and if they now know something new.
In any event, I'm quite certain
they've discovered what's on
the other side of the curtain.
19.
finely chop up verbs, 2 cups,
add a pint of nouns,
sprinkle a dash of metaphor,
stir in 1/2 a tablespoon of assonance,
crumble in 2 teaspoons of interior rhyme,
pour in slowly 1 gallon boiling passion,
wisk over a high flame until
it comes to a full boil,
simmer for an hour,
serve warm in hand-thrown pottery vessels
painted with several delicate sweeps
of a japanese brush in multiple hues.
Word soup.
20.
Words can create balance
in an unweighed package.
We are all equal.
Words can tear down cities,
annihilate lives, murder civilians.
You are with us or against us.
Words can instill acceptance.
I love you in spite of your wicked
eyes and the way you attempt to
intimidate, to argue with walls.
Words can inspire, captivate.
Dance with me on the roof and
we can fly together arm-in-arm
to galaxies.
Words can share discoveries.
Did you know that?
Use them wisely.
Use them with care.
21.
We are histograms on a relative frequency
composed of different values of a particular variable.
We are jetstreams, dependent upon the energy
of quarks and gluons. We emerge from a collision –
matter and antimatter – materialized as a unique event.
We are particles which affect violent impact
in peaceful asymmetry with the universe
At our nucleus, we have an electric charge
We are colliding-beam experiments
collectively assembled in a circular accelerator.
Our high-energy spin cannot be neutral.
We have net charge larger than zero.
We are the sum of the masses, individuals
becoming more than the entirety of each.
22.
We are the word – an engaged
creation of visible thought.
Dust becomes human with
a breath or yes into mud.
We arose from water, fins
no longer necessary.
We speak since we must.
We are, due to language.
We are the word, absorbed,
occupied, meshed.
23.
It is what it is.
It was, is, will be.
It is finished.
But seriously... start anywhere if you want, read a little if you want... or it can be read as one composition (I hope)edit - whoops.. had 'em numbered wrong.. there are 23 pieces (or is it 1?)
--------------------
1.
What it is
is just what it
has always been
only not the same
at all since what it is
is continual magnetic
flux. We are but
charged particles in motion
our force measured only by the
strength of our connection.
2.
I have listened to the siren
chant relentless intonations.
She sits on a ship's bow, her
back arched to bellow air currents,
her voice, a beacon to a sailor's
mission. I have heard her call him.
He points his vessel toward her and
in turn, I become a sea nymph,
luring him with song so he will return
unharmed. Rocks watch him avoid
collision. Gulls enjoy a hardy
laugh.
3.
We are interconnected electronic
ions, radiated matter by centrifugal energy,
We are the analysis itself of the motion of
mere objects approaching each other from the
perspective of displacement, each with the perception
of an entirely unique scheme. No predictions
can be made about the final state of our union
without properly calculating the equation, though
we do know the resulting velocity will be our
primary function. We whirl about each other, an
effect of a dance of matter....
And we do.
Yes, we do.
4.
I assume nothing but the position
to assume all things. I label myself
incompetent at discovery. I discover
all things through smell, taste, hand-held
reasons. I feel my way around walled spaces,
fingers caressing plaster corners until I find
a switch to turn the current on. Light is my
closest friend and most dire enemy.
Visibility clears nothing other than air.
How unfair is truth?
How unfair is blind vision?
How unfair is my decision
to bleed by piercing my
decision to bleed directly
in the gut?
I have marked the spot on my chest
with an X. I inspect the two lines I've drawn
which intersect directly at the apex of
my sternum. I kill myself with judgement.
Who am I to speak?
Who am I to allow the label I have
pasted on my breast to attest worth?
Birth confounds me.
Comfort annoys my purpose.
I am a solitary voice, each syllable
echoing off the space between
each syllable echoing off the space
between each syllable.
I sentence myself to
confinement within a
paragraph.
How unfair is each turn of a leaf?
But, ah, how following pages
insist on a turn! I am unedited
corrected text.
5.
Love is a cruel crimson maiden.
Sorrow swells her lids;
her salt-soaked cheeks regret
the win and loss, win and loss;
Her skin is sweet like pomegranates,
She lures you with lavender yet
Acrid is the scent of her perfume.
She tempts you with wildflowers
and a tender touch of fingertips to
palms and profile.
Love is a coquette, a vamp.
Her irises are candlelight.
They toy with hope with the
enticement of a snake charmer.
She lures you to believe.
She lures you to believe.
Love resides in a prison cell
decked out in the grandeur of
luxurious fabrics; satin covers
her body, silk decorates her windows.
She is a philanderer, a minx.
But oh, when you sink
your teeth into her flavor,
oh when you taste
her savory pleasure....
Love is a delicacy!
A fragility! A perfection!
Follow her when she summons!
Accompany her when she gestures!
Come to her when she nods!
Allow her escape when she flees and
she will call you again, donning an
unfamiliar face and red velvet
gown!
6.
Words make scents –
to linger in air currents,
persuading love to open
like lotus blossoms.
7.
what it is
is a knife shiv unloosed,
a stab into a black hole,
a shot-put launched at an
unspecific angle, the
physics of miracles, he,
she there and here,
synchronized by an upright
walking bass, tunes upon tunes,
melodies wrapped into each other
like a dna diagram, a litmus test,
a mobius strip strung around itself,
your sounds making music with the
rhythm between empty notes, mine
becoming a magnitude of error,
syntax blending parallel universes
into recorded sound we hear
only inside unfamiliar nods, gestures
of miracle madness.
8.
Nature is a fickle beast,
a devil delighted by temporary
servitude, motion, its adversary,
seasonal moon pulls dervished,
always a resolution, each time a fade,
autumn dispersed from branches,
limbs bearing fruit, spring emergence,
summer heat. Love is nature's veil,
every solstice, a virtue, a desire.
9.
Desire burned a whole in the heart
of a saint. He pocketed madness
with his keychain, linked it adjacent to
his top-lock key, threw the watch out
into rivertide onto a barge below,
dove in after it from a two story bridge,
impaled his heart on a rusty nail,
face turned up to suck in
silt and debris.
10.
I spun the fallen twist of a
turned word on a spindle, cracked the
rock of the axis of a roll of a phrase,
found two hearts melded like a card-game
hand, singular sets doubled,
lust soothed into caress, teared on a sheet,
and I licked off love to heal the ooze of an
aorta bleed, came into the orbit of he and me,
our bed, our sanctuary.
11.
I have captured rainbow prisms in
mason jars, kept them safe by breathing
auras into the holes I made with pinpoint
wisdom, the cap sealed with suction by a
rubber love connection on a glass heart.
Nightdreams are spectrum memories.
Give me a magnifying glass.
I will examine the prism prisoned to
report back discoveries. I will ink them
on charts, as required, for your perusal.
If you find my findings justify my findings,
please implore me to attempt to describe why
I have decided that the capture was
imperative to the expansion of hues.
I have captured rainbow prisms in
mason jars, but this is, to me, not news.
It is invention. It is penetration.
It is the coloring of universal
matter.
12.
bring me whole-wheat toast on a clam
halfshell, cream-spread the dawn with an
a la carte moon and i will stir tomorrow with
soft suggestions and sushi-crunch, in a meager
attempt at as for me, rushed in after weary
break, morning, my suggestion
13.
gold is glittered on the angels
of pen wings.
those who must fly,
do.
14.
rat-a-tat
rat-a-tat hit man blasted
pincushioned holes in a nightsky,
satellite moon daze, the floodlight.
we dance on terra cotta, shed fabrics,
clothes strewn in a ritual pattern –
worship love's resurrection with
a nature leap, hands held high
circularly embraced.
we taste death's probability,
curse it with unison chants,
rat-a-tat
rat-a-tat,
become hitmen
brandishing machine gun
rounds, determined to spray
holes in a dark veil to
allow love to seep through.
tiny streams of light.
tiny streams of light.
rat-a-tat.
rat-a-tat.
15.
All the love I ever had
sleeps in the pinpoint of
a second hand –
A broken pocketwatch,
chained to a belt loop.
Denim blues
bleached. Lived-in.
Torn. Ripped.
Ticktocktick.
Love is a slick
mistress.
16.
I can remember the hum of
poets, the New York City
skyline a silhouette backdrop,
staged improv, we paced, our
metered feet sans choreography,
less than a chance of a blank verse,
less than a chance of an unrhymed stanza,
we challenged love with offense,
we sang with the beat of Wisdom.
She was an urchin, begging quarter-time
with a tin cup. We dropped in our offerings,
clang, clang, the hum of poets voices,
angelic, pained. We pierced the
palms and crossed ankles of a Poet dead,
crucified him 'til our blood dripped from
his side and he arose, Sunday morning,
a choir praised grace while Wisdom
shook the coins. I can remember the
hum of echoed voices off the skyscraper
where we nailed him.
17.
Choice is the
child of dare and clockwork.
We remind ourselves of lost
options by archiving photographs
and film projected on an interior eyelid.
Did it happen at all?
Can we rewind it?
Where is his hand now?
Is it stroking the skin of a newborn?
Is it pulling the trigger of a pistol?
Is it wringing the other in despair?
Is it playing a woodwind? A chime?
Where are her eyes now?
Are they observing swans?
Are they witnessing murder?
Come back to the theatre.
Let us watch together.
Rewind the reel.
Choice is a grown child.
He challenges memory with
a photo album, faded, yellowed,
dog-eared, an unfortunate offspring.
18.
If I could meet Sartre or Camus,
I'd ask them what they meant
what was their intent,
and if they now know something new.
In any event, I'm quite certain
they've discovered what's on
the other side of the curtain.
19.
finely chop up verbs, 2 cups,
add a pint of nouns,
sprinkle a dash of metaphor,
stir in 1/2 a tablespoon of assonance,
crumble in 2 teaspoons of interior rhyme,
pour in slowly 1 gallon boiling passion,
wisk over a high flame until
it comes to a full boil,
simmer for an hour,
serve warm in hand-thrown pottery vessels
painted with several delicate sweeps
of a japanese brush in multiple hues.
Word soup.
20.
Words can create balance
in an unweighed package.
We are all equal.
Words can tear down cities,
annihilate lives, murder civilians.
You are with us or against us.
Words can instill acceptance.
I love you in spite of your wicked
eyes and the way you attempt to
intimidate, to argue with walls.
Words can inspire, captivate.
Dance with me on the roof and
we can fly together arm-in-arm
to galaxies.
Words can share discoveries.
Did you know that?
Use them wisely.
Use them with care.
21.
We are histograms on a relative frequency
composed of different values of a particular variable.
We are jetstreams, dependent upon the energy
of quarks and gluons. We emerge from a collision –
matter and antimatter – materialized as a unique event.
We are particles which affect violent impact
in peaceful asymmetry with the universe
At our nucleus, we have an electric charge
We are colliding-beam experiments
collectively assembled in a circular accelerator.
Our high-energy spin cannot be neutral.
We have net charge larger than zero.
We are the sum of the masses, individuals
becoming more than the entirety of each.
22.
We are the word – an engaged
creation of visible thought.
Dust becomes human with
a breath or yes into mud.
We arose from water, fins
no longer necessary.
We speak since we must.
We are, due to language.
We are the word, absorbed,
occupied, meshed.
23.
It is what it is.
It was, is, will be.
It is finished.
That's a riot! heh... scares me... and I'm fearless! 
