Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

The telephone booth was my rocket ship to the moon
strange my surrealist initiation should begin there
the phone booth was on a street that pointed to the ocean
I could hear the roller coaster in the background
this was the same street I lived on like a time traveler
in a small apartment with surrealist art decking the shabby walls
photos of great artists I found in old books I got cheap
This is where I wrote my first real breakthrough poem
I would stay up all night reading about poets and artists
reading the most obscure novels by gothic writers
I would hallucinate on the surrealist studded walls
and soon my dreams were passing through those very walls
I was dreaming that I was writing poetry and painting great paintings
sometimes I would walk on the street that pointed at the ocean
in the deep night with great poems raging in my head
and great art that I knew would be the end of me one day
I would stand on the edge of the cliff and watch the sea call to me
that night in the phone booth I heard the words of the word alchemist
and I felt a mist from the parlors of the sea and the French cafe
of the real dreamers of the impossible poetic marvelous
his voice invited me to enter the royal city of golden lights
I woke the next day with very strange writing on the empty page

narrative to fit a magical rebirth
'imposssible poetic marvelous' - there is no finer description

his words were...*do the impossible"

poetics, or the poetic marvelous

Insightful and well script work.

a convergence of creative consciousness
beyond the tin can static of rhetoric
seems we were briefly onto something
pointed to oceans across our slice of time
within them, beyond them, before them
we were onto something...

groovy = i like this= EXPALINS QUITE A BIT ABOUT YOU- i thought that was funny- no i really liked it

actually, i don't know what explains anything about me.

i talked to a famous poet on the telephone
i was 21 and i was trying to make myself into a poet.
i could never be like him, i could only take what he said
to me as a kind of initiation, and spend the rest of my life
trying to carry on the torch. I was not a anointed one
like him, i was just a very sensitive young man trying
to find my way through the psychic landscape.I always
go back to that night and try to visualize his words.
i consider myself a surrealist, however i have always
been very experimental, so to carry on where the surrealists
and various fellow travelers have come and gone, and make it my own.
it's funny, i was in a car crash today, the car was totaled, some guy
in a truck was turning in my lane and i put the brakes on and smacked
the back end of the truck. I was thinking about a poetry class i took
in jr collage, called poetry of death today, and today i almost kissed it good by.
To think that poetry is the only thing that keeps me going, and i will never
get my writing out there except on this site, and another place where i post poetry. nobody will ever know i wrote a poetic novel. Being a poet is a lonely
existence, but i would never trade it in.My beautiful life mate knew that. my chest
hurts like i was kicked by a small horse, i was thinking i might die in my sleep, but i think
i will make it through the night, just a lot of pain in my chest. Oh, i saw the light, thank
buddha for air bags.

my throat burns- the cat just wandered in- it is late- i quite fancy this write- and i thank you for it-

Surreal experiences
More than a pillow
More than a melting clock day
The, "There's no need to explain."
Real nice write

craig man, my thoughts are with you, my
positive energy, may your pain subside, and
your bad canyon road open to sunlight
just to be alive, a great and hard gift

the poet sees under pavement
ear to the rock, the long voice, a wave
from outer worlds breaking in wild surf
the transcendant jewel point
backlit dust of angel glow
smoky old jukebox tome
soft orange salt breeze
the long voice
comes through

Well, i made it through the night
so it's now just waiting to heal

thanks, for the thought, from poet to poet.

miracle of existence
with every breath
pain and wonder

everyday i say over and over to myself

Meryl, every moment I was with you was a miracle

she loved Leonard Cohen

So Long, Marianne...it's time that we began....

Revolution R, What a wonderful cathartic process you appeared to go through.
Overnight, as you wrote your thoughts, something dreamlike appeared on the page...
Kudos, for capturing these thoughts

wow - the car thing- ouch- i recently fell asleep at the wheel and went into the bushes-
i hope that you heal up- it totally shook me up- ah but how are loves appear when we are in pain... i understood
peaceful dreams- go to the doctor and get checked out k - no more dead poets this year allowed