and is the sun tall enough yet
to give shadows to the trees?
listen closely to the trees, they
whisper love songs in the shadows.
Mile Marker Zion
Moderator: the mingo
spiders in the shadows
in the songs
in the love...
when the crows die
& fall from the sky
the spiders will web the feathered bodies
and lay their eggs on
the dead bird's eyes
new shadows will come
new songs will be sung
the rock will roll with
smoking locomotive incantations
for the little ones when they break out
will immediately begin feeding
in the songs
in the love...
when the crows die
& fall from the sky
the spiders will web the feathered bodies
and lay their eggs on
the dead bird's eyes
new shadows will come
new songs will be sung
the rock will roll with
smoking locomotive incantations
for the little ones when they break out
will immediately begin feeding
Doll, you may have found a place of rest but I'm still on the trail.
Georgia O'Keefe in the Afterworld
Georgia O'Keefe in the Afterworld
Doll, you may have found a place of rest but I'm still on the trail.
The Waitresses of Heaven
streetlight eternities
saxophone cemeteries
blown kingdoms
tender skulled women
hungry & wild for
want of pavement
or a saint's semen
or the time spent roadside
brooding upon gibberish
while pilgriming towards prayer
radiant & unshaven,
hallucinating, weeping,
volcanic with sunrise
barefoot by dusk
snatch tenements
giggling jails
their hysterical jukebox bellies
disgorging manuscripts
plotting lobotomies
and suicide from the womb
madhoused by memories
by pregnancies
by sanity
by gymnasiums
obscened with pure basement jazz
visionary with growing eyes
& done with starving
streetlight eternities
saxophone cemeteries
blown kingdoms
tender skulled women
hungry & wild for
want of pavement
or a saint's semen
or the time spent roadside
brooding upon gibberish
while pilgriming towards prayer
radiant & unshaven,
hallucinating, weeping,
volcanic with sunrise
barefoot by dusk
snatch tenements
giggling jails
their hysterical jukebox bellies
disgorging manuscripts
plotting lobotomies
and suicide from the womb
madhoused by memories
by pregnancies
by sanity
by gymnasiums
obscened with pure basement jazz
visionary with growing eyes
& done with starving
Doll, you may have found a place of rest but I'm still on the trail.
Of course, I'm not serious. Opera is serious but this is not opera & I'm not serious. It's more like an old rail line that has not been used for 40 years. The woods on either side of the tracks are all grown up now & the ghosts are all grown up too. Textbox = sandbox is what I'm saying. At present there are icicles outside the window. The birds perch on them. There will be no icicles come April. The birds will find other perches.
sucking on rain bones
spitting out the seeds
this is what I'm thinking:
moccasin dreams
Unexpected directions. That's the ticket. It is best to travel light in the country of unexpected directions. No politics, no hammer points, no spare toothbrush, no ghosts. Forget everything, then forget that you have forgotten.
The news is bored today
she changed into a birdlike hobo
innovative with a child's logic
cooing among the casualness
spitting, looking for a fight
stuffing writhing phrases & go-going music
into doorways of big rainy spin
while sucking a blind saxophone's vertical notes
deep into her smooth hot lipped flashing neon throat
streaking the dark with complex self indulgence
and glittering broadcasts
Stories are for the telling. It's snowing now. The snow is a story. Where it came from is a story. How it got here is a story. Its falling is a story. Its piling up on the ground is a story. Its melting away is a story. Me seeing all this is a story. Spoken or written, paragraph or poem. Got story? Tell me.
Seriously.
Bird Story -
I have a small stone here that I picked up on the lakeshore I don't remember how long ago. It caught my eye. Tomorrow I'm going to paint the words "Other Perch" upon it & put it on a fencepost. Come April after the snow has gone away the birds will find it. They will light on it & look around & sing.
Don't worry. It's not like joining the Army. Or even the National Guard. Of course you won't get any money towards your education either but what is an education if not a drawing out, a bringing forth? Education = a calling out.
sucking on rain bones
spitting out the seeds
this is what I'm thinking:
moccasin dreams
Unexpected directions. That's the ticket. It is best to travel light in the country of unexpected directions. No politics, no hammer points, no spare toothbrush, no ghosts. Forget everything, then forget that you have forgotten.
The news is bored today
she changed into a birdlike hobo
innovative with a child's logic
cooing among the casualness
spitting, looking for a fight
stuffing writhing phrases & go-going music
into doorways of big rainy spin
while sucking a blind saxophone's vertical notes
deep into her smooth hot lipped flashing neon throat
streaking the dark with complex self indulgence
and glittering broadcasts
Stories are for the telling. It's snowing now. The snow is a story. Where it came from is a story. How it got here is a story. Its falling is a story. Its piling up on the ground is a story. Its melting away is a story. Me seeing all this is a story. Spoken or written, paragraph or poem. Got story? Tell me.
Seriously.
Bird Story -
I have a small stone here that I picked up on the lakeshore I don't remember how long ago. It caught my eye. Tomorrow I'm going to paint the words "Other Perch" upon it & put it on a fencepost. Come April after the snow has gone away the birds will find it. They will light on it & look around & sing.
Don't worry. It's not like joining the Army. Or even the National Guard. Of course you won't get any money towards your education either but what is an education if not a drawing out, a bringing forth? Education = a calling out.
Doll, you may have found a place of rest but I'm still on the trail.
Wedding
the torment of windows
hole of glass in the mad hours of the wall
the toad at the bridal altar
insane vows ruined with rhyme
pocket tears
devil slave carnival
horse bedrooms boasted into the phantasma
the bride at "I Do" with the tooth of an autumn wolf
hidden beneath her breast and the
wind trembling at the church door
each consonant an embryo of
the superstition to come
the torment of windows
hole of glass in the mad hours of the wall
the toad at the bridal altar
insane vows ruined with rhyme
pocket tears
devil slave carnival
horse bedrooms boasted into the phantasma
the bride at "I Do" with the tooth of an autumn wolf
hidden beneath her breast and the
wind trembling at the church door
each consonant an embryo of
the superstition to come
Doll, you may have found a place of rest but I'm still on the trail.
many potent words falling onto the monitor this week, el mingo.
your imaginings running the gamut in a
splendiferous decoy opera from 1836
when the smells were young and the
visions came on like neon ghosts
flattering the reader with almond cookies
btw: thx for looking at the banner.
i used to do that but it became so
yesteryear that it wreaked of mold
from within a seaman's trunk that
held secrets nobody wanted to know
and now i write in search of other sights
that i'm more likely to be familiar with
during spring dust storms that whistle droughts
on balconies made out of 3/4 inch plywood.
keep up the autobiographical work... it's damn fine
your imaginings running the gamut in a
splendiferous decoy opera from 1836
when the smells were young and the
visions came on like neon ghosts
flattering the reader with almond cookies
btw: thx for looking at the banner.
i used to do that but it became so
yesteryear that it wreaked of mold
from within a seaman's trunk that
held secrets nobody wanted to know
and now i write in search of other sights
that i'm more likely to be familiar with
during spring dust storms that whistle droughts
on balconies made out of 3/4 inch plywood.
keep up the autobiographical work... it's damn fine
_________________________________
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Allow not destiny to intrude upon Now
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Allow not destiny to intrude upon Now
Yes, travel light. Embrace unexpected direction, wonder why it was unexpected. I barely manage one toothbrush, you know, on the road.
The news keeps on fucking like rabbits, producing exponential streams of newsrabbits. Some of them have anchorman jaws but you really can't tell them apart, endlessly excited by boredom. The children seem to have a reasonable handle on logic at least. I have no story for now.
The news keeps on fucking like rabbits, producing exponential streams of newsrabbits. Some of them have anchorman jaws but you really can't tell them apart, endlessly excited by boredom. The children seem to have a reasonable handle on logic at least. I have no story for now.
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