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[Doreen Peri]

These are the pieces I wrote yesterday and today during the first Word Jam at the Scroll ( http://scroll.org )..... just wanted to share.... thank you for reading if you do.

_______________

We dined on brie
and tiny unsalted crackers,
whet our appetite with
peel-n-eat shrimp, dipped
delicately in a robust cocktail
sauce, treated ourselves to
tossed greens, and in between
courses, we toasted with a Dom Perignon,
donned our best duds, but kept
our boots on,
in case the conversation
got messy.

________


Poetry is a malignant tumor.
It repeats itself until all cells
are corrupted. It matastisizes
in the heart, spreads disease
into lungs until you breathe it.

Poetry can destroy
the prose of a madman,
turning it into a subversive
chant.

Poetry is a dance
with mirrors,
a chance
to be owned
by thought.

I will die of Poetry
and die of Poetry again.

Bury me with a metaphor.
________


Ride back on a wind gust
just as you blew through the door.
You are more welcome
than a warm ray of sun.
When the storm is done,
fly in through the window
on a cloud! Shout aloud
your worth! Give birth
to a rainbow, iridescent,
spectrumed, clear!

We will rejoice
when we hear
your voice
once
more!

________


Like I always tell Clyde,
light a candle if it's dark.
Turnin' on that phoney lamp
cramps my style, sweetheart.
And he answers, OK, honey,
but I'd rather park and make out
right in front of yer mum's house.
Makes me feel like a criminal.
And so we do, out of the view
of Mum's eye, though she tries
to peek through the blinds
every darn time.

That old Clyde,
he's got me with his forty-five.
He points it at me when we're
in the back seat. BOOM BOOM!
Da man's a pistol!

________


The only thing I have under control
is my dignity. I am otherwise completely
remiss, undone by chaos,
my tatality washed away
by a wall of water.

Tsunami is my middle name.

________


I remember the 9th Street scene.
Buy anything ya want, if ya know what I mean.
An old man with a guitar strapped to his shoulder,
A young lass without cash, willing to sell her soul.
9th Street was a cold street stolen from the sea.
I remember the 9th Street scene.
You could be you, I could be me.
Where it all was so costly but where
Love was free.

________

I've been thinking about reincarnation for a long time now and I've decided that since I didn't ask to be born to begin with, why would I want to come back to this mess? But then again, there is Love and Love can erase pain after pain and maybe after all is done, I'd want to do it again. Next time, though, I'll come back as a tree. Or a blade of grass. Or a musical symphony. Maybe I'll decide I'll permenently become the hum of a melody changing with a breeze. Yes, this is what I'll choose. Definitely. It's a better option than decomposing.

________

what light shines
upon the face of man
when man faces
darkness? is it
a shadowlight?
is it an ebony truth?
is it a guilt bath
spread by an empty
ray? is it prompted
by the way
of buddha,
cross-legged
beneath a branch?

shine a candle flame
on my eye windows
and i will awaken, hell
my lone companion,
heaven, my reassured
confusion.

when a man faces darkness,
light his face with the road.

________

Where are the minstrels?
Where are the taletellers, the
gypsies, the liars, those on tour
who set up circus tents at town
boundaries to announce their
word-wares? Where are the
reciters of nonsense, the proclaimers
of youth? Where are the bearded
old sages staging a magic show?
Where are the minstrels?
Where does the music go
when the wind comes along
to alter the song of an oboe blown
during an untaped revue? Where
did they dare to go? Are you
connected to them still?
Can you bring the minstrels
back to fill the halls with pleasure?
Will they arrive again to measure
our lives with their tales?

I hear a faint song
like the sound of whales laughing.
Send back the ballads!
Let us rejoice in their
lyric!

________


something is more than nothing
unless something is something less
than nothing which is possible, of course,
if there is nothing left to say. but something
more than nothing is the way words
can make a day worthwhile
since words are something more
than nothing at all. in the beginning,
there was nothing.

the sum of
nothing plus nothing
is an inverted equation,
the negatives deleting
themselves.

and
that's sum
thing!
________


lustre must insist
on a reminiscent list
of forgotten phrases

it was remiss of
yesterday to forget
tomorrow

i blame myself
for poor lack of timing
which undermined
the wasn't and could be
and wouldn't have

yesterday is a mean mistress
insisting on her way

tomorrow is her ploy.
she sleeps with him
like she does
most boys
who offer

sweep the dust up into a pan

________


dat damn junkman
gots da funky junk
for dem punks
wheelin'n'dealin'
it, powder 'n' skunk,
blowin' dem birdbrains
up, heads splatterin'.
dat fat cat's stinkin' up
da hood, jumpouts
grab da goods, smack
him down in da slamma,
take a mugshot quicker'n
crackin' a hamma and
i beena damn fool, too,
chasin' down da blues
when dat damn junkman
had me in a noose
thought i'd be a lifer
for a time, but i been
released to rhyme
about the crude
muthafucka, bleed
my pen insteada
firin' up a rush -
such is fate
ain't it great?
da man's eatin'
state grub, wearin'
a jumpsuit and i'm
writin scat songs
for a loungeclub,
laughin' with
the tippers.

________


yer a word junky
a haiku queen
a syllable monkey
a verse swan
lost in between
stanzas,
splittin' strophes
with a quick wit

yer a word junky
you'll never quit
the shit

________

i found heather
in my morning;
the scent of memory,
an eclectic dream
aroused by imported
java, poetry on
my tongue

________


morning is the tragic yet
fortunate child of the mating
of a satellite discus
with a blazing star.

morning is born
out of wedlock.

she is the remedy
of a night-rape, the memory
of two heartshawls draped
over an aurora, denying
Love.

morning rises above
an abyss. she insists
her presence.

she is the gift
which annihilates
dark-cornered secrets,
the lightshine,
the hope,
the new wave,
the windsong.

morning longs
for eyelids to open,
her long-fingered rays
play touchtricks on your skin.
and when she pulls you in.
a day awakens,
ardent,
brave.

[stilltrucking]

Iakov Levi
Truth Is a Woman: Bernini - Giorgione - Manet
Oct. 23, 2004

Supposing truth is a woman, what then? Are there not grounds for the suspicion that all philosophers, insofar as they were dogmatists, have been very inexpert about women? That the gruesome seriousness, the clumsy obtrusiveness with which they have usually approached truth so far have been awkward and very improper methods for winning a woman's heart? What is certain is that she has not allowed herself to be won, and today every kind of dogmatism is left standing dispirited and discouraged (F.Nietzsche, Beyond Good And Evil, Preface).

Bernini's statue of Truth Unveiled by Time, represents a naked woman. Everyone can see that the representation is a naked woman. The desire is immediately activated at the sight. It is very concrete, indeed. Now that the libido has been fixated on the woman's flesh, it is enlisted to the educator's aim of delivering a religious message: the object of your lust must be the Church's Truth. As Nietzsche said: "The more abstract the truth you wish to teach, the more you must still seduce the senses to it". (Beyond Good and Evil, 128).
Under the pressure of Luther's Reform, the Catholic Church tried to seduce the believers' senses as much as possible *. The concrete thing (the female genital) became an abstract concept. However, the abstract concept, which is an overlay, could not take hold, if the source of our craving for truth had not been a voyeuristic drive towards the female body. Successful propaganda (and advertising) is in activating a repressed drive and in enlisting it to the purpose of convincing. The libidinal drive cannot be invented out of the blue. It can only be activated.

http://www.geocities.com/psychohistory2 ... woman.html

I don't know anything about that guy Iakov Levi, surfed across him while I was checking out some stuff on Freud.

I've been thinking about reincarnation for a long time now and I've decided that since I didn't ask to be born to begin with, why would I want to come back to this mess? But then again, there is Love and Love can erase pain after pain and maybe after all is done, I'd want to do it again. Next time, though, I'll come back as a tree. Or a blade of grass. Or a musical symphony. Maybe I'll decide I'll permenently become the hum of a melody changing with a breeze. Yes, this is what I'll choose. Definitely. It's a better option than decomposing.

Tree sounds good to me too. I have realized that I have lived many lives, most of them as a janitors, telemarketers, dishwashers, ditch diggers, not one god dam prince or king or priest or anybody important.in the whole lot of my former selves. I suppose I have shitty karma. well I read your scroll and it was sweet but you know how I tend to focus on death. I really like John Prine a lot, I suppose he is not the serious bard that Dylan is because no one ever quotes him much expect me and you know my trashy truck driver taste in music. He wrote a really great song about death and organ donation.
Through my brain in a huricaine
Nobody asked me when I got my Texas ticket to ride, In Virginia I was an organ donor.

this was supposed to funny, I hope it was
I don't think any of us are really going anywhere. After I am gone I think it will all still be here but changed spread out, diffused, more closely intertwined with the stuff of the universe. And no one is going to ask me for my social security number, I know love is important, but I don't want to go because I think I will miss the sunshine. I been reading Faith of a Heretic, very refreshing, demythologizing the bull shit about resurrection. Just because something is a myth don't mean it is false, truth in myths, life giving myths. I been reading this stuff about the limbic nervous system, the lingering after other parts of the brain have shut down, During one of the news shows about the Tsunami they talked about the practice of Buddhist corpse meditation.
I would like to believe I would be gone long before I started decomposing but what do I know?
Woody Allen said he don't mind dying he ust don't want to be there when it happens. I dont mind being there I just don't want to hang around afterwards.

not funny after all, I am going to edit this mess, sooon i hope

[Doreen Peri]

hi still T

thanks for reading my work!

interesting reply.... i loved it!

the "decomposing" reference was a pun since i said i'd like to come back as a symphony, as music

decomposing being the opposite of composing



heh

i amuse myself this way... old joke, really

do you know what mozart is doing right now?

decomposing

[hester_prynne]

Majic Carpet Ride
all senses, activated,
invigorated, wild girl
moments of sheer
enchantment.
I could read you forever Dor,
H

[Doreen Peri]

I could read you forever Dor

It probably took you almost that long to read this. LOL! There's a lotta pieces in there!

Thanks very much, hest, for your kind praise!

I am honored to be read by you!

And thanks for coming to the Jam the other day! It was great to see you there!

I need to start writing every day again. The kind of activity and energy on during the jams inspires me. If you know of any active writing forums, don't hesitate to post links to them here. I'd like to find a place that was just as active as a jam is all the time.