blogging firsty

[stilltrucking]

http://www.studioeight.tv/phpbb/viewtopic.php?t=11424

Maybe the best thanks givings I have ever had were November 22 1984 in the remote past

and november 27 2008 in the future will have been

Solon be damned and judge no man happy till his dead

I also spent a very nice thanks giving day in Las Vegas back in the 90's.

It is a good holiday to celebrate in a city chock full of cynics

[constantine]

hi jack. odd that you should mention solon and the happiness boys as i was thinking about it only yesterday. the story is the dark lining of my sunny day. just thought i'd drop by - just so you know.

[stilltrucking]

I been thinking of a couple lines from two of your poems

from memory
something about a shattered oak floor and the darkness beneath my feet

and the giggle of the molten iron core beneath my feat

artguy's poem

Percocet Conquistador

I got to go to work,

finsih this later.

just what I been thinking.

Ovaltine is nice work. I been re reading Daddy, realized I never got the poem till now,

Ovaltine reminded me of this bit.

"I give you mom. I give you the destroying mother. I give you her justice --- from which we have never removed the eye bandage. I give you the angel --- and point to the sword in her hand. I give you death --- the hundred million deaths that are muttered under Yggdrasill's ash. I give you Medusa and Stheno and Euryale. I give you the harpies and the witches and the Fates. I give you the woman in pants, and the new religion: she-popery. I give you Pandora. I give you Proserpine, the Queen of Hell. The five-and-ten-cent-store Lilith, the mother of Cain, the black widow who is poisonous and eats her mate, and I designate at the bottom of your program the grand finale of all the soap operas: the mother of America's Cinderella."

later gator

[constantine]

again, plath's daddy crossed my mind as i was writing it. that's wild!

[stilltrucking]

don't even try to read this cause I don't feel like editing typos, maybe later.

Some of your poems seem so light hearted and I am not good with prosody, something to do with my bad wiring, my autism but there is some thing to them an edge, that seems to fall into darkness.

working on a repy

hester's want
your ovaltine
artguy's percoset blues
jimbo's war
so many dots
just over the horizion of my ability to connect them
but they tantalize them, I think you had a poem about tantalos too. or maybe not

meanwhile I feel as if part of me has died
I still ache from the grave digging
it was deep but I did not want the coyotes to get him
has ever a man hated himself as much as I do
grief, takes time
I got to keep on living to deal with it

And here among the things of new spain
aztec gods still rule it seems
with a thin veneer of christianity

looking for a poem I thought it was yours, about oak flooring crashing through and the black darkness beneath you feet

I notice that in a few of your poems now
an awareness of what is under us, what we walk upon so unaware of

anoxia



A bit from Anne Charters biography of Kerouac,

a bit about they were walking a world that was disapearing under their feet.


so much for tonight

Cotard's syndrome is a bitch you know