Now! More than ever - 8 Day Miracle Jam

[perezoso]

yes, a hearse of Terse,
carrying a casket of
anglo-saxon Verse:

some decent Augustan dope:
Dean Swift and his cousin Pope


really man Im no poet but i do appreciate
a witty couplet; most of us would be
better with Gullivers Travels or Candide
than any cafe beatnik creed

[Lightning Rod]

Meat is the abstract of time
I don't need Spinoza to tell me that
I'm just a jack-ass Erasmus
comes bearing his tales
a monk that the Church
doesn't quite know what to do with

give him a flat collar and a cowl
let him expatiate
we don't really care as long as
the coins hit the collection plate.

Meat is the atomic clock
time is fried in its own juices
Taco Bell
Taco Bell

[dcwodtke]

What dead men thought
a witless man may quote

those names drop a long way
from such a high place

whether strings that bind
are strings of ignorance
or strings of grace

is known to one
who speaks from penitence
not from insolence

[Lightning Rod]

I have trouble quoting myself
and all the rest are incorrect
a seismic centrifuge sorting uranium

Augustine always had the best stash
Lilliput Gold they call it
smoke it and instantly
you understand string theory.

[hester_prynne]

I lost the fight
with the christmas lights,
it may sound odd,
but I even cursed god,
see, half of them worked,
the other half did not,
I yelled and I ranted,
and I wiped my pants,
with snot,
poor little lights,
it's not you that made me sore,
It's just no matter what I do,
I can't find nuthin to adore.....

[Lightning Rod]

Fever 103
by Sylvia Plath

Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as the triple

Tongues of dull, fat Cerebus
Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable
Of licking clean

The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tinder cries.
The indelible smell

Of a snuffed candle!
Love, love, the low smokes roll
From me like Isadora's scarves, I'm in a fright

One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.
Such yellow sullen smokes
Make their own element. They will not rise,

But trundle round the globe
Choking the aged and the meek,
The weak

Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging its hanging garden in the air,

Devilish leopard!
Radiation turned it white
And killed it in an hour.

Greasing the bodies of adulterers
Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.
The sin. The sin.

Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.

Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken
Water, water make me retch.

I am too pure for you or anyone.
Your body
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern ----

My head a moon
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.

Does not my heat astound you. And my light.
All by myself I am a huge camellia
Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.

I think I am going up,
I think I may rise ----
The beads of hot metal fly, and I, love, I

Am a pure acetylene
Virgin
Attended by roses,

By kisses, by cherubim,
By whatever these pink things mean.
Not you, nor him.

Not him, nor him
(My selves dissolving, old whore petticoats) ----
To Paradise.

[dcwodtke]

yr a blathering, sentimental, effeminate fool

and you are a strong clear thinking manly man, my man
it's been fun batting eyelashes
i luv ya man

Peace

[perezoso]

(I posted it again since her poesy is here--Sylvia could sling some I guess, though it's a trifle too hysterical for moi)

dcLatke: whatever man. Merry Voidmas

[stilltrucking]

your words are dead
because your mind is fossilized
speak of meat machines
and you think that dismisses
Minsky

minsky's meat machine see sherry Turkle

get a fucking brain

you need a mental laxative
three hits and little nietzsche

god I hope you are not this stupid with your st;udents

looking for the holy grail
get alife

[hester_prynne]

breathe in deep, count to eight
breathe out deep, count to eight
it's a little miracle, easy to make.

This talk of meat, of batting lashes, and dismiss?
here, give it to me, jus givvit a me,
I"m a sentimental kiss.

Bruised knees? elbows scraped?
Take off the years, man, take off the cape!

Masked men only, fool masked men.
I'll say it once, I'll say it again,
and again
and again
and again
and again
and again
and again
and again
copy
copy
copy
copy
copy
copy
copy
copy
copy
over
and
jam
out
to
ad
infinitum

[stilltrucking]

Over the last few years it's become quite fashionable to write about consciousness. When I was a student, consciousness was more of a black box investigated by behavioral psychologists but today even physicists are getting in on the act! And, to be honest, I'm not too sure just how further ahead we are, in spite of the hundreds of papers written about consciousness that have appeared over the last decade. Maybe, at their very best, these articles are showing us just how subtle and difficult the underlying issues can be, and that we're not yet even certain as to what questions we should be asking in the first place.

So why is a physicist writing yet another paper on consciousness? I suppose because I've never been too convinced that consciousness is the exclusive property of Marvin Minsky's "meat machine"1, or that its study should be the monopoly of scientists and philosophers. And so, over the last few years, I've been looking at art and music rather than science itself because I believe that these areas provide us with clues as to the way consciousness is embedded within the very physicality of the body.

how subtle and difficult the underlying issues

is anything subtle and difficult for you, or are you a truck driver
http://www.paricenter.com/library/papers/peat08.php

[stilltrucking]

oh I am jamming my ass off sister
looking for a miracle
a little crack a day light
a little healing
that zen stick
a light tap
sorry
for the rant

jam
out
to
ad
infinitum

sitting in the golden light at the end of a rainbow

[hester_prynne]

Honk! Honk!
Truck goes by,
geese fly over,
in a vee,
"pulling in winter".
One of the very first
poetic images ever
deposited in my head,
the VEE,
that V
<>(sideways!)
that vavaVeeeeeeeeeeee!
I saw it!
From then on,
I saw everything,
differently.

[stilltrucking]

but most choose the zen stick
instead swinging it at everthing
in sight

blank
just a blank
maybe
high school english
but I was going to be a doctor a scientist, english just a bull shit course to get me through to the important stuff
litkicks was wear the poetry got through my thick skull

I used to know the charge of the light brigade by heart
stormed at with shot and shell boldly they rode and well into
Where are we riding into today?
war and what is that good for?
absolutley nothing
Haiku is a physiologica thing for me a synaps or something
I saw one today it looked like a big yellow school bus

that is a poetic image
to tell the truth I don't have any music or any poetry or any art in me I am nothing but I got a lot of words in me and they are hard as cinder blocks, dam I can 't think of one poetic image, how about a rose, one last rose left on the vine in december, perfect

[Lightning Rod]

I dreamed I had a driveway full of Edsels
each one had that cyclops eye on the grille
animals extinct and wishing their genes
to Mustangs and Thunderbirds