Must her socks -- darned if
every a pair were -- rise so
high? My --oh!-- my bright
Puritan eyes cannot squiggle
when her thighs meet her
hands meet her plans
meet her laundry and coin-glasses,
we aren't people here. Just change
for detergent and a machine's
less-than-silent rumble.
30 July 2011
This ground is land-y
Come on - it's almost sand! Let's get to the beach.
Can't wait to feel my feet again
It's been too long
It always is.
"Remember not to get one foot ahead of the other
even if that's how you're used to walking
the water will always be there."
Old Man Smoker used to say.
No shit. Like a lake. where would it go?
There for life
over
and over
and over
I say four-leaf you say clover
four-leaf
clover
four-leaf
clover
water won't leave
it's there like air
blustering
drink it in, sand
clustering
hoping I land
near an archipelago
mustering
courage but that's not the only thing I muster
Can't wait to feel my feet again
It's been too long
It always is.
"Remember not to get one foot ahead of the other
even if that's how you're used to walking
the water will always be there."
Old Man Smoker used to say.
No shit. Like a lake. where would it go?
There for life
over
and over
and over
I say four-leaf you say clover
four-leaf
clover
four-leaf
clover
water won't leave
it's there like air
blustering
drink it in, sand
clustering
hoping I land
near an archipelago
mustering
courage but that's not the only thing I muster
26 July 2011
Palmetto Gulch
The almost sand of Dan's ridge became
very quiet late at night. These things--grains--
have a way of coming back & haunting you,
or so I've heard. Have you? I think these
larks are faster than sharks & I (please do
not believe this) shudder now at her shadow,
the girl we've been discussing all along.
She's still there, you know, she has
been there all along. One of us, a
frightened hawk-moth shuddering
with dusty, palmed brilliance.
The other, again, the lark who's lost her way.
very quiet late at night. These things--grains--
have a way of coming back & haunting you,
or so I've heard. Have you? I think these
larks are faster than sharks & I (please do
not believe this) shudder now at her shadow,
the girl we've been discussing all along.
She's still there, you know, she has
been there all along. One of us, a
frightened hawk-moth shuddering
with dusty, palmed brilliance.
The other, again, the lark who's lost her way.
Sentence 1
My gardens grow gray
with the approach of afternoon's
bed, whose hand--outstretched--reaches
for your field glasses.
with the approach of afternoon's
bed, whose hand--outstretched--reaches
for your field glasses.
Excalibur.
There might be words
about which I have spoken
you might want to resolve
not to repeat, unless heaven
opens her gates to you, makes
you fearful--oh of herself &
others, the slim man feared
his burden getting restless
a can of worms is a canker
sore issuing disaster--issuing
a promise for something diseased
instead of the genuine article.
i know what i mean to speak to-
ward; as if knowing it wasn't
enough already. It's about
believing in yourself. It's
about getting the rindy whole-
some flesh out of life. Yeah,
yeah, baby. We want fires and
fires & fires & fires
& fires (by the wayside)
the way the words used to just
slide out, you know, slide
out--like a movie of a kid
(a real crank-yanker) not
this time observing--spouting
some gibberish about Ohm's
law and intercontinental bliss
or a visitor's cash bonus card.
Excalibur.
about which I have spoken
you might want to resolve
not to repeat, unless heaven
opens her gates to you, makes
you fearful--oh of herself &
others, the slim man feared
his burden getting restless
a can of worms is a canker
sore issuing disaster--issuing
a promise for something diseased
instead of the genuine article.
i know what i mean to speak to-
ward; as if knowing it wasn't
enough already. It's about
believing in yourself. It's
about getting the rindy whole-
some flesh out of life. Yeah,
yeah, baby. We want fires and
fires & fires & fires
& fires (by the wayside)
the way the words used to just
slide out, you know, slide
out--like a movie of a kid
(a real crank-yanker) not
this time observing--spouting
some gibberish about Ohm's
law and intercontinental bliss
or a visitor's cash bonus card.
Excalibur.
20 July 2011
Jesus ate pasta
and lots of it. But even he wouldn't eat brown rice.
Healthy?
Yes. But also awful. Like papaya, and arugula.
Arugula is spanish for bad spinach
Vegetables are alive, if barely.
Arbor Day is the only good day of the year.
Stay true to your roots
and you'll grow a plant
A tree if you're lucky
a shrub or tomato if you have no idea what you're doing
my garden grows gray
your garden grows great
Your garden grows wheat - neat.
My garden grows hay.
Healthy?
Yes. But also awful. Like papaya, and arugula.
Arugula is spanish for bad spinach
Vegetables are alive, if barely.
Arbor Day is the only good day of the year.
Stay true to your roots
and you'll grow a plant
A tree if you're lucky
a shrub or tomato if you have no idea what you're doing
my garden grows gray
your garden grows great
Your garden grows wheat - neat.
My garden grows hay.
i'M gHOsTInG
Not boasting
the first person to write in first person
since Jesus
bible belt
holding up his carpenter jeans
too big for his britches, even as a baby.
The only Jew to celebrate christmas
first and last
a testament to posterity
and by all accounts
Jesus had good posture
Jesus ate pasta.
the first person to write in first person
since Jesus
bible belt
holding up his carpenter jeans
too big for his britches, even as a baby.
The only Jew to celebrate christmas
first and last
a testament to posterity
and by all accounts
Jesus had good posture
Jesus ate pasta.
17 July 2011
Moving
blows. And I'm not just saying that.
Also not saying I'd rather be inert.
It's just that any major change really freaks me out.
It's dusty in the apartment - bits of parchment
Developing story: I just found some actual photographs
and hey, my super nintendo is officially ancient
so is original xbox, so I will be soon.
unless the wires on the controllers get twisted up somehow
and I stop aging
Alas, I digress about regress at the expense of progress.
Progress which I am scared of in a more subtle way
Feeling pretty subtle these days.
Also not saying I'd rather be inert.
It's just that any major change really freaks me out.
It's dusty in the apartment - bits of parchment
Developing story: I just found some actual photographs
and hey, my super nintendo is officially ancient
so is original xbox, so I will be soon.
unless the wires on the controllers get twisted up somehow
and I stop aging
Alas, I digress about regress at the expense of progress.
Progress which I am scared of in a more subtle way
Feeling pretty subtle these days.
11 July 2011
Back at prom
but less coked up
dreamweaver.
Slow dancing is easy.
mugs of beer
frothsville
got her phone number
What is a barista?
Are you one?
What is a barrister
what are you running for?
who are you running from?
whither are you running towards?
You're running out of tine.
This turned into quite a long yarn
we're running out of twine
At the end of our rope
still hanging by a thread.
strung along, sungalong
billabong singalong
chinese ping pong
my phone go *ring rong, ring rong*
you hear? It ring wrong.
dreamweaver.
Slow dancing is easy.
mugs of beer
frothsville
got her phone number
What is a barista?
Are you one?
What is a barrister
what are you running for?
who are you running from?
whither are you running towards?
You're running out of tine.
This turned into quite a long yarn
we're running out of twine
At the end of our rope
still hanging by a thread.
strung along, sungalong
billabong singalong
chinese ping pong
my phone go *ring rong, ring rong*
you hear? It ring wrong.
10 July 2011
Basket Poem
1. A force is felt
I made a basket for you.
I make it well; I weave the reeds soundly
without a sound, in the kitchen,
I cake for you a bake
a baked plot of hard clay (land, land)
this land, our non-intuitive landing pad
a green glassland of neighbor's and shores
nearly too sweet to fuck
to pluck out of, to be afraid
of. In this bone, and out of it,
license is greatness. Truth
is its own revenge. Salida,
a town in Colorado (adventure
incorporated, come the youth
proud) or Spanish for EXIT. Recalling
THIS IS NOT one, you know, not a place
for leaving. In other words, perversely,
or its opposite--naturally--a path
without a purpose. Fucked willingly
and without passion, white knuckles,
fear still tingeing the air with breath
and yet in the moment, a little death,
a little birth, an awakening, a dying,
a heartbeat jumping out of one's chest,
one's breadbasket, a sampling of only
the finest loaf. "Here, darling," we'd
like to say. "I've prepared a stove
for you." Somewhere to relax, something
to look toward--a process happening. Progress
with a capital P for pecuniary--something
that can be consumed. If you don't know now you never
will, but then again, life is asunder.
Torn thus, belittled, become April, become May,
become December, that's how a year ends. In
sloughs and buckets and jumps and contusions
maybe made accidentally with out speeches.
I slapped a girl early Saturday on the cheek,
softly. She was still surprised. A southerner,
exotic-like, a girl from the mud of the deep
south. Louisiana. Where my heart wanders when
it isn't always somewhere else. Never been there,
never will be, perhaps. I don't want to count idioms
before they hatch. Count on them recurring. Count on
me demurring--and in so doing, even with rebellion,
maybe I'm no better. A force is still a force if its
resisted and the action is maybe the same internally.
Felt. A force is felt regardless.
2. Out of all this comes
Out of all this comes the preparation
in so doing it, putting down words,
one word less always better--camps in the mind
perhaps throttling themselves & saying: well then, here's
another land mine to toss on your camera, here's
another wave about to crash at sea; here's a third
opinion on that matter we had discussed. You know,
Sally, I've been dreaming about you for some time now
and I'd like to know how you afford your retainer,
you know, the retainer ad hominem cum harbinger of
doom, this dirty little expression meaning / [a slash
mark, English's most violent banal punctuation.] Are
you listening? I'm the mark of a spark at midnight in the dark
of West Hollywood glistening like "Ohhhhhhhhhh..." cannabis
just coming a-blaze, a computer humming on, no nautical
parks this year, just another President to preside over
our ground master plan thus deranged thus ordinary thus
hope swollen thus swelled thus become derogatory and deregulated
like all good things, all greedy things: markets, bedrooms,
sex parties, and the like. They're all the same in the end,
green spun out lasses with axes to grind swinging at one
another, potions a-blur in the nightlight booming faults
like faulty magic imaginary geraniums and night-glow
corning cloning about borrowed holes from burrowing animals
and Hannibal just pooped again in the bathroom, I got my
goop to prove it, got this groove to arrange it and smooth it
and five forked words later I'll tell you how to spell the word
F-U-C-K and you won't like it.
As it has been arranged.
I made a basket for you.
I make it well; I weave the reeds soundly
without a sound, in the kitchen,
I cake for you a bake
a baked plot of hard clay (land, land)
this land, our non-intuitive landing pad
a green glassland of neighbor's and shores
nearly too sweet to fuck
to pluck out of, to be afraid
of. In this bone, and out of it,
license is greatness. Truth
is its own revenge. Salida,
a town in Colorado (adventure
incorporated, come the youth
proud) or Spanish for EXIT. Recalling
THIS IS NOT one, you know, not a place
for leaving. In other words, perversely,
or its opposite--naturally--a path
without a purpose. Fucked willingly
and without passion, white knuckles,
fear still tingeing the air with breath
and yet in the moment, a little death,
a little birth, an awakening, a dying,
a heartbeat jumping out of one's chest,
one's breadbasket, a sampling of only
the finest loaf. "Here, darling," we'd
like to say. "I've prepared a stove
for you." Somewhere to relax, something
to look toward--a process happening. Progress
with a capital P for pecuniary--something
that can be consumed. If you don't know now you never
will, but then again, life is asunder.
Torn thus, belittled, become April, become May,
become December, that's how a year ends. In
sloughs and buckets and jumps and contusions
maybe made accidentally with out speeches.
I slapped a girl early Saturday on the cheek,
softly. She was still surprised. A southerner,
exotic-like, a girl from the mud of the deep
south. Louisiana. Where my heart wanders when
it isn't always somewhere else. Never been there,
never will be, perhaps. I don't want to count idioms
before they hatch. Count on them recurring. Count on
me demurring--and in so doing, even with rebellion,
maybe I'm no better. A force is still a force if its
resisted and the action is maybe the same internally.
Felt. A force is felt regardless.
2. Out of all this comes
Out of all this comes the preparation
in so doing it, putting down words,
one word less always better--camps in the mind
perhaps throttling themselves & saying: well then, here's
another land mine to toss on your camera, here's
another wave about to crash at sea; here's a third
opinion on that matter we had discussed. You know,
Sally, I've been dreaming about you for some time now
and I'd like to know how you afford your retainer,
you know, the retainer ad hominem cum harbinger of
doom, this dirty little expression meaning / [a slash
mark, English's most violent banal punctuation.] Are
you listening? I'm the mark of a spark at midnight in the dark
of West Hollywood glistening like "Ohhhhhhhhhh..." cannabis
just coming a-blaze, a computer humming on, no nautical
parks this year, just another President to preside over
our ground master plan thus deranged thus ordinary thus
hope swollen thus swelled thus become derogatory and deregulated
like all good things, all greedy things: markets, bedrooms,
sex parties, and the like. They're all the same in the end,
green spun out lasses with axes to grind swinging at one
another, potions a-blur in the nightlight booming faults
like faulty magic imaginary geraniums and night-glow
corning cloning about borrowed holes from burrowing animals
and Hannibal just pooped again in the bathroom, I got my
goop to prove it, got this groove to arrange it and smooth it
and five forked words later I'll tell you how to spell the word
F-U-C-K and you won't like it.
As it has been arranged.
A lost child, Absurdists
Absurdists is a lost child. A boss
of hosts inglorious. Absurdists is a
treasure chest; don't look too close
at her vest--bulletproof; besides, (&
to the point) her mescaline buds are
sprouting.
Further the argument
is not what
we here do. Father.
Farther.
I do not want to replace
but I only a place to replace
ordinary reflections with real boys,
with real ones, real iron words
that strike at the heart of enemies,
make them cowards, then maybe,
make them friends.
Love transcends. How can we otherwise
explain? Anything?
Much of it I agree is bad, a waste of time.
Some of it is good. But isn't that just life?
Powders 22A-33C on faces of people we don't know
are forgotten, right? But the 9,875th girl you meet--
maybe she's the right one. The numbers game
is absurd--it means the best shall appear but when
it is given time. There cannot be too much censorship
or maybe any
if the best is to bloom. The numbers game. Maybe one in five
is worthwhile. Maybe 1/10. Maybe 1/20. Still worth it. The
real crime is the not sharing of it, if it is to be shared. If it is
worthwhile. What is this? Are we in a hole debating the nature
of the soil granules? Maybe. I just want to share
weird thoughts. I have given no effort to make Absurdists
a thing that fits in, that has traction. Is that its beauty?
Is that its angst? Its fetid irrelevant glory? Its fetid
irrelevant waste? Worthless?
Growth.
of hosts inglorious. Absurdists is a
treasure chest; don't look too close
at her vest--bulletproof; besides, (&
to the point) her mescaline buds are
sprouting.
Further the argument
is not what
we here do. Father.
Farther.
I do not want to replace
but I only a place to replace
ordinary reflections with real boys,
with real ones, real iron words
that strike at the heart of enemies,
make them cowards, then maybe,
make them friends.
Love transcends. How can we otherwise
explain? Anything?
Much of it I agree is bad, a waste of time.
Some of it is good. But isn't that just life?
Powders 22A-33C on faces of people we don't know
are forgotten, right? But the 9,875th girl you meet--
maybe she's the right one. The numbers game
is absurd--it means the best shall appear but when
it is given time. There cannot be too much censorship
or maybe any
if the best is to bloom. The numbers game. Maybe one in five
is worthwhile. Maybe 1/10. Maybe 1/20. Still worth it. The
real crime is the not sharing of it, if it is to be shared. If it is
worthwhile. What is this? Are we in a hole debating the nature
of the soil granules? Maybe. I just want to share
weird thoughts. I have given no effort to make Absurdists
a thing that fits in, that has traction. Is that its beauty?
Is that its angst? Its fetid irrelevant glory? Its fetid
irrelevant waste? Worthless?
Growth.
06 July 2011
Recap: Caper
Just read through all Absurdists posts
since inception, more than 3 years ago.
Jones is noticeably missing, recently.
My reaction: There is an inordinate amount of good, some brilliance that transcends.
There are also many misfires, mostly on my part.
Absurdists, Inc. is a holography.
I laughed out loud several times, some more hearty than others (duh).
I didn't cry, that would be fucking weird.
I did try to psychoanalyze some of the recorded poetry, more so than the inane prose.
But quickly lost interest/realized that we are not all that deep.
Usually. There are meaningful posts on this blog. And I don't want to take away from that.
But most are frivolous, humorous. The best are both.
( e.g.: "The Holocaust is that holiday, right? 8 crazy nights?" Response: "Um, you might not want to repeat that.")
Not to say that the Holocaust is frivolous. I automatically hate all Germans solely because of it. But today I say Auf Wiedersehn to xenophobia. Not really.
That entirely imagined exchange above (in parentheses) and following clarification send no real message. They provide us with no moral. In this case, there isn't even any wordplay. "Pathetic," an outsider might say regarding the posts I've made over the years on this blog, "Shitty way to spend your time, despite the clever wordplay" Well, if you don't like it don't read it. Probably nobody else does. I have no interest in scratching anyone's back but my own, seriously. Even that is not something I like to do. Maybe Absurdists is just one of those hard-to-reach places and we haven't even scratched the surface. But I'd like to think this sort of shallow, crass memorandum on the state of affairs is representative of what the blog stands for: mescaline.
since inception, more than 3 years ago.
Jones is noticeably missing, recently.
My reaction: There is an inordinate amount of good, some brilliance that transcends.
There are also many misfires, mostly on my part.
Absurdists, Inc. is a holography.
I laughed out loud several times, some more hearty than others (duh).
I didn't cry, that would be fucking weird.
I did try to psychoanalyze some of the recorded poetry, more so than the inane prose.
But quickly lost interest/realized that we are not all that deep.
Usually. There are meaningful posts on this blog. And I don't want to take away from that.
But most are frivolous, humorous. The best are both.
( e.g.: "The Holocaust is that holiday, right? 8 crazy nights?" Response: "Um, you might not want to repeat that.")
Not to say that the Holocaust is frivolous. I automatically hate all Germans solely because of it. But today I say Auf Wiedersehn to xenophobia. Not really.
That entirely imagined exchange above (in parentheses) and following clarification send no real message. They provide us with no moral. In this case, there isn't even any wordplay. "Pathetic," an outsider might say regarding the posts I've made over the years on this blog, "Shitty way to spend your time, despite the clever wordplay" Well, if you don't like it don't read it. Probably nobody else does. I have no interest in scratching anyone's back but my own, seriously. Even that is not something I like to do. Maybe Absurdists is just one of those hard-to-reach places and we haven't even scratched the surface. But I'd like to think this sort of shallow, crass memorandum on the state of affairs is representative of what the blog stands for: mescaline.
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