Not an attack but an engagement of sorts

Dear class, (this blog will run all over)

I will be the first to admit my studies, what I engage in, is not necessarily in the realm of which you all are seeing.  If I must see the sun with a blank mind, how should I not see this bible as bizarre shapes with very little and thin turnymajigs?  I must allow it, the supreme fiction of Wally Wally ding-dong, to be bored with me because it is not mine.  The supreme fiction comes from nowhere else but the self that  is hidden, the self that is built back to stupidity while the other destroys itself, only for a meeting, to create and destroy once again.  I get to make it up for myself.  I write for you.

As for sight, I must say that I find it an odious sense.  One must forget sight, to hear to see.  Poems are meant to be read aloud or preformed, in my own world I would have to guess to say.  Some people in the class know that I am a musician.  I am engaged, encouraged, and enthralled with how things sound rather than the sight of them, and what sounds give sight to.  Why do so few people ask about the meaning of sound?  This is why Harmonium engaged me.  Tum-ti-tum-ti-tum-tum-tum!  To me that is much more fun!  The way things sound aggravates a more welcomed motion far more than sight ( I must admit there are things if I did see them I may run to or away from them...a man with a bloody knife, a naked woman covered in cream and rose petals).  But sound, or music (this term is open to interpretation) creates dancing, or even just a little foot tap in the man with a cane.

Dr. Sexson if I had sleeping pills in what dark hour would I have for music?  For do I not need music of the day as much as that of the night?

When I whistled in class I thought that some one might catch that I was meeting the Sam's scrawny cry with its significant opposite--the conversation our class was dwelling on only moments previous to the whistle.  If you hate the way a bird sounds do you not hate the way you sound, or your mother sounds, or the way I sound?

Sight does not move atoms or crumbs, but sound does.  Which is more swervey?
The ability to move the material world and others' material world is a power.

Words are not the only way of communication.  This is not a realm of new thought.  If you can't find the words then find the music.  Words are not the pinnacle of human emotion and expression; I don't believe there is one, unless every sense we own is tickled all at once--that would be a higher art form.  How did my thought taste? Plain I'm afraid?  Like air?  Did the words scratch or massage your skin?  could you smell the odor of the words?...not my breath.  Did the words visually, on the physical level, give you a show?  All they did was sound and based upon previously formulated meaning of meanings from others' fictions you make a thought, based on those sounds.  Words create an ugly web.  Look at how ugly all of these statements are.  They do nothing but try.  If we need words we need silence.  If we need intelligence we need to own our own stupidity.

Here is some stupidity:



                                                          :(:



                          which one is it?




                                                     Happy or sad?






                                                                             Actually it's just four dots and a curvy line.


untill the next gibberish hour I bid you all a lovely experience out there

.juysrkkfcghljvbkgfdlskyratjesfkghcjvkblGJfdjlskragejskdhjfkgl

                                    Balconies

I was elsewhere,

When he began to teeter

From the drinking, too much booze.

No right right foot, and the other left left.

They were laughing out on the balcony,

And the streets were empty.

And his mind was empty,

Pen and paper elsewhere.

It must have been on the out-back balcony.

All things spark, just to teeter

Some sway-way, back-and-forth, an all-in left.

All I have left: money for booze.

I wonder too, if he scrounged for booze. 

Sprinting up the long flights, pockets empty

And hands clanking full.  That right state of mind, it’s behind, it left.

A better, easier thought, of a full head now elsewhere,

I wonder too, which foot was first to its teeter?

But now, just thought of the 1:23 gusting balcony.

It seems, as if we all live on a balcony,

Whether cancer, day, sleep, knife, or just too much booze.

We all fall off, eventually all legs teeter,

Just too weak, leaving the lively Winnebago empty.

It’s a kind—or a kind of—rental, but is there an after-elsewhere?

And at such a fork, who chooses the path right or left?

Now they ponder what’s left,

Collecting everything, finding no notes on the balcony.

They have mourning in the night, and hoard Sunday smiles elsewhere.

Some find peace in calm candlelight, others calm in-depth in the depths of booze.

Whatever it may be, flood or fire, candles dry and bottles empty.

Altogether life is our teeter.

Like children, going up on the teeter

And down on the totter, does it still go?  once we’ve or they’ve left?

Small winds are pushing, Chaos blowing down streets and heads empty,

And through school grounds full of life.  We are born on a balcony.

And next to his hand flat on the ground, a shattered bottle of booze—

Whiskey.  The odor of stagnant life lingers, and breath goes to suck elsewhere.

Watch your step, or don’t.  Teeter everything you can or don’t, till elsewhere

Blows in your left ear, lying naked and soaked in booze

Your bottle’s empty, and your hands, a white-knuckled-clench on that balcony.

Figginffobo

            Explanation

Sometimes I can’t make out what is right

If he designed the garden, but banished

Are we not in hell after losing temptation’s fight?

And what, we are supposed to be judged

When we live in a world that can’t be harnessed?

When a conscience is mucked in sludge?

It all seems fucked, and in its entirety,

This standpoint of devout piety,

When religion comes in such a variety.

And we are supposed to believe

What religious documents leave?

No explanation says what’s truly worthy.

Perhaps Ippolit, sipping booze, was able to state

Why the slaughter of the fate

Was a just passage to that white gate.

But lose all tempting pleasure

And walk around in mindless leisure.

Rain, wind, gray skies, can all be shining weather.

bibbitybobbityboo

            The Outlook

I have a good view from here; it’s really quite amazing and grim.

I’m out on the balcony—a ways down—and can really see it all.

The city bustling; the forest rustling; what are those?

In the city, crowded but filled with a brilliance of culture,

Little stands, a market, gorgeous foreign fruits sold by the old women,

Mostly in dark colors and wearing stringy buns loosely tied.

Men selling shot glasses, fake sunglasses and purses, wallets, jackets,

Other leather and goofy stuff on the wobble-stone street,

Shouting with a smile, or a grimace, in an “I have to” way,

“Special price for you my friend, yes yes, juz for you”

The sun is hiding and popping-in in blue gaps, just for that moment,

It sprays gold onto the terraces where the oldfolks drink wine

And color mutterings in my ear I don’t know how to make out,

Like any piece of art.

Young women in the mid-twenties try to flaunt tight asses and bosoms bouncing

Always catch the mopeder’s eye and he, maybe she, toots a horn.

A couple of blacks get touchy with each other holding to a bench and to hips;

Mostly people notice but pretend not to notice mostly, and glance in peripheral

Winks thinking of what they want done with their pockets and fitters.

Streets are malls filled with young people wanting to look O-so-good in some form Of a Robin Hood styled boot, even the American girls back home are into it.

I appreciate how the un-appreciated music flows from the genius fingers of the Saxophonists, guitarists, accordionists, tuba-men, and the steel drummers that walk Up after a few songs and hold out a worn corduroy hat panhandling through life

Just to be able to handle this life.  Bums and Romanian vagrants beg on corners,

Sometimes with a few stray dogs asking for anything in return for a gapped smile.

The clothes always beaten, grayed by concrete and dust seem to melt right

Into the stone, on which they lay, sit and live.  The flies are buzzing close to the Garbage. I help when I can because I am living by charity too, but not as beat.

  Big chrome spyglasses post near the railing, only a euro a minute,

And my red figure twisted in a melting blur of shiny gray, I float upside-down.

I step to the right away from her and watch me bubble. 

                                              I can see the green too, lush, vapid of humans.

Leaves, each a character, gently ride bagged winds blowing from that strange Source

Who never really shows itself.  Trees trees trees always crawling on the fringe so

Beat by hands, because? A little red fox stalks and knows his way around so well

Between the trunks that our grandfathers feed, we are diffusion, but contained

While thought still flies from a secret voice; it endeavors to whisper its own slimed Soil.  Such loneliness can be felt and almost palpable by those intimate

Forces that forge the innerness.  The woods, I know, certainly have to look out on us

And wonder: what is this bustle, and why?  But they just don’t care, and are ready to Die in the present where only anything can “To be or not to be”.  The woods, naked As the Universe, just live now; growing or falling, they don’t need to achieve.

The Outlook:  True Meaning can never be known through anything such as eyes.  

Shibillybobay

It had been a long hard day

It had been a long hard day

And when I laid my body down

In blades rising from the ground

I found it was an easier way

Now my arms been cut

Now my arms been pressed

I been impressed by a soft green maze

It’s easier for a pillow and tree shades

Than the walk of hard civilized strut

Sometimes it seems simple

Sometimes it seems easy

To fall so soft and see

Everything swim by like bees

It brings my mind to its knees

I guess I’ve got to remember

I got to remember to forget

The way things should’ve went

Just ain’t the way history bent

Concrete over grass wasn’t my intent

But still I go on a livin’

And still I go on a livin’

So ashamed at what we do

But still I go on a livin’

Right along side of you

I’ll get it if I work real light

I’ll get it if I work real light

If I go drinking sweet into the night,

If I just forget love and its fight,

If I could just sit in this grass forever, I’d be right.

HEY THERE BLOGGER.COM AND BLOGGER.COM ONLY

TURNS OUT ALL OF YOU THINK IM A SPAMMER!  WELL HERE ARE A FEW VERY CLOSE AND HEARTILY INTRINSIC THOUGHTS.  I HOPE YOU FIND WHAT YOU NEED ON THE BLOG TO SHUT ME DOWN, WHICH I HAVE CREATED FOR A COLLEGE CLASS ON HOW TO LIVE AND WHAT TO DO.  IT SEEMS, AND WHAT A WONDERFUL WORD SEEMS IS, THAT YOU KNOW HOW TO LIVE AND WHAT TO DO FAR BETTER THAN I IF YOU CAN BLOCK MY STATEMENTS--AND PULITZER PRIZE WINNING AUTHOR'S STATEMENTS(which I did not claim for my own)--MADE TO HOPEFULLY ENTERTAIN FELLOW COLLEAGUES OF LITERATE STUDIES INTELLECTUALLY.  I'M SOMEWHAT GLAD THAT THE PROBLEM HAS AROSE CONCERNING THE FACT THAT I COPIED AND PASTED A SET OF POEMS WITH AN INTRODUCTION ON THE DAMNED cold mountain WHICH I SUGGEST ALL OF YOU READ WITH HASTE FOR SURELY IT IS OF BENEFIT TO YOUR STATE OF MIND. ALSO, I SUGGEST WITH GREAT EMPHASIS THAT YOU ALL, BLOGGER.COM, IN ITS ENTIRETY, LISTEN TO CHARLIE PARKER AND DIZZE GILLESPIE.  IT IS MUSIC THAT WILL RAISE YOU FROM YOUR CUBICLE COMPUTER CHAIR INTO MOTIONS AND NOTICEABLE SWERVES.  I AM NOT A SPAMMER.  I EAT REAL MEAT.  I DO NOT WISH TO DISCONTINUE THE USE OF YOUR SERVICES AND I UNDERSTAND THAT PROBLEMS OCCUR, BUT IN THE NAME OF FREEDOM OF SPEECH AND IN THE NAME OF FREEDOM OF SHOWING YOUR FRIEND A FEW LINES OF ART:  DO NOT DISCONTINUE MY BLOG BECAUSE "Blogs engaged in this behavior are called spam blogs, and can be recognized by their irrelevant, repetitive, or nonsensical text, along with a large number of links, usually all pointing to a single site."  WHO SAYS IM TRYING TO BE RELEVANT?  SURELY NOT I, SAYS THE NARRATOR.  AND REPETITIVE? YES I AM SAYING THE SAME THING OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN:  think not.  AND I, TANNER JAMESON KEMP, MAKE SENSE?  BLOO BLAHH BLA BLEEEE BLEEEE BLAH!  O YEAH, THERE'S ONLY ONE LINK ON MY SITE. And the best part is is that I know you do not care one bit about this message and it may even further the blocking of my blog (WHICH IF I CHOOSE TO I MAY FIGHT) but if I cannot write what I feel because technology has stolen the art of the orator, THEN THERE ARE MANY THINGS INSIDE OF THE SOCIETY WE LIVE IN THAT MUST BE LOOKED UPON WITH GREATER CARE.  You are a part of crime as much as I am if my blog gets shut down because if I were speaking words you would have to sew my mouth shut.  A heinous and horrid crime, whether in my face or through the weak connection of internet no matter how strong the Wi-Fi, that should never be committed.

Sincerely with utmost regard to logic,
Tanner Jameson Kemp

P.S. classmates i hope i do not have to create a new blog for the sake of simple freeeeeedoms 


P.S.S. i was confronted with an email that said i must go through a series of steps to reactivate my blog to its fullest being.  i took these steps.  i received the email again four hours later. :0 


P.S.S.S. im deerunk 


P.S.S.S.S.  Did i prove i ain't no darned robot?  Any robot ever write you this good old nonsensical repetitive pooo? zoommas 14

Vulkayknow

From the window in her bedroom Miss Sinder could see the children pick up stones and roll them down from atop of Parker’s Hill laughing and jumping while the stones tumbled in twists and curvy-swervy bounces.  The hill had a small local cemetery that sat on the northern side gaining the least amount of sun.  Helen Sinder’s old mansion was still standing a hundred yards from Parker’s Hill and quite dirty and unkempt like an old doghouse that had seen too much of winter.  Its deadened yard had once been a garden.  A garden that had even made it into the newspapers, she thought alone.  It was filled with geraniums, pink primroses, partridge peas, glory of the snows, that were all planted at random, and mountain laurels, Madagascar jasmines, foxgloves, and every now and then a ghost flower.  These flowers covered the ground on all sides of the stepping-stones that cut straight through the budding beds to the white fence.  Another path cut to the east, about twenty feet from the gate, when walking out of the house, where a small fountain of a stone fox the color of bone used to help wash and quench all of the robins, finches, the black-chinned humming birds.  Here there was an opening where the plump barbera grapes swelled a large purple and grew tender and sweet on the green vines.  The vines clung to a white arch that stood six feet behind the fountains.  The fountain was encircled by yellow and loblolly pines and aspens.  When the aspens bronzed in autumn it gave the impression from the window that pines had freckled themselves gold.

            To her the fountain had become a sort of volcano.  Its heavy regurgitation of what it contained and had held many years weighed heavy on her cycle after cycle, and even made her take down her grandmother’s Irish silver cross that rested just above the mantle on the fireplace.  She threw it out into the garden and waited for the earth to swallow it, to see if it could bring itself back to life as jesus had done, or if it would wane endlessly until the cross had merely blown away in the heavy slow churning of the dirt. 

In Miss Sinder’s old age, the town forgot her, forgot she was there since Robert’s death because she stopped leaving the house, and stopped caring.  Her mind wandered most days, just as the myth of the mansion wandered about the children of the townsfolk.  They would whisper stories that an old spirit haunted its barren white walls and sometimes you could see an old man or woman floating with stormy hair and eyes.  The children would dare one another to go pick a grape, the last plant living in the yard and the closest to the house.  When those brave enough picked a grape or two and bit into them, the seeds pushed back like bones against their teeth.  They would always spit the seeds out, returning them to the ground before running away.  Those are Robert’s bones she thought.

The day she died she felt like a tomb.  The house had become what she thought of it, quite weary and dead.  She could feel things leave her, and fall away.  The earth opened up like a mouth and cried for her.  She became everything when she died.