Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Keeping Things Whole by Mark Strand


In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in   
to fill the spaces
where my body’s been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.

Re-Igniting The Candle Of The World

Do not fall victim to the same,
same-named sun that bears
on the odious eye.

When It rises grand and
falls backwards down the up-side
of the blue illusion, the bluision,

No thing is that as which it has been.
Let light fall like a leaf
into a darkness.

Darkness lights the distance
between old Henry and the thing,
the thing which has been carved

by his own dull mind
and of those before him.
Here in the dark, distance is endless,

and palpable.  All things became
Henry's own by exploding
previous cornerstones built in light,

And when sight broods
on dawn again in that same way,
let all of the spring and winter

mold a copious nothing
into the structural sturdiness of
everything.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

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

Monday, October 1, 2012

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                                    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.  

Monday, September 24, 2012

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.