tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5832258497306382842024-02-20T09:10:13.822-08:00AprildorusUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger85125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-19405356756288566752013-07-04T09:24:00.000-07:002013-07-04T09:24:05.125-07:00Charles Bukowski a 4th of JulyThere wasn't much to celebrate,<br />
of course,<br />
our fathers weren't working<br />
and the canned food from the Dept of Relief<br />
all had the same terrible<br />
stale taste.<br />
nothing much was happening anywhere and<br />
there was a joyless resignation<br />
in the air<br />
but I remember this one morning at about<br />
6 a.m. on the 4th of July<br />
1932 or 3 or 4, I don't remember which,<br />
when I heard loud explosions<br />
in the street outside:<br />
GIANT FIRECRACKERS!<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
my father heard me from<br />
his bedroom<br />
<br />
"where the hell have you<br />
been?"<br />
<br />
"out celebrating..."<br />
<br />
"good for you, son!<br />
it's a great country<br />
we live in!"<br />
<br />
I walked back to my bedroom,<br />
undressed, got back<br />
into bed.<br />
<br />
he's got it all wrong as usual,<br />
I thought,<br />
I was only celebrating<br />
myself.<br />
<br />
-<i>from</i> a 4th of July in the early 30's, Charles Bukowski <br />
Slouching Toward NirvanaUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-77341639057291271722013-05-26T07:30:00.003-07:002013-05-26T07:30:54.936-07:00The Lives of the Alchemists - by Charles Simic
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The great labor was always to efface oneself,<br />
Reappear as something entirely different:<br />
The pillow of a young woman in love,<br />
A ball of lint pretending to be a spider.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Black boredoms of rainy country nights<br />
Thumbing the writings of illustrious adepts<br />
Offering advice on how to proceed with the transmutation<br />
Of a figment of time into eternity.<br />
The true master, one of them counseled,<br />
Needs a hundred years to perfect his art.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the meantime, the small arcane of the frying pan,<br />
The smell of olive oil and garlic wafting<br />
From room to empty room, the black cat<br />
Rubbing herself against your bare leg<br />
While you shuffle toward the distant light<br />
And the tinkle of glasses in the kitchen.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">-Charles Simic, The Lives of the Alchemists</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-1580383559646191732013-05-26T06:00:00.001-07:002013-05-26T07:35:39.852-07:00Simic Laughing<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Simic, you spoke<br />
of a sudden terror and exhilaration<br />
that lures our attention to bite.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I don’t know where you<br />
are now when you toss your<br />
notes down and burst laughing.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And I am sure you are,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">bursting, that is,<br />
because no one really hears<br />
precisely what has been written.</span></div>
~Pat Jr. 5/ 26 / 13Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-74227033410809947532013-05-26T05:11:00.001-07:002013-05-26T05:11:51.879-07:00
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Litography</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The story of fathers has always been the story of desires.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is always that next splendid city on the horizon whose
shores shine with the glitter of women and money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is always that sweet sweet perfume that is
only sweet once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is the charms of
that city, that dear loved city, that draws me into its death. Like a father’s
last words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is that space that where
I seek my own face: This arena of darkness and light. A glittering symphony
that really does shine and shine, and sings to your youth.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">God had built a temple and had welcomed me there. I was
small but happy. Loved.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Did I love back? Was that small inclination to love the same
as active loving?</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">God had built a temple on the hill and welcomed me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I was not happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could never love enough.</span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">***</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Youth was free from concerns of infrastructure. A magic
force made it all happen, anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
never thought too much about the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">smell</i>
of it all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Smells are to be covered
up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ignored.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sweetened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is even more amazing now: The way that we are connected. Not by light
cords dangling from the sky, but through the deeper channels, carrying
fragments along with them in their pull.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It always called during sleep, when hesitant and weary. It
is what can only be in the next city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The last time I pursued it, it left a wound like a tattoo
that did not heal right. It blisters and peels, its colors are never right. Not
the way it looked when I was young.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The city’s currents visit me and I join with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is impossible to ignore the stench, it
engulfs my senses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere in it is my
own identity but I refuse, to acknowledge it as my own.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is a city like no other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It houses all of our parents and their parents in a great procession.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A harmony of family ties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sweeping of a hand indicates it is there
for the taking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its infrastructure forms
the deep roots of veins. </span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">***</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Reclaiming a lost city is a sacred task. It requires the
courage of a god to love only what is here.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I told him a lie that grew to be its own great city with
towering heights and dizzying tunnels. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It
is scentless</i>, I tell myself, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">it is
scentless</i>.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He was my father and at the time I lacked the courage to
tell him it has been lost. I tried prayer, meditation, tattoos: an Om, a cross,
and Saint Michael.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My father is a hunter in everything he pursues: Cunning and
merciless.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Watch and learn</i>,
he tells me and flirts with the waitress, the cashier at the pet store, the
clerk at the bookstore.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> It isn’t so hard.</i>
He says. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Now, what’s wrong with that one?
</i>And to them he would say, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my son here
is shy</i>,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> you understand?</i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My father’s desires are still strong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His dreams form a solid infrastructure and
they carry bits of his past and his hopes along with them, caught up in their
pull.</span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">***</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The heroes I remember reading about were those who knew the
most about pleasure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They kept pleasure
secure, bound up in their lives, like a mother holds her newborn close wrapped,
in its swaddling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pleasure never leaves the heroes: It is always ready at
their side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When their pleasure is taken
from them, they launch their thousand ships headlong into the unknown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They spill over with enjoyment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They go mad in the chase and lose themselves
to their own sword.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It no longer becomes
a story of right and wrong or even of fulfillment. Always, it pours over into
lecherous indulgence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Satisfaction
remains in the next city.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I resolved: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I want to
explore the world with sex on my mind.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">***</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My first time was just to see how it might feel on my
skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first time: The black Om on my
right forearm.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I went in to the city like I had been there a hundred times
before, but actually not having any idea where the dark streets led off
to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So many desires pressed tightly
together and the intertwining avenues linking each to the other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My heart raced.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The girl at the reception counter was thin as the tip of a
needle, but covered over in the most beautiful ink I’d ever seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her slight chest was alive with ruby red and
terrible greens, the complete picture, whatever it was, disappeared underneath
her bright red tank top and emerging again at her naval in a dark blue. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Down her arms were peacock fans and violet
pedals, on each of her shoulder blades was holstered a smoking six-shooter and
between them the Greek word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Agape.</i></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">***</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Justun</i>, was
tattooed on his hand and that was the name he went by. The Virgin Mary was depicted
on his body at least five times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A large
cross stretched across his back starting at the middle of his neck, and then there
were countless other crosses done in free-hand everywhere on his body, as
though it were just something he did between customers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Sacred Heart was placed over his own,
wrapped in a crown of thorns. On his left arm was an infant’s face in light
blue ink with the name <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Taylor</i> and the
date 5.17.08. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Justun tells me his own story while he sets out to work. His
life is beautiful. His life is devotion and faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Years of homelessness and hunger. Many more
years of trials. Unpaid months spent at tattoo parlors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He lives in every city that I can think to
ask, if only for a week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Always, he is
praying, and always he believes he is provided for. His life, his work, his
faith, his love, it is all there for the world to see in every one of his
tattoos.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">His voice is soft and compassionate, full of sincerity and a
love that I had forgotten since those days in God’s church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do not feel the burning or the scratching
at all. When it is over, the Om is completeness, is wholeness, it reflects the
calm but passionate skill of the artist. I leave the city.</span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">***</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My father frowns, shakes his head, is unsure. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Om?</i> He asks, confused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I tell him it is God and it is peace. And
he asks me to go to church with him the next Sunday, and no doubt he must be
afraid because something is escaping him.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Before long, though, my father is trying to sell me on more
desires.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has found a waitress with
piercings on lip, nose, and tongue. He flirts for some time between drinks,
while inserting <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my son here just got a
tattoo, </i>in a not so casual way before finally asking her, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Did you do it to make your father upset? </i>And
she says that there was no need. She had done that already, long ago.</span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">***</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now my bed is too full of books to be of any practical use.
Its sensuality is nullified. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It sits squat,
numb and dead. Its sheets are scentless. Disgraceful.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But that does not get me where I want to be, that study of
ethics.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Identity can be summed
up by a great confusion perpetuated by a loss of faith</i>, I write in a
notebook, at the end of a poem.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I pray I could return to the Temple again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To being small.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To look for love only in that other city, in
those other starry lights.</span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">***</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At the city, again, I return to meet with Justun, for
another tattoo: a Celtic cross.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The girl
at the reception desk is new, she has no tattoos. She talks to her boyfriend
about choosing her first one.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This time Justun works silently, in greater
concentration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This tattoo, unlike the
Om, is in color, green and gold. The shading hurts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The burning gets more intense as he works on.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It feels like he’s scraping into my
forearm with a fire poker. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here is one
for the Irish and the Catholic in me</i>, I think over again.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Justun is almost finished when he says, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sometimes, I find myself asking God how I might end my work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have always found myself to be the one
chaining together yearning and hope in small pictures on flesh. It is courage
that connects each link. </i>He is finishing with the Celtic knot in the middle
of the cross.</span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">***</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The terrible strain of courage when at last I face the reality
of what I am and am not: Of those things that were a dream and a myth, those
that are told to give us breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I
have to exhale and have the courage to inhale again, having the courage that my
lungs are enough to complete the act.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To
breathe to have strength.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-26424266239113021392013-02-14T01:46:00.003-08:002013-02-14T01:49:10.550-08:00Wallace Stevens, Sunday Morning1<br />
<br />
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late<br />
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,<br />
And the green freedom of a cockatoo<br />
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate<br />
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.<br />
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark<br />
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,<br />
As a calm darkens among water-lights.<br />
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings<br />
Seem things in some procession of the dead,<br />
Winding across wide water, without sound.<br />
The day is like wide water, without sound,<br />
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet<br />
Over the seas, to silent Palestine,<br />
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.<br />
<br />
2<br />
<br />
Why should she give her bounty to the dead?<br />
What is divinity if it can come<br />
Only in silent shadows and in dreams?<br />
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,<br />
In pungent fruit and bright green wings, or else<br />
In any balm or beauty of the earth,<br />
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?<br />
Divinity must live within herself:<br />
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;<br />
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued<br />
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty<br />
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;<br />
All pleasures and all pains, remembering<br />
The bough of summer and the winter branch.<br />
These are the measure destined for her soul.<br />
<br />
<em>from</em> Sunday Morning, Wallace Stevens<br />
<a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems/wallace-stevens/sunday-morning/">http://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems/wallace-stevens/sunday-morning/</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-17723944226584186282012-11-12T04:41:00.001-08:002012-11-12T04:41:15.946-08:00"Real power comes not from hate, but from truth."<br />
~Abraham Lincoln: Vampire HunterUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-5256076759470100472012-10-31T11:58:00.002-07:002012-10-31T11:58:11.342-07:00Empires - Charles Simic
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Empires<br />
by Charles Simic<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My grandmother prophesied the end<br />
Of your empires, O fools!<br />
She was ironing. The radio was on.<br />
The earth trembled beneath our feet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One of your heroes was giving a speech.<br />
“Monster,” she called him.<br />
There were cheers and gun salutes for the monster.<br />
“I could kill him with my bare hands,”<br />
She announced to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There was no need to. They were all<br />
Going to the devil any day now.<br />
“Don’t go blabbering about this to anyone,”<br />
She warned me.<br />
And pulled my ear to make sure I understood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">-Charles Simic<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-66711998153978540982012-09-23T18:10:00.002-07:002012-09-23T18:10:09.301-07:00"Read them or don't read them, you will regret both."<br />~KierkegaardUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-79138197241764716652012-09-22T10:36:00.001-07:002012-09-22T10:36:18.841-07:00Travel (Jack)
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We need to take<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Everywhere into<span style="mso-tab-count: 6;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Join<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Consideration:</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">India,<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Taiwan,<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>The
plateau<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>in Peru.<br />
Holy Islam,<span style="mso-tab-count: 9;"> </span>Me,<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Don’t forget<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Israel,<br />
Jerusalem,<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Bethlehem.<br />
The winds blow trade<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Through infernos.<span style="mso-tab-count: 7;"> </span>My<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>Two<br />
Toppled towers in<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Bologna. Lets<br />
Give Spain a try,<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Why not
London<span style="mso-tab-count: 6;"> </span>Holy<br />
While we’re there?</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Countries I will<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Only know by their<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Curve on
the map.<span style="mso-tab-count: 6;"> </span>Brothers.<br />
Perfectly flat world.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pjc jr 92212</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-7963581235855201122012-09-08T06:12:00.000-07:002012-09-08T06:13:21.657-07:00Unconscious Activity<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Most of your unconscious<br />
Activity is struggle.<br />
Systems making assertive<br />
Efforts to remain stable.<br />
It's just evolution.<br />
Metabolic cap breached.<br />
Excessive post exercise<br />
Oxygen consumption.<br />
Lag for stabilization.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After car crashes,<br />
Screaming children,<br />
Showdowns with<br />
Power hungry capitalists,<br />
Avoiding cracks for<br />
Six years,<br />
Viewings and binges;<br />
Why would you expect anything<br />
Different from any<br />
Other part of your life?</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">pjc jr 9812</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-77438167210448942162012-09-06T08:53:00.001-07:002012-09-06T08:53:13.212-07:00On Turning Ten - Billy Collins<h2 class="title" itemprop="itemreviewed">
On Turning Ten - by Billy Collins</h2>
<div style="margin-top: 20px; min-height: 570px;">
<div class="KonaBody">
The whole idea of it makes me feel<br />like I'm coming down with something,<br />something worse than any stomach ache<br />or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--<br />a kind of measles of the spirit,<br />a mumps of the psyche,<br />a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.<br /><br />You tell me it is too early to be looking back,<br />but that is because you have forgotten<br />the perfect simplicity of being one<br />and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.<br />But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.<br />At four I was an Arabian wizard.<br />I could make myself invisible<br />by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.<br />At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.<br /><br />But now I am mostly at the window<br />watching the late afternoon light.<br />Back then it never fell so solemnly<br />against the side of my tree house,<br />and my bicycle never leaned against the garage<br />as it does today,<br />all the dark blue speed drained out of it.<br /><br />This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,<br />as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.<br />It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,<br />time to turn the first big number.<br /><br />It seems only yesterday I used to believe<br />there was nothing under my skin but light.<br />If you cut me I could shine.<br />But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,<br />I skin my knees. I bleed. </div>
<!-- .KonaBody --><div class="poet">
-Billy Collins</div>
<div class="poet">
</div>
<div class="poet">
<a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-turning-ten/">http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-turning-ten/</a></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-3087630844903084392012-08-28T07:37:00.003-07:002012-08-28T07:37:49.393-07:00Spines and RibsI'm running out of room on my little bed<br />It fills from head to foot with books<br />I don't read them<br />I sit and stare<br />Eyeing their spines and ribs<br />
<br />
-PJC jr 82812Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-21085737288120450692012-08-23T12:53:00.002-07:002012-08-23T12:53:59.017-07:00The Lake Isle - Ezra PoundO God, O Venus, O Mercury, patron of thieves, <br />Give me in due time, I beseech you, a little tobacco-shop, <br />With the little bright boxes<br />piled up neatly upon the shelves<br />And the loose fragment cavendish<br />and the shag, <br />And the bright Virginia<br />loose under the bright glass cases, <br />And a pair of scales<br />not too greasy, <br />And the votailles dropping in for a word or two in passing, <br />For a flip word, and to tidy their hair a bit. <br /><br />O God, O Venus, O Mercury, patron of thieves, <br />Lend me a little tobacco-shop, <br />or install me in any profession<br />Save this damn'd profession of writing, <br />where one needs one's brains all the time<br />
<br />
-Ezra Pound, The Lake Isle<br />
<cite>www.americanpoems.com/poets/ezrapound/16179</cite>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-18012785388104515602012-07-13T08:04:00.000-07:002012-07-13T08:04:07.257-07:00Walt Whitman Darest Thou Now, O Soul<span style="color: #9c9c63;"></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody>
<tr><td align="left"><center><span>1</span></center><br />D<span>AREST</span> thou now, O Soul,</td><td align="right" valign="top"><span><a href="" name="1"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Walk out with me toward the Unknown Region,</td><td align="right" valign="top"><span><a href="" name="2"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Where neither ground is for the feet, nor any path to follow?</td><td align="right" valign="top"><span><a href="" name="3"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"> </td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><center><span>2</span></center><br />No map, there, nor guide,</td><td align="right" valign="top"><span><a href="" name="4"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand,</td><td align="right" valign="top"><span><a href="" name="5"><i> 5</i></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Nor face with blooming flesh, nor lips, nor eyes, are in that land.</td><td align="right" valign="top"><span><a href="" name="6"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"> </td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><center><span>3</span></center><br />I know it not, O Soul;</td><td align="right" valign="top"><span><a href="" name="7"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Nor dost thou—all is a blank before us;</td><td align="right" valign="top"><span><a href="" name="8"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">All waits, undream’d of, in that region—that inaccessible land.</td><td align="right" valign="top"><span><a href="" name="9"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"> </td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><center><span>4</span></center><br />Till, when the ties loosen,</td><td align="right" valign="top"><span><a href="" name="10"><i> 10</i></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">All but the ties eternal, Time and Space,</td><td align="right" valign="top"><span><a href="" name="11"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds, bound us.</td><td align="right" valign="top"><span><a href="" name="12"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"> </td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><center><span>5</span></center><br />Then we burst forth—we float,</td><td align="right" valign="top"><span><a href="" name="13"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">In Time and Space, O Soul—prepared for them;</td><td align="right" valign="top"><span><a href="" name="14"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Equal, equipt at last—(O joy! O fruit of all!) them to fulfil, O Soul.<br />
<br />
Walt Whitman Darest Thou Now, O Soul<br />
<a href="http://www.bartleby.com/142/200.html">http://www.bartleby.com/142/200.html</a></td><td align="right" valign="top"><span><a href="" name="15"><i></i></a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-10890251329759986002012-06-28T15:49:00.001-07:002012-06-28T15:49:57.061-07:00Mr. Wurster<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What could I say? I hadn't<br />
Thought of him that much,<br />
But at the head of the table<br />
He was an ornament<br />
Or an imposing gothic gray<br />
Winged gargoyle.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A real dark knight poet<br />
Surrounded by panhandlers<br />
And betrayers. Judases<br />
And jackals, and where<br />
Did I fit? The Jester?</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A sacrament of flesh around<br />
The table from ear to ear.<br />
It was dusty, the room that is,<br />
His eyes were too,<br />
Or maybe it is only the memory,<br />
But either way he was a beast</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Among lambs, a real Lucifer,<br />
So kind. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know the type,<br />
Charming, intelligent, etc. and<br />
Sophisticated in a blazer and comic-<br />
Book T-shirt. He was Pittsburgh classy<br />
Poet laureate of steel bridges,<br />
Molasses!</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He was frozen art. A bloated<br />
Tomato ready to burst,<br />
All pink and red. He brought<br />
Us the news of Li Po and Rumi<br />
A man of the world!</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is almost grotesque to think<br />
About you now.<br />
You were so magnificent then.<br />
You could have worn a cape<br />
And enchanted us all,<br />
Turned us to toads.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But instead you sung to us<br />
Quoting, "who am I born in<br />
Dark times to ask a<br />
Kind turn from fate?"</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pjcjr 62812</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-25602452390690610102012-06-25T11:19:00.000-07:002012-06-25T11:19:13.386-07:00<span lang="">Diane DiPrima<br />
<br />
Revolutionary Letters<br />
<br />
12.<br />
<pre>
<br />
the vortex of creation is the vortex of destruction<br />
the vortex of artistic creation is the vortex of self destruction<br />
the vortex of political creation is the vortex of flesh destruction<br />
flesh is in the fire, it curls and terribly warps<br />
fat is in the fire, it drips and sizzling sings<br />
bones are in the fire<br />
they crack tellingly in<br />
subtle hierglyphs of oracle<br />
charcoal singed<br />
the smell of your burning hair<br />
for every revolutionary must at last will his own destruction<br />
rooted as he is in the past he sets out to destroy<br />
</pre>
<br />
-Diane DiPrima, Revolutionary Letters #12</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-90930819614280569082012-06-14T08:57:00.002-07:002012-06-14T10:31:38.595-07:00TouristsI followed a group of Japanese <br>
school children through the fish market<br>
In the middle of Florence<br>
While watching the writhing eels squirm<br>
and the countless jellyfish give<br>
slimy kisses to their neighbor's gray skin.<br><br>
At the Uffizi I still smelled<br>
the fish perfume on my skin<br>
and felt the lips of the jelly<br>
fish on my cheek. I was behind two groups<br>
of Japanese students in navy<br>
blue jackets ironed kahkis and plaid skirts.<br>
Red Sketchers with untied shoelaces traced<br>
down the floors like eels piled up in<br>
long lines into narrow bottomless bins.<br><br>
Then there was the primordal long wavy<br>
hair of Venus. Venus born of the sea.<br>
Venus bursting nude from the palm of her<br>
island shell. The students, divided in groups<br>
of boys and girls, shuffled in silent reverence<br>
past the annointed feet of Venus.<br><br>
pjcjr61412Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-62120660823641486532012-06-12T07:53:00.003-07:002012-06-12T07:53:54.378-07:00Sonnet"It teases eternally, then suddenly fades and dies." <br>
<br>
The old motif. The skull king with the laural crown.<br>
The eternal thrill of supplication and ill.<br>
Braun set out to slay his dragon on top his knoll<br>
Abandoned by his fiddlers,<br>
Assaulted by his butler,<br>
Robbed by his cook and heir.<br><br>
The hunger fields where the jackal lays listening.<br>
The white horse mounted by cancer<br>
And starvation. The globe rolls,<br>
The violins play on, the actors act,<br>
The good thief has come again.<br><br>
Braun bows low at old god's alter.<br>
Weighs memories on an ivory scale.<br><br>
A candle and lavender to end his stolid day.<br>
<br>
pcjr
<br>61212Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-71123950357776253542012-06-11T06:29:00.000-07:002012-06-11T06:29:56.404-07:00John Berryman, poem 175Old King Cole was a merry old soul and a merry old soul was Henry <br>
He called for his butts & he called for his bowl <br>
& he called for his fiddlers three <br>
in vain. Blank prose took hold of Henry's soul <br>
considering all the deaths & considering. <br>
There is a little life upstairs <br> <br>
playing her nursery rhymes to be considered <br>
also. And there is a tall life in the car <br>
to be considered. <br>
And there is the life of Henry's characters <br>
to be thought on, established from afar. <br>
Henry has much to do. <br> <br>
Take a deep breath then, sigh, relax, continue. <br>
This world is a solemn place, with room for tennis. <br>
Everybody's mouth <br>
is somewhere else, I know, somebody's anus. <br>
I speak a mystery, only to you. <br>
Here's all my blood in pawn. <br>
<br>
-John Berryman, poem 175, The Dream SongsUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-30414535816052947082012-06-06T09:22:00.003-07:002012-06-06T09:35:55.279-07:00June MetamorphosesWhen these pebbles become flesh<br>
When they reach, lust, and bless<br>
The foaming waters at their knees<br>
When these veins with their agony<br>
Become tributes only to a lost story<br>
The height of being ends at heaven<br>
The flute and violin praise our passion<br>
The ears are blocked in pride's fashion<br>
This is to not know the origins of our waters<br>
The man made of marble and straw<br>
Whose face and hands feel time's gnaw<br>
Wades to his waist in blackened seas<br>
His wife in the garden makes paper dolls<br>
To dance and stand in their waiting halls<br>
They will fight for breath in love's trepid channels<br>
<br>
Were they denied were they crippled and silent<br>
Did they move with their dry tongues impotent<br>
To the recesses and curves of the shy and strong<br><br>
6/6/12Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-90801670064868501672012-06-06T08:28:00.001-07:002012-06-06T08:28:27.523-07:00<i>I swear by all the rivers <br>
Of deepest Hell my best is done to conquer<br>
Human ill; the best is not enough; taint<br>
Must be cut from flesh as with a cleansing<br>
Knife the body cured. I am protector<br>
Of nymphs, fauns, satyrs, and small gods who wander<br>
The village street, down lanes, up shaded hills;<br>
Since we have found no home for them in heaven,<br>
The lands they live in must be cleared of evil,<br>
Where Lycaon, known for his will against me,<br>
Walks like a beast and hides his traps in forests.<br>
<br>
~ Ovid, the Metamorphoses</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-77534715183990310202012-06-05T09:33:00.004-07:002012-06-12T20:20:09.851-07:00Secret AdmirerOn Lungarno Acciaioli <br>
<br>
I see<br>
A woman sits with both legs dangling<br>
Over the wall, her back<br>
To the street. It is obvious<br>
That she is either more brave or<br>
Has more faith in humanity<br>
Than I do.<br>
<br>
I glance up to see her taking<br>
A picture of me with my<br>
Book of Bukowski open<br>
<br>
I look back down to the street. <br>
What I had thought earlier<br>
Was a lizard turns out to be<br>
A feather blown by the traffic.<br>
<br>
Again, I look up and she is gone<br>
I realize my eyes wont stay open, <br>
and the wine's<br>
Effect is passing.<br>
<br>
My vision is lost down the street<br>
<br>
P. Conners Jr.<br>
Florence. May 22, 2012Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-32823863939604448352012-05-24T22:35:00.000-07:002012-05-24T22:35:17.024-07:00ConfessionalA woman on the street <br>
In Florence<br>
Taking signatures for<br>
A petition<br>
To help end drugs and aids<br>
Made a pass at me<br>
While telling me how<br>
Famous Pittsburgh is,<br><br>
And that I do not<br>
Look American.<br>
I guess I did catch some sun<br>
That day.<br><br>
Anyway, she looked me up<br>
And down.<br><br>
I <br>
Accepted her offer to learn <br>
A little Italian, <br>
But remained clueless as to what <br>
and what it was <br>
That any of this really meant.<br>
anyway, <br>
<br>
After some negotiation we reached our terms. <br>
So naturally, <br>
I <br>
gave her a twenty and<br>
Ran straight<br>
Inside San Gaetano<br>
Dodging carelessly down the<br>
Bus lane <br><br>
-p. Conners Jr. <br>
Florence, May 22, 2012Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-43948036499466787652012-05-23T13:19:00.001-07:002012-05-23T13:22:11.305-07:00VictimsI'm wearing beige
Khakis, a maroon T,
Red Vans, with an orange
Hoody tied around my waist
While a woman with
Cropped black hair
Walks under me
In a white T announcing <i>No
More Fashion Victims</i>.
I wonder where in Florence
I have ended up.
And how long have
I been sitting on
This wall?
A man rows his thin
Boat down the Arno backwards.
My back and ass hurt.
It's time to find
A balcony
And more wine.
Possibly a taxi? <br><br>
p. Conners Jr.<br>
Florence, May 22, 2012Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-583225849730638284.post-91118383411847813912012-05-22T09:15:00.000-07:002012-05-24T21:50:25.741-07:00A White CraneI saw her swooping <br>
In while I sat on the <br>
Ledge on top of the wall <br>
Before the Arno river, sparkling <br>
In midday. <br>
She fell into the water <br>
Soundless and soft <br>
Stayed still for a <br>
Minute then into the <br>
Reeds I lost her. <br>
I returned to Bukowski <br>
He told me <br>
To get used to it. <br>
The crane was seen for <br>
A moment again before <br>
Sailing off under <br>
Arched bridges of <br>
Heavy stone. <br>
I've felt <br>
Shame and accomplishment <br>
Before. <br> <br>
-p. Conners Jr, Florence <br>
May, 22 2012Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2