dances with pleiades
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
one nite in oregon
we took a sheet from the rental bed
and went to lay in the shadow of the dunes.
four layers of clothing and still the wind she blows.
above us the night began its spin.
i pointed to the milky way showed you how it differs
from mere constellations of clouds moving
west to east by its lack of change, informed
you how in really dark areas it spills bright as quarter
moon into your eyes. then the perseids began
shooting over us, a rubber band we wished
to see again, but we kept our wishes to ourselves.
that way they come true, you said.
i dumped my reading glasses on the sand.
we had to come back
out with a penlight to find them
among the lookalike dunes -you wandered in circles
aimless and hungry for chocolate, giving up
before we even began. i was methodical.
the air felt too warm by the time they were retrieved
so we took off the fourth layer and trudged
thru the grasping sand, over solid wood , up ancient stone
back to where the path was over lit by the floods.
on the flight to tampa #16 [-]
(08/14/07 00:12:43)
ezOP
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brb to your reading jack.
"pathetic fallacy"
wht can i say, i think those that insist that bugs
do not operate precisely as we do, emotionally,
in their own reality are the ones with the fallacy.
that it is pathetic is true of all fallacies. this is what
truth is made of. can we know how a fly feels
at the exact moment of contact with sugar?
why wouldn't happy, contented, satisfied apply
this is the truth for me about animate objects.
but inanimate objects i have more trouble reasoning
how does foam become cruel?
when it occupies spacetime as our foam
while being a completely differing fractal
or not. ow my head hurts.
i was wondering why a fly
followed me from mt shasta
to the quality inn. then in the denver
airport it was attracted to the green
of my skirt. now 37 thousand feet into the air
i feel its happiness on being with a poet.
i still think i is a way to write.
what's more inviting than a trepanned alley.
take my you and raise me a she.
this lens is what we poetry from
and all your objectifying leaves me little
to curl up with o philosopher.
my son twitches next to me in sleep.
his head on the tray, dreaming of first period.
the man sleeping next to him is a boy as well
with eyes i've seen before, i want to immerse
myself in this daily so that i can put those kind
of eyes behind me, the ones covered
with unlined lids, the dewey ones, the ones
that have seen too much, but not everything yet.
they haven't seen a happy fly.
"once the words are written down
the engagement is gone
they're dead. "
WRONG
they're often dead for the poet
but not for the reader. 37000 feet above kansas
and we're really not there anymore
a tornado spawns from the plane's belly
lands in a cornfield, makes popcorn.
poppy seeds multiply in californian bottles
with drawn faces and the backs of charity.
asphalt on a sere field where fire once lives
hungry for more than peanut coated snacks
it wishpers then roars but worldlessly, angrily
it means to consume all this agony
running inside the veins of the ones who are not
shakespeare.
our very existence on this planet is, in a sense, just an imposture; given its radical impermanence, just to relate to, get along with, other people, even just, other living beings, we must bow our heads in patient acceptance of the day-to-day way things are even if, as poets and writers, we feel it hit the heart hard as a were or as someone elses to be . . .
hit as hard as a were
he tells me there are sophists and linguists
in our beds trying to fuck out the world of "to be"
to is to was to were to watching the purpling organs
of sunset thirty nine thousand feet up, where cloudes
are land and we ride into the night. when i get home
all will be
darkness and midnite, edt. is to be a particle
of time, will the battery fade before the light
do questions become the children of abortions
is the light of the television screen enough
to dim the reversal of falling into the boat
then falling up out of it over and over
and what of the t. not earl grey which will not
pass my lips until i can forget the new snapple
commercials. actualy. faggit aboud it i hate tea anyway.
"to be" as imprecation. as deluvian separater from the phallacy
of nature. an imposture as delusional as any created from string theory.
and judgement, well, let's go there. i like coke, not pepsi, tequilla not gin
free verse more than the gilded remnants of the past four centuries.
if i were a peasant i would perhaps have learned --a 15th cent peasant mind you
not the thoroughly modern one i am, i even have reprints of degas & dali procured without
monet, ahem aho, oh ah ummmm-- about painting whilst visiting one of the cathedrals
in a near by paris or venice even perhaps a hamborg and then looking around my hovel
i might have seen various places i could carve such epiphanies to god
to share with the others in my village but i wonder
would they crucify or conscript me? excommunicate me or enlist me
would they ever find out about the mary i'd fornicated with
out the 1tlinc's persimmon spermision the one who loved me for my art
and not my new hat? and if i can't like my name, why would you continue
to use it and if i used yours how upset you'd be.
so, i like cornchips but not cornpone, oat flakes but not corn.
i like sappho but not sophocles and jimmy but not judo.
i like the way your face looks in the film but not the book.
the way my shoes have a thong, and not my underwear
o there she goes again getting frugal with the titallation.
yes, it's a planeful of travellers. we've got a destination.
the sky turns
dark and dark above little rock. i have no
window seat, so the jewels you always speak of
are still alive only in your words
i like writing better than speech, mountains less
than beach, pomes and prose equally , the book
over the movie. judge not lest ye be
is ok for christ. he was a beggar. i'm a peasant
running low on batteries. give me one reason
to like something, and i will. call me catholic
call me diverse, call me a pandering idiot.
you be the judge.
one nite in oregon
we took a sheet from the rental bed
and went to lay in the shadow of the dunes.
four layers of clothing and still the wind she blows.
above us the night began its spin.
i pointed to the milky way showed you how it differs
from mere constellations of clouds moving
west to east by its lack of change, informed
you how in really dark areas it spills bright as quarter
moon into your eyes. then the perseids began
shooting over us, a rubber band we wished
to see again, but we kept our wishes to ourselves.
that way they come true, you said.
i dumped my reading glasses on the sand.
we had to come back
out with a penlight to find them
among the lookalike dunes -you wandered in circles
aimless and hungry for chocolate, giving up
before we even began. i was methodical.
the air felt too warm by the time they were retrieved
so we took off the fourth layer and trudged
thru the grasping sand, over solid wood , up ancient stone
back to where the path was over lit by the floods.
on the flight to tampa #16 [-]
(08/14/07 00:12:43)
ezOP
* Reply
* Quote
* Edit
* Del
*
More
o My Recent Posts
o Show/Hide User's Posts
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brb to your reading jack.
"pathetic fallacy"
wht can i say, i think those that insist that bugs
do not operate precisely as we do, emotionally,
in their own reality are the ones with the fallacy.
that it is pathetic is true of all fallacies. this is what
truth is made of. can we know how a fly feels
at the exact moment of contact with sugar?
why wouldn't happy, contented, satisfied apply
this is the truth for me about animate objects.
but inanimate objects i have more trouble reasoning
how does foam become cruel?
when it occupies spacetime as our foam
while being a completely differing fractal
or not. ow my head hurts.
i was wondering why a fly
followed me from mt shasta
to the quality inn. then in the denver
airport it was attracted to the green
of my skirt. now 37 thousand feet into the air
i feel its happiness on being with a poet.
i still think i is a way to write.
what's more inviting than a trepanned alley.
take my you and raise me a she.
this lens is what we poetry from
and all your objectifying leaves me little
to curl up with o philosopher.
my son twitches next to me in sleep.
his head on the tray, dreaming of first period.
the man sleeping next to him is a boy as well
with eyes i've seen before, i want to immerse
myself in this daily so that i can put those kind
of eyes behind me, the ones covered
with unlined lids, the dewey ones, the ones
that have seen too much, but not everything yet.
they haven't seen a happy fly.
"once the words are written down
the engagement is gone
they're dead. "
WRONG
they're often dead for the poet
but not for the reader. 37000 feet above kansas
and we're really not there anymore
a tornado spawns from the plane's belly
lands in a cornfield, makes popcorn.
poppy seeds multiply in californian bottles
with drawn faces and the backs of charity.
asphalt on a sere field where fire once lives
hungry for more than peanut coated snacks
it wishpers then roars but worldlessly, angrily
it means to consume all this agony
running inside the veins of the ones who are not
shakespeare.
our very existence on this planet is, in a sense, just an imposture; given its radical impermanence, just to relate to, get along with, other people, even just, other living beings, we must bow our heads in patient acceptance of the day-to-day way things are even if, as poets and writers, we feel it hit the heart hard as a were or as someone elses to be . . .
hit as hard as a were
he tells me there are sophists and linguists
in our beds trying to fuck out the world of "to be"
to is to was to were to watching the purpling organs
of sunset thirty nine thousand feet up, where cloudes
are land and we ride into the night. when i get home
all will be
darkness and midnite, edt. is to be a particle
of time, will the battery fade before the light
do questions become the children of abortions
is the light of the television screen enough
to dim the reversal of falling into the boat
then falling up out of it over and over
and what of the t. not earl grey which will not
pass my lips until i can forget the new snapple
commercials. actualy. faggit aboud it i hate tea anyway.
"to be" as imprecation. as deluvian separater from the phallacy
of nature. an imposture as delusional as any created from string theory.
and judgement, well, let's go there. i like coke, not pepsi, tequilla not gin
free verse more than the gilded remnants of the past four centuries.
if i were a peasant i would perhaps have learned --a 15th cent peasant mind you
not the thoroughly modern one i am, i even have reprints of degas & dali procured without
monet, ahem aho, oh ah ummmm-- about painting whilst visiting one of the cathedrals
in a near by paris or venice even perhaps a hamborg and then looking around my hovel
i might have seen various places i could carve such epiphanies to god
to share with the others in my village but i wonder
would they crucify or conscript me? excommunicate me or enlist me
would they ever find out about the mary i'd fornicated with
out the 1tlinc's persimmon spermision the one who loved me for my art
and not my new hat? and if i can't like my name, why would you continue
to use it and if i used yours how upset you'd be.
so, i like cornchips but not cornpone, oat flakes but not corn.
i like sappho but not sophocles and jimmy but not judo.
i like the way your face looks in the film but not the book.
the way my shoes have a thong, and not my underwear
o there she goes again getting frugal with the titallation.
yes, it's a planeful of travellers. we've got a destination.
the sky turns
dark and dark above little rock. i have no
window seat, so the jewels you always speak of
are still alive only in your words
i like writing better than speech, mountains less
than beach, pomes and prose equally , the book
over the movie. judge not lest ye be
is ok for christ. he was a beggar. i'm a peasant
running low on batteries. give me one reason
to like something, and i will. call me catholic
call me diverse, call me a pandering idiot.
you be the judge.
posted by hiccup at 11:06 PM
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