PoetofCville

prickly

2012-01-23T11:47:00.001-05:00

We had our first snow. It was white and delicious for about 6 hours. We didn't have a sale this weekend and so I had a weekend off -- first in a zillion years. I seemed to have slept a large percentage of it away and now I feel like I have a horrible hangover (never mind my eyes and sinuses are puffy). The Patriots won no no no let me rephrase that -- Baltimore lost their AFC Championship game. Even I feel bad for Cundiff -- he looked like a little altar boy in that press conference. I love football and my team -- but even I feel a bit guilty about going to the Super Bowl. Such is football -- penalties, turnovers and a little luck. Or magic. Or faith -- depending what sect you pay your dues to.

I did manage to bake a pineapple upside down cake this weekend as well. And cooked a kick ass stir-fry. I used to love to cook but just don't seem to have the same verve for it right now. Noot won. Can you believe it? I don't think he'll be the nominee but man it sure makes the primaries fun -- well maybe fun isn't exactly the right word. I was chatting with a friend last night and she said she misses Rick Perry -- he is some dumb he's hard not to kind of love. If not be utterly frightened of I suppose.

I wrote a poem kind of thing the other day. It is horrible but at least it was something. I need to get going on the poem that is due for the exhibit next month. Sigh. I don't know why I say yes to those things. I started to watch, in the middle of the night, a movie called Tom & Viv. Willem Dafoe playing T.S. Eliot and Miranda Richardson his wife. I need to watch it when I'm not coming down from a wicked buzz. I fell asleep though the cigarette smoke alone was intense. There are several films I want to see this winter now that football season is almost over. One winter all we watched were movies about painters. I don't know if there is a theme this year yet.

I've got things to mail. Why is it so difficult for me to get to the post office I wonder. I think it is parking and the line and the forms. I know there is a way to do it from home but I'm too lazy to figure that out as well. I fear my children have inherited my intense procrastination gene. Oh and I seemed to have wrenched my left shoulder. I feel a bit prickly today. I'm hitting save...

redemption in the USA

2012-01-20T08:05:00.001-05:00

Noot was banging someone other than his then-wife while trying to impeach Slick Willie for lying about not having sexual relations with some young intern. Noot says his affair was basically because of his love of country. Willy basically said "who cares about what I do with my cigars -- it's the Economy Stupid." Christians were freaking out -- Character means Everything.

President Obama is, by all accounts, a dedicated family man. A man full of good, clean character.

The folks on the Right say President Obama and the Dems hang out with "Intelligent, Elitists"

Mitt's named after the dude that owns Marriot hotels -- a good friend (best really) of his downtrodden Pop who was CEO of American Motors. Mitt is worth billions. But -- he's obviously not elite. His money needs that sunlight to grow in the Caymans.

Of course, evangelical Christians love them some Noot and the Corporations are salivating for a confused Mitt who can't keep his opinions straight, like his teeth -- it's the battle, the need to get that horrible guy out of zee Should Always Be Very White, White House.

art snobbery

2012-01-17T09:51:00.001-05:00

I have a friend who grew up in Woodstock, NY in the 60's and 70's. He has incredible stories about Dylan and Joplin and those nutty 60's artists who lived in the colonies up there. I'd like to tell some here. He has art he bought or traded for done by artists who now have fairly successful sales records. His mother recently bought a Larry Rivers at a garage sale and his parents house is full to the brim with "really, good art."

I'm angling to get one of his John Ernst's watercolors. My friend bought a trash bag full of Ernst's rolled up watercolors when John had fallen on hard times and could be found selling his stuff on the streets of Woodstock for cigarette money. They are crazy looking.

I love getting stoned and listening to his stories and rummaging through his attic and basement -- he has a photograph by Mapplethorpe that he mustered out of a basement in Provincetown twenty years ago among massive stacks of stuff he's traded for, collected over the years. I ask him for the story behind every thing he shows me. I sometimes think the story makes the art that much better.

Last night I traded him a 19th C still life exhibited at the World's Columbine Exhibition in 1893 for some local modern art by Victor Candell, an unsigned but authenticated Matisse litho, an Edward Gorey Mystery Theater Poster (Sweeney Todd) from 1982 (for my son) an unbelievably gorgeous Nantucket basket and two original oils by other local, now deceased artists. There's another I want to trade for -- he just dug it out last night but I have to come up with some goods. It's really_good.

I am becoming a bit of an art snob. I think. Soon I will want to take down anything hanging in the house that isn't "good." I will be a jerk about it all. And people will start to think I'm stealing from my clients. But I almost never exchange money in my gathering up of these treasures. The world of stuff is weird. The world of art stuff maybe weirder. I plan to put all the stories down and in envelopes so that when I'm gone my kids will have the provenance of these things. Will it matter to them? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe they'll just want the stuff from their grandparents -- those old dutch paintings, the maritime paintings, the portrait of their great-grandfather painted by a Dutchess. Will their husbands/wives allow them to hang the outlandish modern art in their homes? What about the growing nude collection and will the even bother to fight over the still life supposedly painted by a kid who new Van Gogh and brought to the states by a serviceman?

Am I an art snob if I don't pay money for the stuff? I would hate to think I am an art snob. I can't ever be a real art snob probably. I don't even have a pension or paid vacation. I don't have golden handcuffs or a trust fund.

I tell my Woodstock friend it is really all about karma -- give good and get good back.

I was up all night. Too much stuff laying on my brain. Going to have a nap. I hope I dream something good to give.

Demons

2012-01-16T12:03:00.002-05:00

Edward Gorey said this -- "Ideally, if anything was any good, it would be indescribable."

pretty much sums it up doesn't it?

Politics Anonymous

2012-01-11T09:01:00.002-05:00

Politics are bringing me way down (again). I need to put them away somewhere. I can't bear the thought of Romney/Christie -- I can't bear the thought of all those young kids being brainwashed by Ron Paul (doesn't he understand there is a Congress?).

Did anyone see that in Georgia they used slavery references in math word problems? The teachers thought it was a good mixing of disciplines as they were studying slavery in social studies. Did you see those math questions? Fuck. My kids went to a charter school where they did that sort of thing successfully -- we never had math problems that asked how many beatings a person might get in a day.... Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I need a political hiatus.

I think it is Elvis Presley's birthday -- or nearabouts. Elvis reminds me of my Pop. I dreamed about him the other day-- my Pop that is. It was so real. In the dream I was lost (though the street in the dream was where I grew up). He pulled up next to me in a car and rolled down the window -- and smiled and smiled like he did. He didn't need to say a word. He was rescuing me.

When I tried to talk about it with my mother -- I cried. I don't talk about him too much. It makes me too sad. I think that's the reason.

There are lots of Elvis songs I love. I love young black leather clad Elvis and I love portly white jump suit Elvis.

I've got one of these

Poppy

2012-01-10T12:16:00.001-05:00

No no no no...not heroin.

My mac got sick and had to take it to the shop to get fixed. While at the mac shop I bought an iPad. I think I had a sudden spell of CafeSelavyious. Then I went to the nearest post office (not a PO I normally frequent) -- while there mailing late Christmas presents I adopted a puppy. I said "adorable dog -- she said do you want her?" I said yes.

SOPA, the new Ghosts & Visions of Johanna

2012-01-01T21:45:00.000-05:00

I need to keep up on this SOPA stuff. It bends the brain a bit (at least mine). I tried to catch up a little on the subject tonight.

Who likes this idea? What journalists support it? I can't really find any. Yet I've read the pro-SOPA lobby is is led by various media companies. The new Ghosts.

"Corporations are people my friends." Mitt Romney.

"The bank is something more than men, I tell you. It's the monster. Men made it, but they can't control it."

John Steinbeck, The Grape of Wrath.

And so when my head hurts, I go here for a different sort of pain. Complete with album scratch. Join me if you care.

art by my son's roommate. Matt. He needed money. I bought it for forty bucks.

Smoking Kids

2011-12-30T23:13:00.000-05:00

I dunno...my son is home from college and was using my computer. I came home and this link was up. It does have a strange effect doesn't it.

From this website

WTF

2011-12-27T09:33:00.004-05:00

I mean really....

starry starry night...

2011-12-24T00:37:00.001-05:00

The Magi

BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye,

In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones

Appear and disappear in the blue depths of the sky

With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones,

And all their helms of silver hovering side by side,

And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more,

Being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied,

The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

Happy Christmas to all who happen across these words.

Freedom in Amerika?

2011-12-21T08:49:00.000-05:00

"Andrew March, a Yale University professor who testified for the defense as an expert witness, said the verdict sends the message to Muslim Americans that they do not have free speech.

"I do what he did almost every single day at Yale University. I teach Islamic law, I study Islamic law. I translate things about al-Qaida. I teach people to debate," March said. "Because I'm not a Muslim and because of what my name is, I have no problem doing it. But if my name were Tarek Mehanna, I would have everything being tapped, and that should worry every single one of us."

freetarek.com

2011-12-16T15:09:00.002-05:00

The new store is doing tremendously well. Our customers can't seem to say enough about how much they love the look and feel of the place. It's sure encouraging. We had our best day yesterday -- over 700 dollars in sales. We're seeing the same people come in over and over and we've only been open 3 weeks. And only 4 days a week. It is a good sign all around I think.

The best part, well there are many best parts but it is really cool to be able to be supporting local artists. And word is getting around because more and more are coming in with their wares. Before we opened, people were giving us such negative vibes about our location ... there had been several different types of stores in this building that didn't make it but still ... anyway it is fun to be,so far, proving them incorrect. Or better, just making the energy positive on our little corner in Cotuit.

This post is light and unimportant in the scheme of things. But I never pledged that every day would be a serious undertaking or earth shattering. Just sharing. Here is a photo of some of the deliciously smelling organic, made in the USA soaps we are carrying. The orange is citrus lavender and just yum.

"They fuck you up, your mum and dad..."

2011-12-15T11:01:00.000-05:00

No. Not Philip Larkin ... of course not. First off, he's dead. And when he was alive, he was British. It's the US Poet Laureate, Philip Levine I saw an article about this morning.

But wouldn't it have been fun to have Philip Larkin as US Poet Laureate.

I didn't even know Philip Levine was Poet Laureate. I haven't much kept up with modern poetry. Except with the poet folks I hang around with. I'm not sure why -- no that's a lie -- I know precisely why I haven't kept up:

A: The Professor hates most poems written today (no more he says they aren't Poetry and does try to encourage by being critical) and of course I have followed him like a faithful student does. Picking apart modern poetry like a turkey vulture on roadkill.

Jealousy is a very horrible trait. For many years I worked to eradicate the "j" word from my life. I did pretty good -- it remains, however, lurking inside me with regard to two specific areas:

1. Brilliant poems written by young women.

2. The drug addict with the perfect ass the Professor had in his life (for 5 years) who didn't love him worth a damn but drove him to ridiculous lengths to keep her in his bed. AND for whom he wrote smoldering poetry about.

I think it is coming a long way to be able to point out specifics like that. Don't you agree?

Where was I? Oh. Philip Levine. I couldn't finish reading his poem "Drum" this morning. I found my mind wandering ... I wasn't compelled to keep reading. I wasn't drawn in. Once, I wrote a poem in which the first line is "your mind is a sun-fucked sea..." I wasn't attempting to be a shockjock poet, I was thinking of when a sun ray shoots down into the ocean. How an idea can pierce the mind --

I stole sun-fucked from a dear dear old poet -- well I didn't steal it -- she said I could have it. She used it to describe a story of her and a lover being on the beach. Sun-fucked. I love it. Anyway, I'm not sure poets should be normal people. Maybe that is the problem with some of the poet laureates we've had in the USA lately -- they are so "normal." Why wasn't Mr. Ferlinghetti ever named Poet Laureate? Or Allen Ginsberg?

They seem very normal to me. Don't you love Mr. Ferlinghetti's "her hair was rainy, her breasts were breathless..."

Random brain scrapes & tablescapes

2011-12-14T21:39:00.001-05:00

I saw a headline today about Michael Jackson's hair being made into a roulette ball. It wasn't on one of those "most outrageous" headlines site either. That's just fucked up innit?

Do you still write out Christmas cards? I hope you do. Even if it is just to a few people. Imagine -- the post office is going down the shitter -- I'll probably have to explain to my grandchildren what Christmas cards were. It is odd. I don't feel old. I read a blog of a guy who is just 2 or 3 years younger than I am and he is preparing for the birth of his first baby. And my babies are 20 & 15. It's strange.

Someone told me the other day that there is truth to the notion that time goes faster the older you get. Something about hormones ... I think that is what she said. I'll do some research and report back. Remember when you were a kid? It seemed like it took forever for Christmas to arrive and now were are heading into the End of Times (2012 and all).

The sports radio guys can't stop talking about Tim Teebow. It is better than Jerry Sandusky I guess. All of the sudden they are protecting him like he really is an Angel sent from Heaven.

Hey! Maybe it will be the end of the world with Gingerich being President.

I dunno. I do love the smell of gasoline & leather. Do you know that Dankso advertises "Vegan Shoes?" I guess all the trendy companies do. I have stacks of things to do. I'm not going to do any of them this evening. I've got the hot tub heating up. I'm going to sky watch and relax. Maybe smoke a little bone then write some Christmas cards.

This blogging stuff is something.

Mother Nature

2011-12-13T07:46:00.000-05:00

Is this the beginning of something? or the last of something ancient? And I don't mean the "being served at restaurants" part.

I'm no scientist so maybe this stuff isn't even that interesting to anyone. Maybe it's just old news. But I just love when new species are discovered. We read so much of the species that disappear -- it makes me even the slight bit optimistic about the planet Earth when I read "deep in the green jungles of Vietnam this lizard was discovered in 2010...." And I just can't help but think of those campy B movies where a village of super powerful women are discovered. I'd miss men though, for sure.

There was a snow ring around the moon last night. It was quite lovely. I think I might even be ready for the first real snow. Something quiet -- snow that begins falling at dusk and full of sparkle. We went for the Christmas trees last night. Now comes the decorating. I'm doing the upstairs tree in all birds. I have a funky purple owl for the top. She's already up there waiting for the rest to arrive. Hannah will decorate other tree with all the "traditional" ornaments we've accumulated during the lives of her and her brother. We love to pull them out and laugh at the ones they made in nursery school. Some full of scribble & haste but still garnering the perfect spot on the tree. If only the holidays were that easy....

White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field, Mary Oliver

Coming down out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,
it was beautiful, and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —
and the grabbing thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys of the snow —
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death isn’t darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us —

as soft as feathers —
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.

Discombobulate

2011-12-12T08:07:00.000-05:00

Do you know Anselm Kiefer? I didn't (until I read this article on huff post this morning). So much I don't know. It is a prideful thing -- to think one "knows" a lot. I want to know a lot.

Europe is another planet isn't it? Like Asia. Australia doesn't seem so other worldly though. Perhaps it is the barrier of language. I don't know.

At one time in my life I investigated purchasing a light house. I got the list of the light houses for sale east of the Mississippi. I got the bid forms. I was going to apply as an educational organization. I dreamed I could some how combine my love of the sea with my passion for poetry in some tangible way. It would be a place poets could come and stay -- have sabbaticals. Or something. I realized when trying to fill out the proposal forms I hadn't really given it enough thought. I couldn't explain to the government why I should have a lighthouse for poetic reasons.

I gave up that dream when I realized my corporate job wasn't going to let me "hit it big." When a giant deal I was working on with a company focused on usury didn't come to fruition after almost a full year of being tethered to that hope -- I quit that rat race shortly after that. Well after going almost broke because I had put all my eggs in that basket I guess. I am one of the most hopeful folks on the planet I'm sure. I can see hope in the blackest of despair. Until I fall in of course.

A Libra should not allow themselves to suffer such highs and lows. "Grab the balance stick in front of you and hold on..." a Yogi who I studied with for over a year taught me.

Is this post swinging all over the map? I am an expert in that type of writing, I think.

Monday's are my weekends. Today I will do many mundane things. Grocery shop, clean, go to the post office. I will also find a few minutes to go to the local thrift stores and dig for treasures. Tonight Hannah and I will get a Christmas tree. I tried to talk her into a beautiful artificial one -- she said no. The Black Swan had a very successful weekend of the Nutcracker. I can't believe how she is progressing. Her boyfriend attend the same show as I did -- he picked her up and swung her around when she came flitting out in her last costume. I was standing there with two bouquets of flowers and she told me to "go away now...". Motherhood. One must be awful tough to endeavor that occupation that's for sure.

Where was I? Oh oh oh...

Anselm Kiefer. "Art is difficult, it is not entertainment."

Saturday ....

2011-12-10T23:38:00.001-05:00

It's been a super busy Saturday ... two sales, the Nutcracker, the new shop. I'm spent but didn't sleep much last night. Stayed up till 4AM to watch the American Masters on Pearl Jam's 20th anniversary of being a band. The first time I went to see them I had an infant under 1 and the second time I was pregnant with my second. The second time was 11th row and everyone was nervous about people moshing on me with a fetus in utero (I wonder what Cobain would be doing if he was alive).

The Nutcracker performance tonight was lovely. Hannah is certainly amazing -- but it is not good to brag about ones own child too much. There were some three year olds that slayed of course, they always do. Matinee tomorrow.

Just came in from soaking outside. Cold -- about 35 degrees but the water was up to 105 by the time I got home from the performance and the night so bright and blue -- that sort of mother's milk blue spilling all over the yard.

I've got nothing to complain or whine about this evening. Tonight ...let's just dance and kiss under the Blue Moon.

2011-12-09T07:15:00.001-05:00

Poll indicates Gingerich is the "true conservative."

Well. Now that we have that out of the way. True conservative... really?

Really?

These are mad mad times. But not the good mad ... where art & intellect flourish. These are no Enlightened times. Nopey. This is like Mad Max Goes Right Wing Christian or something. And I've already expressed my "those right wing Christians don't know nuttin bout Jesus" opinion.

But at least the folks who have been masking their racist attitude toward our President are coming out of the closet. "Food Stamp President.." "Soul Train Initiative.." what else have I heard over the past few days ... oh "poor kids have no idea what a working role model looks like." "Gay people shouldn't openly serve in the military" ... oy vey.

As distressed as this stuff makes me feel, I actually wish people would always be that honest and quit couching their real feelings in innuendos. Just say ... "I really am afraid of those black folks getting more power." or "White people should always be in charge." At least then we'd have somewhere to go. It wouldn't necessarily be a good place but at least it would be honest. The bubbling lava under the surface is making my feet hot while walking around this country.

And let's not even talk about the Town Dictators taking over 5 or 6 cities in Michigan thereby making the citizens of those towns votes null and void. WHAT?

If I spend too much time reading and listening to this "news" I feel too depressed to get up and go out. If I don't pay attention and try to talk about it I feel like I'm being irresponsible. But I have to stop getting into arguments with people I guess. I have been hit with several anti-union folks lately. As if unions are the cause of all our problems. I'm learning to smile and just not engage anymore. What good will it do to argue with these strangers? I'm not going to change their minds.

I'm depressed and I've not started my day. I have a big estate sale today and tomorrow (two this weekend with one being a benefit for the Boys & Girls Club of Cape Cod). I need to smile and be cheerful for the next two days.

I need to be a lover ....

Let the lover be disgraceful, crazy
absentminded. Someone sober will worry about
things going badly. Let the lover be.

Rumi

The Week of Nutcracker ...

2011-12-08T08:46:00.001-05:00

Homework on the run. Hair in a bun. False eye-lashes. Tide-spot stick. Make-up remover. Costume changes. Toe pads. Pink tights. Brown hair nets. Bobby pins.

Not even the polichinelles are cute during dress rehearsal...

My Black Swan.

Sexual Objectification

2011-12-07T07:48:00.001-05:00

Apparently if you are a woman and participate on the show Dancing with the Stars, you should not be upset or surprised that a strange man films you naked through your hotel peep door window. And 10 million dollars is too much money to sue for damages. And she's an awful reporter.

This is what I heard on the Boston sports radio station I listen to in the morning. Well, it was something close to that. Something about Erin Andrews dancing with her "ass up in the air" on Dancing with the Stars and therefore she isn't "really upset or damaged" by the guy who filmed her naked without her knowing it at a Marriott hotel and posted it to the internet. A Marriott hotel that gave out information about her staying at the location and rented the filmer a room right next door to hers.

The two men radio show hosts said these sort of things. A few days ago they were asking for the castration of Jerry Sandusky because of the charges being brought up against him.

Is it just me? Shit. I know innocent children and stuff but really? Are women THAT much below the sexual food chain?

Of course these are the same guys that bash the Occupy Wall Streeters. Why do I continue to listen? I may not. I can get the sports news I want from other sources. I don't think I want to continue to give those guys ratings. I know, I know, I'm simply a small fish in the big pond of listeners but it is really the only way I know how to protest. I did call the station about the Occupy Wall Street bashing -- the woman I was directed to said "Well, I wish they'd talk more about the Patriots and not the Red Sox after all it is football season..." So I'm not sure how far my complaint got -- but I did at least call. I simply stated I listen to the station for SPORTS news not POLITICS. If I wanted to listen to politics I'd turn the dial.

I'm bothered by what I heard yesterday. In my ears it sounded just like "well if you wear a low cut shirt how could the rapist resist?" Even a few female callers said "She got famous after the incident in the hotel ... no one knew who she was before that." So therefore what? Crimes against her should go unpunished?

I know that is a bit hyperbolic but listening to those people yesterday made me wonder about the real progression of equality for women. No not equality necessarily I suppose -- basic respect? I'm sure 10 million dollars is a ridiculous amount of money for the suit. But that isn't really the point of this. (Honestly, I don't know what the point is ... writing into cyberspace). Sigh.

On a forum at an online site I participate in, I posted something similar about the first Herman Cain accuser and how some of the public were reacting to her accusations.... a man contributed to the thread with a comment close to "Men lust after women it is just the way it is...."

I'm not a hyper feminist -- really. I'm don't even think I qualify as a feminist. I'm just a Libra interested in the balancing of scales. I totally believe if a woman or man wants to be a stripper or a prostitute or pose nude etc. and the deal is on their terms -- more power to them.

Ah. Never mind. This is silly. I'm going to go stare at photos of Tom Brady to make myself feel better.

Winter Tales

2011-12-06T08:11:00.001-05:00

I was out last night. No, not in a bar or restaurant or shopping. I was out in the night. I took the flashlight and mucked across the street to look for owls -- I heard them but they were too far into the 8 acres that live across the street from me to find.

But the night --- ah. The Night. I should paint it.

The sky was curdled with moving clouds and the half dome of a moon was so bright it cast those purplish/yellow -- nacre colored really-- halos around the outlines of the clouds and its prideful self. Beautiful Moon you.

I wish you were here to see it with me. But of course I wouldn't want to be talking too much -- just looking up and sharing thoughts about it later.

After the trek I went into the hot tub (I know that sounds awfully disgusting but I always wanted one and about 8 years ago did it with income tax refund money). The water was 103 -- perfect. I laid with my head on the edge and stared up until my skin felt just about boiled. I didn't want to stop looking. Orion is up too. With the clouds moving the sky felt more alive than usual. I love the feeling of it -- is almost as if the stars and moon are scrolling by not the clouds.

I do love a cold winter sky even though I deny my love of the cold and winter. I seem to be inspired most in the season of white death.

Star blood in the veins of the moon. The bare trees flat and charcoal against the sky. And the animal sounds.

I was reminded yesterday of a poet I like -- Patrick Lane. I leave a short poem of his. I think he and I are of the same branch. I have never been modern.

You Fall Into Light

Someone loves you in the brief glance
the moon is when she rises. Look at that light
as it holds the needles of the solitary pine,
the single feather above the sudden eye
that is an owl at rest, her prey
hanging from a fist of claws. Your face
is salt and water. An argument for dream
is as brief as the glance the moon gives.
It is the single touch you reach for.
Behind you your lover sleeps
and you are standing on the back steps.
Every moment as brief as this. The owl
rises on soft wings. The moon falls.

The Season of the Witch

2011-12-05T08:22:00.001-05:00

I feel asleep at around 3:30 reading Spinoza and watching "The Girl with the Pearl Earring" on Satellite TV. After, of course, Sunday night Poetry Club. I remember reading the book but never heard anything about the movie. Did I? Colin Firth plays Vermeer! But it's Griet who I am thinking of this morning -- oh not the Griet of the movie -- the supposed girl in the painting -- but Scarlett Johansson.

My mother believes Ms. Johansson to be a witch -- the likes of Angelina Jolie. She believes that there isn't a man on the planet who can resist either of these two because of the magic that dwells within them. Evil magic I think she thinks. She told me the other day she feared for the wife of Matt Damon because Damon was filming or had filmed a movie with Ms. Johansson and obviously, according to Madre, the marriage is now doomed because Mr. Damon has been cursed and can only think of Scarlett while making love to his wife.

And Angelina Jolie is even more evil. "No man can resist her" my mother tells me. We have long argued about Jennifer Anniston --the former Mrs. Brad Pitt -- my mother thinking her movies so "adorable" to my "she's utterly insignificant to the craft of film" point of view (yes, I know but my mother watches Entertainment Tonight like a Pentecostal praises Jesus). Angelina's magic lured Brad from Jenny and boom. or something like that. These conversations give us something to talk about during long rides to St. Lawrence County, etc. I try to explain I can hardly resist her, Angelina Jolie. No not her movies, I can't remember the last time I saw an Angelina movie -- probably that one with Nicholas Cage and something to do with cars. But she, my mother, doesn't understand.

I didn't feel quite the same way about Johansson. I mean of course I adore "Lost in Translation" but I always thought it was because of my strange obsession with Bill Murray or perhaps my obsession with Sofia Coppola movies. I can't ever get over Virgin Suicides either. But is the real reason I watch "Lost in Translation" and one of my least favorite Woody Allen movies "Vicky Christina Barcelona" -- every time I'm in front of the TV and I click and those movies are on because of Johansson ? I must watch this "Ghost World" Cafe Selavy mentioned a few posts ago and see if it is true.

As Griet -- Johansson looks like she is wearing not a stitch of make up (I know this isn't the case but the make-up job is make-up-less looking). Her lips are so full... have they always been? Angelina has giant lips too -- is their magic in those lips?

Ah Beauty, Beauty, Beauty. I have always loved you even though you refuse to show me your full self and only reveal yourself to me in flashes and shadows.

Hannah's boyfriend asked her to go to his house this past Saturday night without any make-up on. At first she thought -- no, I'm not going to do that. Most recently she had told me "they weren't yet at the stage where she could see him looking like crap yet." But she went -- Saturday night -- without makeup. I asked her what he said and she reported he told her "she was absolutely beautiful -- stunning."

The Professor says "when one finds something Beautiful it is wrong not to share." He told me this a few times after my feeling incredibly jealous of a poem some young girl wrote that I had discovered.

Where was I anyway? I can't seem to keep a theme going on these posts can I?

Scarlett Johansson as "The Girl with the Pearl Earring" - I could hardly resist her. The movie seemed to float around her. Those lips...

Salome

Must you wear these veils?
each one I remove
reveals another,

are you lavender and silk,
dancing in another love?

and why should I write
for you
long dead:

your eyes reflect the candlelight,
and are brilliant with the fire.

another veil removed
and still I cannot see you
clearly,
drunk upon my wine stained couch,
and you hurt me
when you turn away,
why do you touch me
in that way
when the night wanes
and dawn touches the Sky?

Another veil removed,
and your lips touch my pain
pale skin
colored by the tapestries
reflecting the newborn light,

and another veil removed,

you are dreaming.

No.
Remove no more for me.

I have made a ceaseless effort not to ridicule, not to bewail, not to scorn human actions, but to understand them. Baruch Spinoza

2011-12-04T08:53:00.001-05:00

How come Herman Cain had to suspend his presidential campaign and Newt Gingerich is surging?

Newt has a history of extra-marital affairs doesn't he? Is it because Newt hasn't hid the fact that he's an asshole and Cain has done everything possible to hide the fact he is (poorly in my opinion). Is it because Cain sometimes looks like a black pimp ? C'mon you know when he wears those hats you are thinking the same thing.

I don't really give a crap what people do inside their own relationships and/or marriages -- that has nothing to do with me. Remember Clinton? and the Cigar? Christ, how did he ever actually survive that -- was it really the "economy stupid." Hilary survived too. What makes their relationship work is their own brand of juice.

But what does all this hypocrisy say about us? Americans that is. Why is religion so much a part of our political landscape? And yet the basic teachings of Jesus are not?

We give millions of dollars to other countries for aid and yet 50% of us have no problem our neighbor is going to lose their house because her kid got sick and the family has no health insurance. We are totally cool with paying physicians $500,000 a year but believe teachers who make 35-50K teaching children how to read shouldn't have a say in their contracts.

I know, I know I'm not making any earth shattering points here.

But really, who are we?

As a Libra (no chuckling there), justice is always ever present in my thoughts. What is the modern definition of justice? How does justice and equality work in our current society?

It gets dark real early these days, I'm pulling some philosophy books off the shelf, it has been too long since I've read Spinoza.

Sacred & Profane Love, Titian

Excessive indulgence of one's own appetites and desires.

2011-12-03T07:30:00.001-05:00

I'm thinking about Galway Kinnell's poem " when one has lived a long time alone" this morning. Well actually, I'm thinking about a star fish sky which made me think of a Galway Kinnell poem and then about "When one has lived a long time alone." I remember the person who told me so long ago that it was his favorite poem. I wonder how he is doing, that person. I lost touch with him. I liked him. It's too bad. There are other Galway Kinnell poems better I think. There's the one about old Providence and the factories or even another popular one about footsteps after making love.

My Professor always says that Kinnell was "too wordy." He's very critical about poems. Sometimes so critical I feel can't share mine with him anymore. Not that I write many poems anymore. I do have to write one for the upcoming Mutual Muse exhibit. The painting I was assigned is kind of cool this year. I hope I can do the painting some honor. I think I'll read some Frank O'Hara, he always helps.

I think I would have loved him. Both Frank O'Hara and the person I lost touch with. That's a problem for me. I fall in love too easily. Good thing the Greeks have like 100 kinds of love. Okay maybe just five. I've always loved the word agape. Maybe that will be the title of the poem I need to write.

My neighbor said he saw the fox last night -- I need to get outside more. I miss it. Tonight I will take the flashlight to the trail and look for owls. Maybe, we have another night of open house at the shop tonight. And I'll probably be too tired or buzzed from the champagne we have to drink.

Tomorrow I promise to write about you not me. This has been incredibly self indulgent. And boring.

2011-12-02T09:53:00.001-05:00

I've been an awful blogger. Blogging is dead isn't it? Fitting I feel spurred to start. Of course I'll fail because right now it feels like a good idea. I'll cringe at the thought of writing this.

It is because of this guy www.cafeselavy.com. He writes every day. Actually it is because of someone who referred me to cafe selavy if I'm truthful. Both of those people are probably geniuses. I'm a dolt who loves geniuses. I never graduated from college. I quit after getting into a philosophical argument with a English professor. He was a dolt. Well, at least I thought so at the time. I broke everyone's heart "Lisa the Smart One" failed miserably in academia. Ah well. That's another story for another time.

But I've always loved words --and books. and Music. and Geniuses. and that has led to a fairly interesting life I suppose. Where was this post going?

I was so sure of something I wanted to say after my morning dance to the Jackson Five and KC and the Sunshine Band -- I said in my head "I should blog this...." and now it's gone.

It was something about Words. or Boys probably. or Books. or Music. Blogging can have a tree/branch-like effect. You read someone's blog and then the comments on the post and then you go read the commentators blogs and possibly get hooked on reading and commenting on them. Perhaps it is a different version of that thing called Facebook. Is anything here worthwhile of this space I'm taking up in cyber land? I haven't an effing clue.

Today is the grand opening of a new little store I've opened with a good friend. www.simplyvintageofcapecod.com if you care to have a look (or not). Why not self-promote eh? Isn't that what part of the blogosphere is about? Help me here.

Okay. What I wanted to say slipped away just like the mercury that breaks from a thermometer and wiggles away when you try to touch it as a kid (not knowing it is deadly to your insides).

Read cafe selavy and the people who comment on him. They all seem like very interesting folks who I'd like to sit around and talk to about "stuff."

Until tomorrow....

National Poetry Month -- Poem a Day etc. Con't

2010-04-08T09:11:00.000-04:00

Something wrong with my laptop -- bummer, won't load my blog. Plus my e key is gone. Amazing how many words with eees in them.

I'm writing a poem a day and contemplating if I should post them here or not. So far it is a not. There is something comforting about only sharing them with the small group. Maybe something will come of these poems. Last years batch wasn't so good but the year before produced much of the work included in my upcoming book which I really need to get back to for the second editing process. The publisher is waiting. I'm probably delaying on purpose.

Tomorrow maybe I'll write something about you. I'm not good at this stuff.

Here is my friend Bohb. He's an artist:

www.artshaman.com

National Poetry Month -- Poem a Day etc.

2010-04-04T17:50:00.000-04:00

Well I am writing -- my lap top seems to have a bug. Blogger doesn't load -- it says it is going to but then I get a blank screen. So I'm on an old mac-mini desk top. How strange.

Easter Sunday. I do love all the symbolism of Easter -- Pesakah -- all the pre-Christian paganism and Jewish ties to the fertility season. I saw a photo on MSNBC of young boys throwing water on young girls in Hungary -- they were dressed in their traditional folk costumes. It was a pre-Christian tradition. Of course it has to do with fertility.

Americans don't really have that sort of stuff. We have other things though -- like Peeps. If I get anything written worthy of sharing with you, I will. As of now, it is mostly bad.

Happy Eastertide.

Okay I'll Try

2010-03-25T09:12:00.002-04:00

I follow a blog called Cafe Selavy. He is a friend. I suppose I can call him that though I only know him through his blog. Is that odd? I don't know the whole blog thing is odd to me. I'm so late in arriving to the whole scene. I am out of touch with it all.

Cafe Selavy he posts every day and he's a very good writer. He wants to be known for his photographs though, I think.

Anyway, I'm going to try to write stuff here. Though I don't really know why. Here is the link to Cafe Selavy. He's better at this than I am. A million times.

http://www.cafeselavy.com/

NaPoMo April 2010

2010-03-24T11:00:00.002-04:00

Well... it has been nearly one year since I last posted anything here. And nearly that long since I've poemed. I'm going to try NaPoMo again this year.

I think I have a book in the works. This is exciting and frightful news isn't it? More on that another time. The only reason I mention it in this post is because many of the poem in the "I think I may have a book in the works book" were penned during NaPoMo 2008 and so it seems like I should push through another year.

I didn't have the same results with 2009 -- though one or two poems do rear up in the manuscript.

So I will post them here and hope that something good will come from the exercise. I do know I'm a junky for the whole "group write through the month" thing. There is something communal about sharing 30 days of poems with a group of people doing the same thing. There is a camaraderie about the experience -- like a Habitat for Humanity building trip or something.

NapoMo

2009-04-29T11:12:00.002-04:00

Yeah

Hi. If you happen to be reading ... if not, well it is always good to talk to yourself, I have been writing and posting in my NaPoMo group but haven't had the energy/time to bring them here these last few days. I will though. Eventually.

April 20 & 21

2009-04-22T08:37:00.005-04:00

Haven't had time to post these days here barely time to write --

and not sure

they are even worthy of posting them

but since I said I was going to do that, I must.

4/21

Becoming Uncoupled at the base of South Mountain One Early Spring Evening When Fog Hangs in the Air

After love, we listen in the dark
to rain make a song on the thin roof
-- a cat meowing at the door sounds
like an untuned lute.
He says "I love your voice"

why is it this way --
too much passion brings such affliction.

4/20

Confronting Helen

For Beauty's nothing
but beginning of Terror we're still just able to bear,
and why we adore it so is because it serenely
disdains to destroy us. Every angel is terrible.

Rilke, the First Elegy

Fuck Rilke and his mysterious angels
the terrible angels -- his limpid, lapis eyed
mysterious creatures who hold up the blood of Imam Hosayn,
Prince of Martyrs so the world doesn't fold.

I birthed a baby boy whose eyes revealed
the answers to the pyramids
and a daughter whose face
iswaswillbe torment the minds of poets
for eternity.

I am not afraid of you, Helen, who sent
legions of men smiling
into the mouth of death --the promise
of you on their lips

"Love made ME such that I live in fire
like the Phoenix, who dies and rises
at the same time." *

* from Gaspara Stampa's Rime 208

Day 18 -- late and rushed thoughts of about Love

2009-04-19T10:29:00.003-04:00

Euphorion, again

You, not a boy, not a man but something
forever in between, Magician.

When I say "Beauty must be broken
for the sake of this poem"

it doesn't surprise you --
"In everything I've encountered

a dark-side exists but She is the promise
we can be something more

than animal." I know your eyes
and, the sadness their color holds

wounds me. I keep mining for more.
The devil forever heating the space between us.

Day 16 Out of Order

2009-04-19T09:24:00.004-04:00

Helen in San Fran

I saw a photograph of her
in a San Francisco crack house
or maybe she's just a runaway

a naked mattress--

a blonde boy next to her
a modern day Paris

her face either California suntan
or dirty, I couldn't tell.
That face always wearing

the perfect ratio.

Day 17 (Day 16 will have to wait)

2009-04-17T14:17:00.002-04:00

Day 17

"Meshes of the Afternoon"

“.......time is built into her body in the sense of becomingness.”

   Maya Deren

Helen, we must talk directly now --
do you understand
at all
what you are?

Your slender footed beauty
and perfect face, the pearl luster of your cheeks

you are unnecessary, not essential
at all
to human survival --
like Love itself

how I have fallen.

This cruelty I speak is not meant to bring you pain
but freedom – can you feel it?

“becomingness”
my Helen who has lived too long
ensconced in white stone.

Come with me now
to the slums of the Kathputli Colony
allow your hair to be infused with the smell of curry
and slaughtered cow. Laugh with me
at the sword swallowers
and stilt walkers

take off your ivory dress
and forget that the ocean is pretty
it is only its immensity that makes it so
its depth a deathly mystery

“I feel your closeness like a shot gun”
Helen of my own soul, slay the beast, let the wrinkles come.

April 14 & 15

2009-04-16T09:03:00.003-04:00

Struggling - too mentally busy last few days to have time to find poems -- only fragments

and dusty pieces of stories ...

my apologies

April 15

hieroglyph 3

A Berber of Kabylie
her head wrapped in linen
blew in with the Sirocco

They call her "tribeswoman"
she seems more a girl --

doll lashes
like black sun spray fringe
wet riverstone eyes
set in a Helen's face.

after Emile Frechon

April 14

hieroglyph 2

Thetis, in a pink bikini,
pedaling her purple bike
on the Atlantic City Boardwalk,
thump thump the wheels on the wood.

Just up from the sea, her skin in the sun
sprinkled with diamonds.

Day 13

2009-04-15T07:35:00.001-04:00

Day 13

Hieroglyphs 1.

the seasons revolve around a pause in the infinite rhythm of the heart and of heaven.

Helen of Egypt, H.D.

In a stand of trees
branch tips tumefy

with buds
oblivious to the mechanics
of the ticking clock.

Days 11 & 12

2009-04-13T09:01:00.006-04:00

Day 12

For Childhood, an elegy

"The imagination spans beyond despair

Outpacing bargain, vocable and prayer."

from For the Marriage of Faustus and Helen, Hart Crane

Our castle, built of white sheets strung

on mother's laundry line smelled

of sunshine and dandelion,

a limp stemmed flower tucked behind my ear.

Do you remember the span of grass

between the swing-set and the sandbox

we called the Groundless sea?

Your ship the latest cardboard box we fished

from my father's trash. Your cargo, provisions

of pebbles and sticks.

I loved the choppy blonde ocean

of your hair and never tired of trying to decode

the secrets stamped in the map of your eyes

those two, ragged petaled irises.

These stories still draw themselves

in stringy clouds set

inside fiery sunsets, in the open and close of spiral shells

in the sparrow's mottled wing

what is real we didn't imagine --

but if I look too close,

I see wrinkles in my hands and wonder how we manage

to live with ruined Troy

burnt and smoking

inside our human hearts.

Day 11

Day 10 but poem written on Day 11

2009-04-12T10:04:00.006-04:00

this is, i suppose, day 10 but really day 11 but poets don't care about chronological time

anyway. but i'm not a poet so i suppose i have no excuse.

the elegy continues -- sort of, I guess, Faust the fucker is everywhere.

Anton Webern probably because of my

murdered Austrian Grandfather

"Doomed to a total failure in a deaf world of ignorance and indifference

he inexorably kept cutting out his dazzling diamonds, the mines

of which he had such a perfect knowledge."

Stravinsky

It happens like this

-- what do I know about the twelve tone technique?

I quit piano

at 13.

Long before my teacher

allowed me the honor of Schoenberg.

Goethe's Faust

I put it down -- remember? We went

to find Robinson and that piano;

those red socks and the cat called Lonesome,

curled and sleeping through the endless ringing phone.

A small beat up book of immortal poems

Hart Crane, page 267

"For the marriage of Helen and Faustus"

and this isn't meant to be didactic

put it down.

"A Little History of Modern Music"

by William H. Gass -- last in the book

bought for 25 cents at the Hospital Thrift

Shop on a steel rain Holy Saturday.

I thought

about the women who guarded

Christ's tomb, about Jesus' decent to Hell

and Gilgamesh. I tried for something

else -- Cochise, Arizona, a ghost town

Doc Holliday and Big Nose Kate

hot desert, prostitutes

killing a copperhead in a far off canyon--

but even notes are not random

-- each one like a star thrown from a fist

to form a constellation

then

you clear your throat very close to my ear.

April 9th -- really.

2009-04-10T14:58:00.002-04:00

And it has come back to you ...

Robinson I should have known

the rabbit that slid through my tires

that dark night

on Iyanough Road

would eventually lead me to you.

I've grown weary wrestling the two halves

of Goethe's brain

give me your indestructible shoulder

my head needs a rest where it is always quiet

or play on your piano

a song written in the language of God.

*Weldon Kees Robinson.

2009-04-08T18:53:00.002-04:00

Day 7 & 8 --- struggling.

vii. Stop the flowers

Gretchen, her soft blouse open, rubs pussy willows

against her cheek. Frank, watching from the garden fence

wants to touch her.

He plucks a yellow rose from the twisted vine. A dot

of blood blooms on his finger.

A small interlude the devil will perhaps miss

Let this moment last a while --

the butterfly alight on the milkweed

a blue-black raven stitching doubt to the sky

Hazel Dickens singing about West Virginia

the same melancholy as knowing about the execution

of Camila O'Gorman, her baby baptized in bullets.

It is endless -- the beauty of sadness;

the dusty Sphinx losing its face, wild sweet violets

young girls in white Easter dresses praying to Jesus.

2009-04-06T12:01:00.002-04:00

Catching up on Day 5 too.

SheTrickster

V. Elegy for Euphorion

I hold night in my hands

turn the sea with my finger

Sapphira, Helena, Jezebel

my sister. Die Mutter, the Witches.

Do I dare disturb the Universe?

Bring David to his marbled knees

open a carpet of crocus across the once barren lawn

and set the baby birds' throats to wailing O's?

Gather up my amulets, my book of sigils, summon

the sirens, the symbols and Sybil

I hear a new boy has tired of his searching

the time is now to revel at the sign of the Brocken spectre.

Day 6

The Lover

IV. Elegy for Euphorion

//say "Nades, Suradis, Maniner"

and a dijinn will appear; tell the dijinn "Sader, Prostas, Solaster,"

and the dijinn will bring you your true love."//

from the Black Pullet Grimoire

The Lover binds the heart

like a Chinese mountain mother binds

her daughter's small feet --

spancelled, an animal hobbled by each days glossy thread.

I don't know if I like this amber-eyed inamorato thieving my freedom

I don't know if the knots you make are tight enough -- I don't know

tell me, are you in service to the devil?

April 4 -NaPoMo

2009-04-04T23:56:00.003-04:00

Victorine's Saddest Eyes

iii. Elegy for Euphorion

"All things do change: All things do love: All things are locked in ate:

Whoever fully thinks his through/holds the key to Man's estate"*

He left her a the railway station, gave her the puppy and a few coins.

She's reading Quirinus Kuhlmann's "Himmlische Libes-Kuess" for the

thousandth time. The face-less child, the chubby hand gripping

the iron fence, watches his body dissipate into smoke.

* Love Kiss XLI translated by Richard Sieburth

NaPoMo

2009-04-03T07:32:00.007-04:00

Well it is National Poetry Month and like last year I have pledged to write a poem a day for the 30 days of April.

I have decided to post them here as well as post them online with the group I'm doing NaPoMo with ---

They aren't polished and some will be very bad. The object of the exercise is to write something everyday -- which for many is standard practice but for me -- not. I write only when the muse strikes and so during April I do everything I can to entice her to me for at least 15 minutes a day. Sometimes she's a real bitch. :)

And so ..

Day 1

An Elegy for Euphorion, Part 1

Helen couldn't keep the boy

from cutting paper wings, taping them--

crooked and tattered to the back of his Superman t-shirt

or from jumping from the highest rung of the metal slide

in their backyard -- though

she never really tried

lacking herself, a decent sense of sin.

And when the boy found Mallarme and Heinlein

and took his guitar

to the edge of the northern cliff

his nose stuck in pages rattled by grass-spiced wind

his toes dug into the rain softened dirt

pulling the curl drooped on his forehead -- straight to spring --- straight to spring

no one

not even his father

recognized the disease.

note: Faust

Day 2

II that unnamed girl talks about Euphorion

My mother knew his father

I have heard together

they sang the Song of Solomon.

I met Euphorion after humanities

a copy of Steppenwolf tucked

in the back pocked of his knee-patched Levis

he smelled of good weed and a bit of baby shampoo

his face was

a Caravaggio angel

though it is not fashionable

to say that -- here

-- this audience disappointed by cliche

I still have the gold bracelet he took from his jacket

and clasped on my wrist.

Day 3

"My real name is Mephistopheles, but you can call me baby..."

III. Elegy for Euphorion

His plane touches down

in Manhattan

fresh out of the Amazonian

jungle -- alpaca jacket

blow gun

poison darts -- soft brown hair

resting on his shoulders

Murphy has run out of cigarettes

stops and empties out his pockets

on the top of a metal trash can outside the men's room

sweeps together the pile of lint

cat hair and what's left

of the Nino Korin tobacco -- a few strands stolen from a shaman's bag in Bolivia

His slender fingers peel a rolling paper out of the pack with a familiar

crinkle -- the Fashionable, the vagabonds

don't seem to notice

security cops walk right by

He lights up and leans -- one long leg bent

leather booted foot pressed against the white wall

inhales, smiles --and coughs with the harsh first suck.

Poems

2008-11-17T10:14:00.001-05:00

The mind is a fallen angel

A sun-fucked sea
its chalky soda crackling a slow saraband
steady there
at the shoreline, where the waves beat themselves dead
only to begin again in the pull and tinkle of shells

but you know this ...

so what can I tell you about the soul of the grass?
Green exalted to gold, green breathing green
dew, an abdication of moisture,
a blessing on morning feet. Grass, a servant apostle.

What wizard cants “All is connected,”
is that you Basho?
from inside the white pine, your voice
the dry “chek” of the red-shouldered blackbird?
The marsh awakens to the fox

hungry for breakfast, a small murder
duly accepted. Brown field mouse,
a communion wafer to assuage night's hunger.

Bend your body down, sniff
where the loam breaks open with cruel birth. Dare
to touch its bitterness to your tongue.

Every idea must be picked up, run between fingers,
weighed, tasted, and finally crucified,
nailed to the splintered wood.

2. "Withness"

“Withness”

The Quiet Animal of Thought

How tender the pads of your paws
and your eyes, teal pebbles,
your beating heart breaks rhythm against mine.

Nocturnal beast with no burden
save the fugue sung by the black dog's chorus and the poor monkey ripping
at the buttons of its jacket trying
to break free.

Even when you rub your clover ears at the back of my neck,
I never think of skinning you for your downy pelt
despite the fine Love poem it might make.

4. "Withness"

“Withness"

The Animal of Magic Gives Lessons to Students

translate the language of bird feet stamped
in wet sand.
Understand the impressions of trampled grass
where the silver arrow called Coyote puts itself down
to rest, read bleached fish bones and owl pellets for spells --

when necessary breathe through ruffled gills that resemble
the frilly underside of the deadly mushroom. Save your easily crumbled
symmetrical, powdered wings for emergencies,  yes, opening them is painful
but necessary
when speaking of the dying child.

We are responsible for the centaur and sphinx. In clouds
you must uncover music,
adagio a rainbow born in an aria, a thundercrack opera. Pocket
the tumbling hair of sunshine for a garland and stash away
the sweetness, the iron-scented snow still far off ringing the moon

and of the moon ---

you must be silent until your eyes witness its unseen side where
the mystery of Love is revealed.

Jump through all five fire hoops to discourse with angels,
to sup with the gods. And bow when you meet Buddha, curved
like an almond playing his cello. Then rest yourself on Basho's silk pillows,
close your eyes, this will take a while ---

more than yesterday's blue curve of morning
well past the fugue and the ever-pecking robin.
Feel in sympathy,   you must
for the still bound and dancing monkey.

With Robinson at the Fairgrounds after Hours

2008-11-17T10:09:00.002-05:00

With Robinson at the Fairground after hours

Robinson, your harrowing, gray-felt seclusion
the cat named Lonesome
and red socks left in the sink,

come, let's walk arm in arm
on trampled grass through the deserted stalls
and stale smells of the workers' fires,
to a field of tents
strung with a necklace of lanterns.

The jewel stuck in my throat, dear Robinson
I wish it was a pearl
swirled from Aphrodite's mantle
something to soothe,

alas
it may only be this,
a worthless bauble, a cabochon of fear.

I say, “How hushed the gilded calliope
parked under the massive oak and yet
in the distance, I hear music.”

“Something about gold, it sings to blackness.”

The smoke from the cigarette wreathes his head.
Pigeons on the bridge fluff,
pick fleas, coo,
our steps in unison, these dust covered shoes.

after Mallarme

release of burst! issue 3

2008-10-08T11:36:00.002-04:00

Our little ezine burst! has made issue 3 live. It is the first issue on our own website. Please have a look:

www.burstwherethoart.com

Thanks.

Lisa

Poem

2008-03-05T18:21:00.003-05:00

March

If I thought of you,
I only thought of something that endured,
that might endure...

H.D.

A muscling light strains against
morning collapsing black to gray,

slowly the December star drains
to nourish the lily and tuber rose;

Ophelia's bones undrowned and bursting
into snow crocus and Nausicaa,

the ship burner, slips closer to shore
bearing heat to burn the sleety

sea. In rough bellsong, birds chime
the way home to still bare oaks,

Jesus alight on the sparrow's wing,
Apollo's horses lugging cruel April.

Poem

2008-01-26T12:30:00.000-05:00

Theater of the Absurd, The Epilogue

Their end is all we have left to begin with

The Children without Histories sit in the empty theater seats
their faces perfectly sanitized of memory
the Humanities Director rehearses
inside their minds
his verses
pristine, manufactured

A red wheelbarrow shot up
on the room-size screen begs
to bleed rain
but it is not to be so

The Soul now excavated
is mute to the songless echoes
and the hack of tears stuck
in dry eyes

a beat up volkswagen with a bust of Beethoven
glued to the dashboard
where Jesus once sat
is coming over the hilly horizon
Tarot cards and ancient books flap a musical rhythm in the wind

and the artists are being called in
on an emergency
to paint the children some portraits.

Poem

2008-01-25T09:50:00.000-05:00

Theater of the Absurd, the absent cast, Part 1

half the story of Little Johnny Shakspar.

but don't mention his name
where the angry river rises
each morning
leaves a pock marked pestilence
the fresh stench of breathing letters
cleansed of death
sanitized and safe for the masses to embrace

the Director fears Johnny's history
the boy and his words are too dangerous
since the bourgeois enacted
their Perfect scene

a knife on the screen scrapes the wheelbarrow's red paint
the flakes windmill and slice
“Tommy can you hear me?”
Johnny cries from the balcony

Theater of the Absurd, excerpt of an interview with Allusion Ferlinghetti

2008-01-25T09:43:00.000-05:00

I remember chicken white hair

and visiting Denise Foti's Grandma Zayack
in the Polish section of Paterson
after her allergy shots
Denise couldn't drink milk or eat chocolate
and her Grandmother's eyes shot blue lasers
that cut right through my brain
and read my thoughts
about how dirty the streets looked there
compared to home

Those eyes made me embarrassed for thinking

We weren't born when the Doctor became a poet
but Denise had an operation in his hospital

On that rain-glazed Florida road
thirty years later
not even his wheelbarrow couldn't save her

Triviality Dada, Theater of the Absurd, cast of the Present

2008-01-24T23:40:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, it rained
and because it rained, I thought of you

truthfully
I was thinking about you
thinking about me

because I'm beautiful. And smart.

I don't shit
I don't even fart. And if I did
it would smell like the most exotic dew drenched yellow flower.

Do my perky breasts keep you in
a feverish state?
O poor soggy middle aged mothers
whose tits have been sucked
unto despair
I understand
that you desire

to be me.

I understand because I'm intelligent.
and beautiful.

yesterday
during the cold
rain that pissed on the world
in between licking envelopes
for the most successful candidate
and after a few risky fucks with a stranger

I thought about
you

Theater of the Absurd: a season of crossovers and spin-offs

2008-01-24T23:27:00.000-05:00

Black spirits and white, red spirits and gray;
Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may.

Thomas Middleton, The Witch via Macbeth, William Shakespeare

"the tinkerers are bothersome"

the Hag brushes away the swarm
the buzzing flies
and in the center of Her eyes
two burning candles bore holes
into the ice at Wintersea

Immanuel Guzzle waits to sign autographs at the theater exit
he has completed his night of impressions:

the hatted James Joyce playing golf with Keats
H.D. fucking Bryher in a boat on the way home from Greece
Pacino as Hamlet in Philadelphia
encore Archie Bunker bellying up the bar at Cheers

alas poor Betty Vaudeville just didn't get it
asks her mommy to buy her a take home book and t-shirt

o' "finger of birth strangled babe"

Immanuel smiles for the camera snapping his back flap photograph
"we're all made of exploded stars and a bit of mud" the quote read

the Hag drags the wheelbarrow across the blackboard
the students trapped in the mirror gag and cough up yellow fog

Wintersea, 2

2008-01-24T23:20:00.002-05:00

In Wintersea when the winter heat
drifts ashore
the Degas in the Main Hall?

its white tutu thaws into a soft, milky froth

but the citizens must not ever speak of this
for the newborns are always and still
fast asleep
and jealousy creeps and devours
in every corner
drip

drip
dripping a metallic water

“and thou art dead, as young and fair”
Lord Byron shouted into the fog but no one wanted to hear
over the buzzing of flies vomiting on rotted meat
the screaming pile of foul smelling letters
the discordant noise in the shattering reflections

“Do you finally see?” the Hag pleads
bearing her gray teeth through blackened lips
her silver gown glistening on the synthetic sea
the froth and foam bathes the Furies and The Crone.

Wintersea 3: Dismal, Virginia

2008-01-24T23:13:00.002-05:00

The squirrel's nervous tail
twitches
twirls jumpy circles
readying for a leap
from the sturdy oak
to the blowing pine

“in Wintersea, thou must bend
to meet the winds of time
with thy open hand,” the wizard whispers
“be ready to catch all noises
waiting
between the slimmest of branches.”

the Minister and his wife are leaving
the swamps of Dismal
hymn books in their suitcases
they're heading to New York City
for the Macy's Day Parade
their overblue eyes spilling Hope
on the cock-eyed path

on the broken roadside
the ugly Madonna's Vogue
waving in perfect squares that frame their faces

the Hag bubbles a hate potion in her blackpot mouth
the wicked little girls steal some
and spit the yellow acid
burning holes in the Book

the squirrel jumps

dried pine needles jingle
a dainty cadence

Wintersea

2008-01-16T00:33:00.001-05:00

Wintersea

for a reader not yet born

My always approaching Proserpina
follow the fragile wren tracks
newly stamped
into a thin blotter
of cold, white paper

see the message
left for you. Move past
the column of limb heavy
leyland cypress and berry clotted
pointed illex, follow

the skirting bone sound
the brown song
in the dead leaves

forgo the artificial heat of the orangery

and come to fatal Wintersea
where oceans bloom in fields
of white-capped flowers
preparing to ride us under

on this waiting fruit
bite down.