In myth and legend the "stone-people" held memories, impressions, which could be accessed by sensitives - the crystal-stone has at it's core a fractal-matrix which can hold information and then transmit this information - the piezo-electric effect, the building-block of our CPU's, silicon the semi-conductor, and of course the galena-crystals in Radios, for over-the-air communications ...
accessing their memories can tell their stories from Cosmic forces to the history of Man, bringing lore from the life of the land - the stone-people are sentinels of the land and with their memories they softly sing to our DNA-crystals - it takes several generations for the Land to change a People, then we begin to see these changes in our children as they tell us the old-stories they've heard in dreams and the music of the land whispered to them from wind and stream -- ultimately we are relations to the stone-people with their message of fire and ice...
All dirt is made from Mountains and Mountains are made from Fire and a Star exploded in ancient space for all this to transpire. So I'm DIRT you know, a stone slipping into clay, the language of Mountain written in the dust clinging to a tree! From dirt I come to Stars I'll return, through the fire aspiring inside this longing yearn to burn, a mote in the eye of God, toward a black-hole in the heart of space, where dust gathers unseen from all over the place ...
Monday, March 29, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
the adoration of another conflicted kanuk
I love my mom
with unabashed cliche,
when we hug, when we
telephone, cross this kanuk-country
she used to play guitar,
plaints and paradisios mostly,
laying licks in a mushy maudlin key,
while thinking of my wee brother
billy and me,
fatherless sons,
a long way off,
left behind to be,
educated in the street,
especially the back alley,
by bees and blossoms, too early, too early,
by black-billed Magpies cawing in the trees,
by movies, music and whom-ever,
would take us in for money;
by surly-men with rolled-up sleeves,
by women slapping our face,
'til we learnt to say, 'Mam, may I, please',
by tape-recorders and radios,
but especially
by TV's...
I used to see her everywhere,
I saw her in my girlfriends,
I saw her in the Nuns,
I saw her in a statue of holy-mary,
mother of God, sweet-jesus,
I saw her in everyone!
I thought she was an Angel
dressed in white on channel 3,
with Ed Sullivan introducing her,
"ladies and gentleman,
back from Moose-Jaw Saskatchewan,
Ron, Laurie and Jeff playing
a really gooot sheeew,
for your special entertainment,"
well you know how that all went.
I saw her in my wives
who fought to gain control,
who finally gave-up fighting
with that selfish bitch,
that stole the show ya' know.
Maybe they were right,
she sold us kids for fame,
ran a band of salty men,
who tortured her for fun,
while traveling kanuk-country,
on the road called 'number-one'.
now
diabetes is eating-down to her Indian soul,
she can't get up, can't even roll,
nothin' can make her go,
doesn't want to know,
feels forgotten,
feels the song is ending,
feels that it's done,
feels it didn't go quite right,
the dimming of the light,
to hospital white...
still, I'll miss her when she's gone...
I'm ready with years of practice,
I'll have to try it out and see.
I'll sit selfishly by her bed-side and hold her close to me,
just to feel the warmth
from the radiance
in her tear-softened face,
just to hear a
Cree crying song
that she'd sing so emotionally ...
just in case she's full of grace,
like the mother she wanted to be
with unabashed cliche,
when we hug, when we
telephone, cross this kanuk-country
she used to play guitar,
plaints and paradisios mostly,
laying licks in a mushy maudlin key,
while thinking of my wee brother
billy and me,
fatherless sons,
a long way off,
left behind to be,
educated in the street,
especially the back alley,
by bees and blossoms, too early, too early,
by black-billed Magpies cawing in the trees,
by movies, music and whom-ever,
would take us in for money;
by surly-men with rolled-up sleeves,
by women slapping our face,
'til we learnt to say, 'Mam, may I, please',
by tape-recorders and radios,
but especially
by TV's...
I used to see her everywhere,
I saw her in my girlfriends,
I saw her in the Nuns,
I saw her in a statue of holy-mary,
mother of God, sweet-jesus,
I saw her in everyone!
I thought she was an Angel
dressed in white on channel 3,
with Ed Sullivan introducing her,
"ladies and gentleman,
back from Moose-Jaw Saskatchewan,
Ron, Laurie and Jeff playing
a really gooot sheeew,
for your special entertainment,"
well you know how that all went.
I saw her in my wives
who fought to gain control,
who finally gave-up fighting
with that selfish bitch,
that stole the show ya' know.
Maybe they were right,
she sold us kids for fame,
ran a band of salty men,
who tortured her for fun,
while traveling kanuk-country,
on the road called 'number-one'.
now
diabetes is eating-down to her Indian soul,
she can't get up, can't even roll,
nothin' can make her go,
doesn't want to know,
feels forgotten,
feels the song is ending,
feels that it's done,
feels it didn't go quite right,
the dimming of the light,
to hospital white...
still, I'll miss her when she's gone...
I'm ready with years of practice,
I'll have to try it out and see.
I'll sit selfishly by her bed-side and hold her close to me,
just to feel the warmth
from the radiance
in her tear-softened face,
just to hear a
Cree crying song
that she'd sing so emotionally ...
just in case she's full of grace,
like the mother she wanted to be
Consciousness is sensitivity:
the first step toward Consciousness is sensitivity: you can't get to conscious without walking in conscience and treating others with conscientiousness ...
however, when you're at the sharp-edge of a glance, see without the romance, cut through the selfish-lies and speak-out against Orwellian spies, when you lick-honey from the razors edge, dive off of realities so-called edge, grimace in the faces of those who lament, those folks not being able to give-up shopping for lent, chastise the needy for want of their addiction, correct the grammar of all who 'don-no diction', assail the arms-dealers for killing children with gun-happy kids, regal against the expectation that an angry-mob is better as a nation, scold the weary for their short-sightedness, remind each other of the burning-light in us --
this is the thing we have do for sanity, for me and you, 'cause let-us 'prey' is the commercialism of today, where psychopathy is the profitable way; and they do what 'survival of the fittest' bids them to do --
we're all star-dust from beginning to end, so we'll shine sooner or later 'round infinities bend... ... we can all shine a bit brighter with sensitive argument kindly bent to ease us, with a little friction to tease us, with a 'lil knowledge that'll please-us -- in the mystery of misery there is food for thought on the soup-line - we're all a little stronger in those places where once we were broken in pieces
however, when you're at the sharp-edge of a glance, see without the romance, cut through the selfish-lies and speak-out against Orwellian spies, when you lick-honey from the razors edge, dive off of realities so-called edge, grimace in the faces of those who lament, those folks not being able to give-up shopping for lent, chastise the needy for want of their addiction, correct the grammar of all who 'don-no diction', assail the arms-dealers for killing children with gun-happy kids, regal against the expectation that an angry-mob is better as a nation, scold the weary for their short-sightedness, remind each other of the burning-light in us --
this is the thing we have do for sanity, for me and you, 'cause let-us 'prey' is the commercialism of today, where psychopathy is the profitable way; and they do what 'survival of the fittest' bids them to do --
we're all star-dust from beginning to end, so we'll shine sooner or later 'round infinities bend... ... we can all shine a bit brighter with sensitive argument kindly bent to ease us, with a little friction to tease us, with a 'lil knowledge that'll please-us -- in the mystery of misery there is food for thought on the soup-line - we're all a little stronger in those places where once we were broken in pieces
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
words: wind and water
I see water as a movable-crystal, alive with many reflections, within which fractal-clusters assemble, like a snow-flake, then melt into another new glimmer of intelligent design, while easily modulated by intentional-percepts, landmarks and the numinous-fingers of planets and stars which form the sounds of words, I find.
The language of wind in the cadence of your heart-beat again, via lungs that swell to a twisting tongue that forms the words so well, free-formed from a water-crystal in your brain, resounding like the sea, making many reflections, linguistically.
Words are like a place-holder for 'sound' and 'value' - which came first the sounds or the meaning? - chicken or egg paradox: semantics -- nonetheless, words have their roots in sound and rhythm, to please or to scare, to fall as platitude or rise aware.
ahh, it's such a sweet-sound in those words that dare to stare with absurdity, a movable-feast for senses half-crazy with overflowed feeling, swoon'd by song, caught in my throat, quickening my breath, their awesome powers of life and death, as they carry me along.
sometimes the rhythm captures the words, like when I ride my bike and feel my heart-beat and the fullness of my legs spinning wheels, and the wind caresses my face while making white-noise, like crashing waves on a beach inside of my ears, over and under, while tides are changing with the gears - or when an image presents itself, unfolds into sounds, then the sounds arrange themselves in cadences, the dance of assonance and the sonics of post-modern imagism, imbued with the romance of irony, their urge-to-merge into the music inside of me...
The language of wind in the cadence of your heart-beat again, via lungs that swell to a twisting tongue that forms the words so well, free-formed from a water-crystal in your brain, resounding like the sea, making many reflections, linguistically.
Words are like a place-holder for 'sound' and 'value' - which came first the sounds or the meaning? - chicken or egg paradox: semantics -- nonetheless, words have their roots in sound and rhythm, to please or to scare, to fall as platitude or rise aware.
ahh, it's such a sweet-sound in those words that dare to stare with absurdity, a movable-feast for senses half-crazy with overflowed feeling, swoon'd by song, caught in my throat, quickening my breath, their awesome powers of life and death, as they carry me along.
sometimes the rhythm captures the words, like when I ride my bike and feel my heart-beat and the fullness of my legs spinning wheels, and the wind caresses my face while making white-noise, like crashing waves on a beach inside of my ears, over and under, while tides are changing with the gears - or when an image presents itself, unfolds into sounds, then the sounds arrange themselves in cadences, the dance of assonance and the sonics of post-modern imagism, imbued with the romance of irony, their urge-to-merge into the music inside of me...
Sunday, March 14, 2010
fugitive peace is
Man is what he loves.
If he loves a stone he is a stone;
If he loves a man he is a man;
If he loves God--I dare not say more,
for if I said that he would then be God,
ye might stone me!
-- St. Augustine
From Stars we come to Stars we shall return. Look up! Dream Up! Love up! Burn!
the corruption of stone, pieces of rock, fugitive pieces of me, far away from home --
All dirt is made from Mountains and Mountains are made from Fire and a Star exploded in ancient space for all this to transpire. So I'm DIRT you know, a stone slipping into clay, the language of Mountain written in the dust clinging to a tree! From dirt I come to Stars I'll return, through the fire aspiring inside this longing yearn to burn...a mote in the eye of God, toward a black-hole in the heart of space, where dust gathers unseen from all over the place ...
We become what we Love, Love Up!
I'd rather read Bauer's ironic-blasphemy than unK moronic-acerbity
speaking in tongues is the Poetic move for the holy-spirit rhythmically writeous groove
the collected Patchen poems gave me inspiration then William Carlos William and that old lover Walt Whitman -- these American Mystics who fired-up, the holy-mundane with wit, inspiring is the very foundation of it -- I've read other Poets but lean toward these guys, loving their oddity, finding it wise; Deistic-Mystics rise, oh rise
for instance Mandy here is a Patchen Poem about Christ
Pastoral
The Dove walks with sticky feet
Upon the green crowns of the almond tree,
Its feathers smeared over with warmth
Like honey
That dips lazily down into the shadow ...
Anyone standing in that orchard.So filled with peace and sleep,
Would hardly have noticed the hill
Nearby
With its three strange wooden arms
Lifted above a throng of motionless people
- Above the helmets of Pilate's soldiers
Flashing like silver teeth in the sun.
Kenneth Patchen
reply to Sri-Bauer - maybe you're from the post-modernist school, one of these conflicted heros, hanging cross-wise, riddled with the voices of creative-destruction, the ironic-polyphonics of the solipsistic-mystic
we're from the post-modernist school of conflicted heros, hanging cross-wise, riddled with the voices of creative-destruction, the ironic-polyphonics of the solipsistic-mystic
baby-boomers: we're from the post-modernist school of conflicted heros, hanging cross-wise, riddled with the voices of creative-destruction, the ironic-polyphonics of the solipsistic-mystic, the Political-strategy of the askewly-synergistic, which is the key to unlocking the integrity of doubt ... we always use that classic-move in describing things in a dialectical-plasticity, the room to view what changes bring beyond the norms of conservative-eccentricity...
roots of words have a lot of play in them - for instance the root of the word 'Sin' is to 'miss the mark', to wander from the path and in our hearts we know that Love is the goal - which leads to the conceptualization of the latin-word metanoia, which is often mistranslated as 'repent sinner' but which really means to 'change the heart', which is to Love again following that glow, bliss-singing in the heart ya'know ...
If he loves a stone he is a stone;
If he loves a man he is a man;
If he loves God--I dare not say more,
for if I said that he would then be God,
ye might stone me!
-- St. Augustine
From Stars we come to Stars we shall return. Look up! Dream Up! Love up! Burn!
the corruption of stone, pieces of rock, fugitive pieces of me, far away from home --
All dirt is made from Mountains and Mountains are made from Fire and a Star exploded in ancient space for all this to transpire. So I'm DIRT you know, a stone slipping into clay, the language of Mountain written in the dust clinging to a tree! From dirt I come to Stars I'll return, through the fire aspiring inside this longing yearn to burn...a mote in the eye of God, toward a black-hole in the heart of space, where dust gathers unseen from all over the place ...
We become what we Love, Love Up!
I'd rather read Bauer's ironic-blasphemy than unK moronic-acerbity
speaking in tongues is the Poetic move for the holy-spirit rhythmically writeous groove
the collected Patchen poems gave me inspiration then William Carlos William and that old lover Walt Whitman -- these American Mystics who fired-up, the holy-mundane with wit, inspiring is the very foundation of it -- I've read other Poets but lean toward these guys, loving their oddity, finding it wise; Deistic-Mystics rise, oh rise
for instance Mandy here is a Patchen Poem about Christ
Pastoral
The Dove walks with sticky feet
Upon the green crowns of the almond tree,
Its feathers smeared over with warmth
Like honey
That dips lazily down into the shadow ...
Anyone standing in that orchard.So filled with peace and sleep,
Would hardly have noticed the hill
Nearby
With its three strange wooden arms
Lifted above a throng of motionless people
- Above the helmets of Pilate's soldiers
Flashing like silver teeth in the sun.
Kenneth Patchen
reply to Sri-Bauer - maybe you're from the post-modernist school, one of these conflicted heros, hanging cross-wise, riddled with the voices of creative-destruction, the ironic-polyphonics of the solipsistic-mystic
we're from the post-modernist school of conflicted heros, hanging cross-wise, riddled with the voices of creative-destruction, the ironic-polyphonics of the solipsistic-mystic
baby-boomers: we're from the post-modernist school of conflicted heros, hanging cross-wise, riddled with the voices of creative-destruction, the ironic-polyphonics of the solipsistic-mystic, the Political-strategy of the askewly-synergistic, which is the key to unlocking the integrity of doubt ... we always use that classic-move in describing things in a dialectical-plasticity, the room to view what changes bring beyond the norms of conservative-eccentricity...
roots of words have a lot of play in them - for instance the root of the word 'Sin' is to 'miss the mark', to wander from the path and in our hearts we know that Love is the goal - which leads to the conceptualization of the latin-word metanoia, which is often mistranslated as 'repent sinner' but which really means to 'change the heart', which is to Love again following that glow, bliss-singing in the heart ya'know ...
Saturday, March 13, 2010
turn
in these wandered wastelands
desire falls as dust
ashes of the past
paste the face
as a simulacra of disgust,
the only fire, rust--
Mountains push the sky
rivers rush the Sea
fish flourish
flashing dreams
of flickering Moon-light
like a sentence that ends in white
then
meander down this page
unfettered, glistening
churn-turn, over and over,
in the night
oh, circadian rhythm
beat of the Sky
habit patterns jerk 'n fly
labyrinthine passages whirl, twirl
in my frontal lobes,
curl of my brain
where I end up returning,
eyes burning with rust,
to start all over again
desire falls as dust
ashes of the past
paste the face
as a simulacra of disgust,
the only fire, rust--
Mountains push the sky
rivers rush the Sea
fish flourish
flashing dreams
of flickering Moon-light
like a sentence that ends in white
then
meander down this page
unfettered, glistening
churn-turn, over and over,
in the night
oh, circadian rhythm
beat of the Sky
habit patterns jerk 'n fly
labyrinthine passages whirl, twirl
in my frontal lobes,
curl of my brain
where I end up returning,
eyes burning with rust,
to start all over again
the deeper meaning of the sea
I dive a little deeper each time
reaching
beyond my salt sweat-skin, in an apnea/breath-hold,
beyond the fatal-flaw of fighting for life,
jaws shut, eyes downcast,
hands finned; extreme free-diving dangerously
beyond the event-horizon of
the craziest things the deep sea brings -
I drop my heart rate, ba-beat, b a - b e a t,
the water holds me prisoner, a death grip in silence, the sunken tears of
a fearless fool risking the absurdity of whale-song, my blood flows away from these limbs seeking refuge in the heart, lungs and brain,
I hear the crushing-sea and it draws me
in a resistance to upward movement,
a polyphony without voice,
lungs aching to burst, to uncork the bottle,
release the Nereid-jinni-in my mono-fin
reaching
beyond my salt sweat-skin, in an apnea/breath-hold,
beyond the fatal-flaw of fighting for life,
jaws shut, eyes downcast,
hands finned; extreme free-diving dangerously
beyond the event-horizon of
the craziest things the deep sea brings -
I drop my heart rate, ba-beat, b a - b e a t,
the water holds me prisoner, a death grip in silence, the sunken tears of
a fearless fool risking the absurdity of whale-song, my blood flows away from these limbs seeking refuge in the heart, lungs and brain,
I hear the crushing-sea and it draws me
in a resistance to upward movement,
a polyphony without voice,
lungs aching to burst, to uncork the bottle,
release the Nereid-jinni-in my mono-fin
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
control
by posting on the World Wide Web you no longer 'control' or 'own' any of your public work nor shall your work be without critique, unless it is ignored, which is often - however, by posting here and there you've engaged in an entanglement process which'll make your Poems, Blogs and writeous-rants a catalyst to further realEYEsations - Truth and Beauty are like that, in that they change just by looking at them ...
Friday, March 05, 2010
the mystery of misery
the mystery of misery is finding joy in the little things, those moments during the sears of tears which transmute into seeing beauty in everyday ways -- this 'painful-joy' is liberating as we've discovered that not only does loss not break our hearts but rather stretches them to what feels like bursting, but doesn't - we then become big-hearted enough to enjoy the magic in the mundane again ...
pieces of me
we grow ourselves from ourselves then we leak into each other discovering mirrors of our relations in the droplets -- we are wanderers of an undiscovered country that is ourselves, making myths, Maps, but our territories remain to be seen -- by this very looking into ourselves we change --
Quantum Entanglement theory is the powerful idea that what you look at changes just by looking at it and then there is Teilhard De Chardains' Noosphere where all ideas are inter-connected like an Earth-brain and we're the synapses 'lektrikly sparkling, changing over 'n over again --
now, I'm studying NeuroScience and Proust, where it is shown that memories leak and from this leaking we can become whom we want to become -- this is how evolving is done, from the pieces of the past to these pieces that are you, individuating into something new ...
Quantum Entanglement theory is the powerful idea that what you look at changes just by looking at it and then there is Teilhard De Chardains' Noosphere where all ideas are inter-connected like an Earth-brain and we're the synapses 'lektrikly sparkling, changing over 'n over again --
now, I'm studying NeuroScience and Proust, where it is shown that memories leak and from this leaking we can become whom we want to become -- this is how evolving is done, from the pieces of the past to these pieces that are you, individuating into something new ...
Thursday, March 04, 2010
turn
in these wandered wastelands
desire falls as dust
ashes of the past
paste the face
as a simulacra of disgust,
the only fire, rust--
Mountains push the sky
rivers rush the Sea
fish flourish
flashing dreams
of flickering Moon-light
like a sentence that ends in white
then
meander down this page
unfettered, glistening
churn-turn, over and over,
in the night
oh, circadian rhythm
beat of the Sky
habit patterns jerk 'n fly
labyrinthine passages whirl, twirl
in my frontal lobes,
curl of my brain
where I end up returning,
eyes burning with rust,
to start all over again
desire falls as dust
ashes of the past
paste the face
as a simulacra of disgust,
the only fire, rust--
Mountains push the sky
rivers rush the Sea
fish flourish
flashing dreams
of flickering Moon-light
like a sentence that ends in white
then
meander down this page
unfettered, glistening
churn-turn, over and over,
in the night
oh, circadian rhythm
beat of the Sky
habit patterns jerk 'n fly
labyrinthine passages whirl, twirl
in my frontal lobes,
curl of my brain
where I end up returning,
eyes burning with rust,
to start all over again
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
