the swell and bell of beat

in the way that your lips shimmer and your eyes flash simile-smiles making many reflections
with the irregular undulations rhythm'ng off your tongue,
with words flying out lyrically, kissing everyone

we are touched and easily forgotten in this age of impermanent ink,
with our ears perched high on a mystery, we're overlooked
for speaking in clouds expectant of thunder,
for rustling leaves in a tree,
for threadbare jeans flaking mud from long walks by the river,
                                    for taking solace in the Sea

among writers we are the infirm, the mad heretics of desire,
ridiculed for whiskers and soft-eyes,
for bumping into enjambments, fish-like
and working out destiny by changing it,
moving it, Moon like...

we are the occasional ones,
risking decay and our sanity
for these holy short comings
                                    and goings,
rather than face the impossibility of facts
or that self-righteous blind-eye of economics ...

there is mercy in this daring,
there is an art to this astonishing,
beyond these reasons which trap us,
beyond our need to pay the rent,

while the world conspires to ignore us,


we swell

the tchotchke critic

swag me baby and I'll give you a literate clit-a-crit,
(leer with my tongue lashing jibe)
slut up to me with your verbalicenteous gerunds
and worthless rhymes while I make hasty cliche' ass-clinchism simile-slimes

unless you're a corporate china-doll with a tight
smile and a plastic shine to give me a head-job -
fluff my emasculated urbanity, assuage my hapless dreams,
my Mr. solid-for-ya', 'see-man', hidden-penis screams

I'll swag'ya with tickle-toys that'll glitter in your hand,
buttons of memorabilia to enhance your capital-tits;
scold'ya with inanity when you drop a diphthong;
smack'ya with a jesticulate-jeer, then drink my oor-ban boor-ban with beer-

a mote in God's eye

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 ...

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

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

 

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...

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 ...

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

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

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 ...

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 ...

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

On Poetry:

Poetry is the emotion of motion crafted into a language only the heart can hear, like music resonating in your brain, making it clear, that Love has no opposite, not even 'fear' - internal rhythms, assonance and absurd schisms, a relentless word-play that has its say, the tongue licking at your inner-ear, the heart torn by a longing despair, toward an ancient-ache spilling from the pen, this is the Art of Poetry then...

On the Olympic Flame

On the Olympic Flame: the 'fire and the fence' are symbolic of our times - the fire shows us a 'glowing-joy' in humanity that the Olympic-Games represents - while the fence shows us a 'dismal-faith' in humans that the over-burden of Security represents - together they show us a conflicted view of 'loving humanity but hating humans'

-- a glowing-pessimism palls these Olympics while a melancholy-faith in mankind lingers ...

the mosh-pit

I do not understand –

I understand that understanding is highly over-rated as the modus-operandi of ‘reason, which is this artificial reliance on knowing the why of it all, just another hubris before the fall – 

‘Nature is the Devil!’ Nature is SIN? This is the same as the Christian stance then – 

we’re all dust and ashes in the end and Nature binds us to the storms of Maya, pushes darWINian DNA dreams and it all only seems to be a freedom of choice – 

then that small voice which we can’t hear over the din, the buzz of our mental-mosh pit then – 

that wee voice only the heart can hear, when peace is near, so dear to us when we sit bent-over in a slow-dive toward the infinite-in, there, where freedom truly does begin, in the Cathedral of meditation – 

so that is life, freedom, when I am plain and simple, in tune with the heart from the start, ‘til death do us part...

Infinite-in fractal reflections moving at the speed of de-light - Nature is change, the Soul of impermanence, an eternally-recurring insight...

a mystic candle enamouring fire is so light -- shimmering tenuously, lurching shadows and gListening -- a silent language wafts in a wordless cry -- while all around storms are gathering!

the failure of reason

I did this piece called, 'If memory is a lie then so am I', in it was a reference to that American Gulag called Guantanamo Bay Prison, where incarceration is an endless train of shadows on the wall -- however, it was noted in a documentary that a majority of prisoners shared their experiences with each other in the form of Poetry; not just mystical-romanticism but post-modern angst as well - almost everyone of them wrote poems to capture their plight and increase their sight, to harbor hope as a light to over-come fright, which is the real-deal if ya' feel-me ...

Romanticism sings siren-songs alluring you to the craggy-shore of love-me, baby, love-me-more -- or, for the longing swells of the ever-peregrinated, where longing is what makes you go-baby-go, to grow 'n stretch beyond the fatal-skin 'yer in --

a conflicted Romanticism as a plaint of a Beauty which cannot be captured nor knows any fear, yet is neither consummated in passionate embrace, a kiss-less kiss, a touch-less face, so sHe goes to that longing Love that shall ne'er be won, peregrinated to follow an ancient aching heart 'til life is done -

in Romantic Mysticism the longing is often an allusion to the ever seeking Heart toward the beloved, as the goal is Love, a hungry love never sated - Oh, to kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses me, and in that kiss live an eternity - our hearts know this, Love attracts Love, the secret of the kiss -- and the law of attraction is as above, so in you, as you see Beauty, so it is in you, too -- all Lovers invent the Beloved and then the Music, the Poem, the Story is always about that -- the Lover makes the music, the Poem the Story as a texture of that ancient ache, a reality play which changes in innumerable revisions and realizations forever voyaging with the heart as compass - always going, never arrived, a visceReal Love uncontrived ...

I'd like it to be more clear, singing a Siren-Song reverberating there, alluring with a languid laissez-faire, calling you with a back-bone chill, a frisson thrill, where you lose your will and the last thing to go, ya' know, is the soul, which gives the pearl it's extra gleamy-glow

-- romantic-mysticism is like that at first, where the image becomes cursed by becoming numinous 'n fluid, the thirst being the thing after-all, after the fall -- that the goal of longing swells, that ancient-ache that tells us to yearn toward the goal, of love, ya know, is the place we lament in sears of tears that we're sent by the particles dream to coalesce as a Sun again ... while you're post-modern humanism stays the course, in images made of sense, toward lips so sweet to kiss, the meaning of all of this --

nevertheless, when looking outside-in beyond the fatal-skin we're in, it's enough to just begin to reach without an end - the song-o-longing remains the same, In infinite darkness an ancient ache cried out in a million quivering lights as if the night wept stars --

we write and read Poetry to heal the wounds of our reasons ...

love

love: what would that look like, how would that feel, inside-out with out a doubt, making it real? Is it dependent upon our impressions, our sense-based metaphors describing our mood, love being really neither bad nor good. Or would the process be lingering with an ineffable-peace, the numinous moving-us toward release, from the fatal-skin we're in toward a heart rending goal, with tears in our eyes from longing so. 


 I'm reminded of the 'Divine Saliva' a repast most fulfilling when you kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses thee, and in that kiss is sweet eternity -- Amirta

some called it the Red Lion, the Philosophers Stone, the Pool of Nectar of Immortality which'll change your brain beyond the merely human vain, transmuting you through quantum-tunnels in the fatal-skin yer' in with a blast of atomic-might folding-space 'n time to the beginning of night, at first-light; thus you'd of created a soul with the goal of Love ya' know


becoming human is much more difficult than you'd expect, which is the first real step toward divining love - why, there aren't many humans really, except in singular-forms that tend to cluster askew of your bell-curve norms, the herd-instinct we do mimicking germs -- even these Newg'd romantics in their zeal to be nice, in random acts of blindness, which conceals their vice, are only feeding their hungry-ghosts, though they entice; while the fixated geek scratches their head-lice, the ideas they stroke, their hearts are of ice -- it's no joke that Nature binds you to the fatal-skin you're in and turns off the growing-of-your-brain when you, the driver, stop changing the lane -- individuation is the process of becoming human, which is simply individualism without the dead-end tunnel-vision of narcissism, which always defaults to social-darWINism, which is a crime against humanity

for example, I've a friend of many years doing a slow-dive, falling in increments onto his face for the last ten years or so ( the same guy I wrote the 'lil diddy about, ya' know, 'the seduction of despair, the rest is silence') - anyways, he's one of those groupies of newg'd romantics cum bio-informatics but cannot stay in a relationship very-long, preferring the diversion of group-immersion, that coming 'n going song -- he's kinda all over the place like a teen-age boy with angst, though he's 60something with a 10 year itch turned to rash --  he came over to stay from Nanimo the other day for an over-night play with some connections he made in his last group dynamic - again he rolled out the egregious errors of his last wife who left him without a home, the depression that resulted and, give me a break, that whine he does to please the fools who cannot get-up and choose to be relieved -- I had him in tears as he whined some more, not feeding his need to feel the poor-boy, fixed him in the eye with a warrior-like gaze, told him he's lazy, full of fear 'n doubt, the equivocation-haze - then he got angry and shouted-out, fukU,fukU, fukU over and over again, 'til the fear in his body left him flowing like Zen -- then I smiled and said with warmth that is real, after the fear is gone what's left is to 'feel' ...

... the love of a friend should batter the head and pierce the heart - thus speaks love

mnemosyne: the very-tease of merCurious illuMentations

the very-tease of merCurious illuMentations or further farthers found near-bye

sHe is grateful for the verities of Poetic experience
and Poetry often shows this lyrically without
the lucubration of pedantry or
the fundamentalism of bigotry.

sHe sings in the ecstasy of realization
so lightly in these darkened days,
lifting our eyes to the nobler quest in feeling waves ...
or better yet, sHe plays with language and creates anew,
mangling with absurdity, the light, from black words
as a Poet ought to do?

-- words imbued with a silence only the heart can hear,
the potential of the pause, the swelling of empty space,
in that stillness her longing heart whispers with verity,
the logos is thus theos, and so my dear,
you meet-her in words far 'n near--

Yet if the telling is the lure and words are as powers
to sway and preach, then they neither fly nor teach!

sHe lures us to look and look and dare see
with eyes open to our inner reality --

sHe dives deep, the infinite-in
where a visceral piety is the pearl,
made in the murmuring mud, rolling around in the sound,
a whirl'd of delight,
showing again as a gleam in her eye to be
reflected in the thousand mirrors of your mind --
where there are many more glimmering pearls
for you to find ...

on the goatherds crooked staff

Poetry is an act of actualizing self, individuating with each write, which flows out of the lowest we did fall and crawl to the highest we dared dream in the eyes of a lovers gleam - this 'lektrick muse let loose, plugged into the warmth in your chest or the chill in your bone to become words that tinker in the antics of semantics and linger on the poetics of noetics, rythm'd in time; words that smash and blush, flash and hush, dash and duck, in the neuro-linguistics of your mind

I'll give the 'moan-oral' a try: I always liken'd Nietzsche to being the original cunning-linguist: an emancipated-semanticist with a philandering-philology of ontology path-dependent on desire -- imagine the Übermensch trying to quench his thirst for power with nihilism -- nonetheless, these writers write and I remember reading each of them and listening to Sibelius -- writing is a way to emerge from the cocoon of learnt metaphor clusters which we garnered from other writers and philosophers, so that our own wings of imagination, though fractaly path-dependent, but meant to navigate to new worlds we wept-of before, when we lost so much more than we felt we could endure, unfold fer sure and wing us to the fire like the moth to flame -- so, this bookmark of writers gleans my left-write brain-stays and even Heinlein, that right-wing hack, made credible sojourns for my becoming young mind -- a shadow hangs over me 'cause yesterday came suddenly, in the books that I read, reverberating inside my head ...

I'd like to hack-through this Gordian-knot with the steel of reason-true -- but that's what I'm telling you, the reader - when you think about anything you're in the point-of-view you're in, which is more-or-less than the sum of all you've heard and read, inside your head - then you go somewhere and develop it according to the nerves in you, plugged into the warmth in your chest or the chill in your gut, transmitted to your pen over and over again -- so the goatherd is simple, representing the quiet of a naturally rhythmic life filled with silence and peace, the pause of emptiness wherein the sound of dreams begin - which these writers and philosophers longed for, i.e., to become the noble-savage watching ripples on Walden's pond