This site is finished. I have relocated again, to another site.

If a beginning isn’t majestic in some way, then how really do you know you’ve begun?

Already, you may have and be having a meltdown, for example. A constant and undeniable aspect of this sort of duration is the aspect of one unanswered question: When did this begin?

Where did it start? In this case, when and where may be one and the same.

As in – where was I?

.

This morning, Rilke still lying on his back lamenting, I turned

“for there is a boundry to looking”, away from him.

I turn on the radio.

I turn back the covers from my body on the bed.

The man on the radio asks, “what is the tiniest thing you see?”

Turns out, the man is not a man but a beautiful woman.

.

“Crying” is almost better, in Spanish.

Because of the random digital gift?

.

I need an image. I need lines and shapes and colors.

What material? Organic? Black like mushrooms round the rim?

Smells: she is alive and wet and eating her paella in Mexico.

Smells: folded in an ocean of walls, and why oh why but mushrooms?

Shape of arm, wet of mouth, fingers tied up in keys covered by a smile.

.

Someone is playing a game with the game king. We all will wait outside.

And build a fire for the world to see, if the world is just our kingdom now…

Just our kingdom now…wait for a majestic beginning.

.

Watch Video Here

500 Years of Male Self Portraits in Western Art

Artists in order of appearance:
0:08 – Leonardo da Vinci 1452-1519;
0:15 – Francisco Goya 1746-1828;
0:22 – Albrecht Durer 1471-1528;
0:29 – Joshua Reynolds 1723-1792;
0:35 – Rembrandt 1606-1669;
0:42 – Andy Warhol 1928-1987;
0:48 – William-Adolphe Bouguereau 1825-1905;
0:55 – Henri Matisse 1869-1954;
1:02 – Eugene Delacroix 1798-1863;
1:09 – Jean-Francois Millet 1814-1875;
1:15 – Jan van Eyck 1395-1441;
1:22 – Peter Paul Rubens 1577-1840;
1:28 – James McNeill Whistler 1834-1903;
1:35 – John Singer Sargent 1856-1925;
1:42 – Kazimir Malevich 1878-1935;
1:49 – Nicolas Poussin 1594-1665;
1:55 – Paul Cezanne 1839-1906;
2:02 – Paul Gauguin 1848-1903;
2:08 – Vincent Van Gogh 1853-1890;
2:15 – Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1828-1882;
2:22 – Diego Velazquez 1599-1660;
2:28 – Nicholas Hilliard 1547-1619;
2:35 – Anthony van Dyck 1599-1641;
2:41 – Titian 1485-1576;
2:48 – Paolo Veronese 1528-1588;
2:55 – Lucas Cranach the Elder 1472-1553;
3:01 – Edouard Manet 1832-1883;
3:08 – Pablo Picasso 1881-1973;

Music: Bach’s Bouree 1 and 2 from Suite for Solo Cello No. 3, BWV 1009 performed by Antonio Meneses. Available at http://magnatune . com/artists/albums/menese s-bachsuite1

Could you say that you would enjoy

riding on the sled of the found?

Step right up.

The onlookers are ready for their injections, and by my faith

they have offered you shotgun.

.

You know as well as eye do (now, now)

move; the dream is cult (after / all).

(Note how so many corners have gone missing

around town);

This entire line has had to be made into sections:

men, women and children?

Not so fast.

Families, artists and government?

Don’t flatter yourself.

Behind which door do you suppose waits our deeply needed shortcut?

The answer is, once again, triangle.

.

Oh my God, is it really this awful?

How the relatives have gone underbelly, and the soup goes cold.

And now does it ever matter who made it?

Oh I know / we are sentimental Sundays;

Like ta scrounge up a sampling of girl for Job now wouldn’t ya;

Look at him, how sorry for each new wrenching of his gut.

While Our Father / Who Art in Heaven / Hallowed…

Be Thy Name was better than Crow or Godot, or Great and Handsome Snow

be thy name.

.

Things were good and spiteful before the body of Christ.

A man c’d swallow a crow whole and still get away red.

[o] the beads of sweat and [o] the sudden stench of proof.

(Revenant on my mantle, Soap on my bedside table, and

a small folk art painting on wood of The Crying God);

I too believed I heard the calling /once.

.

For a minute begs the question;

What better substitute is there for the mouth?

.

Ok. It’s prose you are after, prose you want.

“Sin kills poetry also.”

.

Flock once.

Flock twice.

Flock three times.

.

One flock, flocking!

.

Here in the land of park deer and pond duck

I have been

almost successfully resisted

myself.

.

I think, man.

Better is open rebuke / than love that is concealed. – Proverbs

.

My various offering, it is time for you to return

to the chapel of audible bones; to empty your quiver

of what extra weight was once weapon.

It is time for you to glide over the damp grasses as if

your wager equals the sum of your breast; another breath

and you let the blood lift in your muscle.

.

Could have called you the Sweatheart of the Commoner; but I said

I’m nothin’ but a hustler; take my coat. Instead.

.

It’s cold suddenly, below this chandelier of promise;

glow given up, eyes closed it is

ring after ring (i hear)

the metal bowl, the triangle, (no longer know) long ago,

then a final clap.

.

Look up, charade your eyes, the details

will now fall like garden grubs, the details

are done with you now.

god, this is awkward.

*

*

That the crop of most local importance hasn’t been directly identified here, is because maybe i don’t know what that is. so, maybe, just maybe, this isn’t the right place to get that information…

That is if you want that information gotten correctly or correct.

There is also: correct me if i’m wrong. There’s that, yes.

We’ll get there. Honest.

*

Impenetrable: yes. That may very well be

what we’re working with. And still!

The woods are (still) in trouble and the creatures who live there are

still in trouble…

(which isn’t us?)

*

Right; I was saying.

Whatever grew commiserated its way by the wet, and then so often sunrises could get along with us, and all these lawns appeared, and the barbs were queued, and if you had neighbors they went on trial during breakfast at the window, once or twice (a week), though we were as guilty living there as anyone.

What we really wanted was to hang the season by a rope.

And what we later think we should have done was send for everybody’s mother.

It is totally not fair. (but not totally impossible.)

Right? Right.

*

Asterisk me later.

It’s true!

(Just that part, ok?)

*

What is it about the ground?

(has anyone seen my notes? my notes!)

.

Sorry to say on the occasion of our untimely end, but frequent moments of urgency will undoubtedly rise.

It’s the vantage point, and the falling. We expedite like holy relics, and stoop in the great shadow to count our cards.

Below what? Below a tree.

Send the final report: our greatest risk a dumptruck of domestic dross. Yes sir, we undertook our work, and fun was fine with us, and sometimes even fun. otherwise, little is known of preliminary years. what all arrived via cell or soul or from a few echoing incantations. what all was understood (below a tree) and received as if with family. akin to camp (quite a leap, I realize). but

a natural bafflement should make for a humble repast and will be served at a very large empty table; whereupon,

everything unlit.

. (note: humble and repast necessarily commingle here to certain purpose).

And, that’s just it.

.

(there may have been a better woman for him, i can’t say, but he kept talking about a letter ocean, and his eyes covered the ground for something, constantly, constantly!)

There are less and less scholars. In the future, who will bother?

.

Since we last observed tradition. Since we last saw our hero. We left our hero last, and he was. The last we saw of him he was our hero and he was ….

this too is all happening at once. figuring, like a soap’s lather, itself. re-con. re-con-figure. concentrating on the hero we wash him out. he had to go…all we

wanted was to be rescued from dangerous surroundings, come to a charitable pawn shop to show our bites to the books and the watches and we wanted to know! We wanted to know. For god’s sake it may have been too much to ask.

What is it about the ground? Why do we have to go there? Always there?

.

the thing is, we are unbelievably grounded. constantly constantly brought. always returning to the ground. no machine can keep us away from the ground for very long. everything comes to the ground. everything returns to earth. except for that which does not. but what does not?

but what does not return to the ground?

.

Look; i’m telling you……………wait.

*

Is that noise coming from the nursery?

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

Not one shred of evidence supports the notion that life is serious. – Anonymous

.

Imagine three stained glass windows in a cathedral, one is damaged by war.

What are you doing in a cathedral in the first place?

Catalyst? We need sanctuary. Someone is praying for us and we are empty handed, still.

.

We should be a layman some considerable time. Follow the walking dollar. Follow the milk money and follow closely. I do believe there is a shadow on your grave already. Daughters. Mother…

the quietness here, in this yard of our body, is almost atrocious.

Almost narrative.

It is innocent to feel we will get even, ah. The whole life smiles down. We will be refused to the last penny.

The very last cent.

.

If we were appointed would we, in fact, preside?

If we were afoot would we, in jest, go skipping from shrine to shrine?

.

I won’t listen anymore to the stories of the behavior of your terrible sons. My god. Can’t you see how your glamorous evangelism is hurting us!? Your dreams suffer from giantism. Your movement is strict and discontented. You are god damned.

Who among us did not have a remarkable experience?

.

“Parts can be more or less whole in themselves, or, to put it in another way, in greater or lesser degree they can be fragments of a greater whole. Properties of the part can be more or less articulated; complex compositions, a special obligation toward the whole encourages the fragmentary part, or, as Trystan Edwards calls it, the term, “inflection.” — r. venturi

.

and now the robot rests. his remote government board rooming over photographs of hot dust, has cut the vibes. in him dream fragments metal and cog. in his circuitry truth’s rumors fizzle back to a point

the robot came from. the robot has come from along way from (source) dream.

for those who no longer have religion, collected in a piece of some what music; the robot rests.

for those who no longer have religion? what music?

.                     yes, some what.                                             yes.

.

were they also a work of selection? each and everyone.

.

Answer – affirmative; the robot rests. This has nothing to do
with the imagination. This has nothing to do with assignments and undertakings of the things

he was taking pictures of. Samples of. remnants of ideas of a future? more god.

so much evidence left.

.                                              suggesting that we

may have been provided a penetrating view of the nascent
“One nascent, under God,” prosody of our perpetual, arbitrary,

disuniting / importance. Some one pleases us
which is a kind of solubility about us which is easily gladdened to love.

.
Into the arms of the soothsayers we fall,
into the void of an army of faces,

into the outerspace: a vast public room free of tradition…

dreaming, “Moreover.”

.

exhausting, not to be near the end. rest…rest…

.

” as organic life is a growth of being which constructed through victories and ruins, as mystical life is a passage constantly accelerated across the squalls of light and of night…” – Jacques Maritain

Not over it by any stretch. Perhaps a small stretch. I know the baby is tumbling toward earth with toxic bile in its third spaces, and it’s time to get married again.

Returned from their (advent)ures in affliction, the couple thriced. One of them imbecile-eyed, like never before. “One,” One said to the other, “is hungry.” A little modern mark above the slack mouth. Was it an old scar? Two went to cook something up.

They proceed by juxtaposition as everybody knows, and so I keep looking for a hammer, bringing with me little Other.

To the woodshed, to the woodpile, to the woods. Can hear them halting in the house. Up at the house. Rooms inside of rooms of everything after demolition–what was left–and yet not a single stilus evidently. Do me a favor, screw my hat on, it’s time to dislodge.

It’s hard to remember individual notes in their code, now so far away from the ticking. So long in the way ahead, so pregnant with their turbulent grammar. We were all too simply put.

But companion, companion, will you help terrify me backward, back to the center of a month? A month of suns, a monthly sun. Sun of months.

Companion, raise your gun with me this comely hunt.

There is a dissonance; in the particular instance, I wasn’t meaning to.

Wasn’t meaning meant, (meaning too) culled from the difficulty of entanglement, dying trees and the like

so far we act as if. I carry your hand in the corner of my belly it is open.

In the heart of palm a stone of yesterday; somebody said “you are my favorite thing to do,” right when

I was thinking about my demons, about to take the stone and chuck it far north, where a twin you was

born; explicare (oblique junctures, the critical despite, bowdlerise the crude, transpose the presumably):

Where his drunken steppings punctured

the snow the sun

has reached the grass

(a two-fold reach)

nothing pretended

snow everywhere

not two but twin intact not feet but force

[something about that. let me think.]

Our dreams speak to our weaknesses in direct proportion to our listening to them. the line? stretched between dreaming and being weak is where the speaking happens; tension carries message; the length, made for the view: an infamous measurement named unjustifiable sorrow.

you can’t put your finger on it. but when you look long, and fall deep into the folds of its staring back at you?

it looks untouchably sympathetic, seeming to have a surface

with its modicum of destination…it looks too late.

She was privileged and liked to pretend that she was not, and she liked us to pretend it with her, that she was not.

We actually did pretend this with her, and so we pretended her privilege was also ours.

Poor thing, we had whispered on occasion, though very rarely.

.

Today it smells like California when you walk outside.

I now carry 40 years of smells in my head.

and standing here “exposed on the cliffs of the heart”; overlooking

how small the enemies march below.

Terror form. I try and grow still.

.

Now now. You’ll be just fine.

Get up.

Everything that flys also bends, and also

is made to bend — if it is made — and some

of these things — made or not

made — can be captured using brown sugar mixed with fermented fruit

for bait.

(O! remember the grande pantomime you called Christmas last year?

All the dancing. No-one was too shy, not one of us.)

.

In the random record, zero has been impaled

as a specimen is, odd. always smiling; doesn’t it seem?

Many empty places (like us) remind others of queer happiness.

Another time

it (may) hurts to open a book about spiders.

But then, that wouldn’t help prove anything a-

bout arches, would it?

That they are always going to be stronger than the simple

post and lintel structure.

Why aren’t spiders square? Or our heads.

.

If I eliminate, [you] , does that eliminate

you?

He did not ask me this question.

Never once. [I kept thinking]

If not good at arguing, don’t try.

.

We hate the policeman. But we use him anyway.

Especially if we are in trouble.

I wear an ill fitting sweater. Faded and bearing holes.

Walk out into the city of snow to look for a cup of coffee.

One cup of coffee to go; there is much work to do.

When I arrive, the shop is closed, so I turn back.

Cold concentrates on my naked face.

The air seems cheerful to be so cold; as if it knows.

And what do I think I am here for? What do I know.

.

.

I am learning how to call myself a poet. I want to say

I am a poet who hasn’t written a poem in seven years.

.

Why ever else would you want to tell it like this?

It’s true isn’t it?

The snow falls, it is always cold for a long time, and then

you want to tell yourself what you are

in the middle of everything…

honestly.

And what matters now? After all the fuss. Nothing much. No more and how much less? Each year each year. So I am in a house, and so outside of the house it snows slowly. So I have a bed and a window by the bed and a lamp to light it. So I may sleep, and so I sleep. In my sleep I visit places I remember that I have lost. During those visits I steal things from drawers and snatch scents from the air and grab for dustballs underneath the bed to tuck into my pockets. I send all these things back to my awake self, and they are received as I wake. I don’t mark any packages. I’ll know what to do with it when I open it. Get up, and take out the trash again. There is nothing new about this year, but that I realize there is nothing new. Hope gone. Love? Without love I am just a body and a job. I say these silly things to myself. Sometimes, a homemade drama entertains a way. I start with this one beer…oh new year, oh…sigh…

I aim this always at the girl who wasn’t there and isn’t still. It’s what the thing I aim at her looks like, acts like. The sentries of the thing, anyway…yeah. I have work to do behind these guys…here we go.