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» Hatrack River Forum » Active Forums » Books, Films, Food and Culture » The mirror is the fall, the trap, and the case. (Page 3)

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Author Topic: The mirror is the fall, the trap, and the case.
deerpark27
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They march into the present, my drunks out on the bridge,
their flight into the slow brown river, ker-plunk, ker-plop,
I know what happens: surfacing, they’ll laugh like little kids.

I say: "The process is alive,
displays itself and waits for us
to change, to apprehend then to survive" or,
"rivers with their rusty railway bridges,
summer rivers with their never and agains"

until it doesn’t matter because
swimming for the shore they'll laugh
like little boys, like side-effects,
like supplication: shown the instruments
we all confess the beautiful, survive

the process pushing us into ourselves,
the counting footfalls into prayer
the nothing out in front of us,
and all that you can do is this.

[ February 06, 2014, 11:44 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]

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deerpark27
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Really, it was just
the end of love.
The broken things too broken,
the lost too far away,
and all the words we made
to help explain what happens.
You say: "There are words for this."
But no one's left to hear them;
the parking lot is empty,
it's hide and seek but
no one's left to find you.

One breath, one step
to carry you
in darkness.

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deerpark27
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Really, it was just the end of love:
the broken things too broken,
the lost too far away, and words
we made to help explain what happened.

You say: "There are words for this,"
but no one's left to hear them,
or "The parking lot is empty," and
"It's hide and seek," but no one's left,
one breath, one step in darkness.

The little hand ran down the twine until the tack
that should have held the sweet pea up
zipped through the chubby palm and carved
a gaping grin right to the bone
that filled with blood and sunlight.

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cmc
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sarcastic laugh, sounding more like the necessary emptying of lungs than an actual laugh...

i'm going with everything is broken, at this point.

the point, itself, becomes harder and harder to deem worthwhile.

it sucks. my heart's heavy and my bones world weary...

can we still write?

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deerpark27
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In that swelling pool spun
calico amoeboids, the same
ones spilling out from Mom's dress
with the churning pythons.

[ October 23, 2007, 11:42 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]

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pooka
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Re: Your wasp nest poem
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deerpark27
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The moon, that same moon,
the one that hung over that night
you first knew you were lost.

Nothing has changed, staring
into that calm, that dead calm
that has swallowed the years.

[ October 26, 2007, 02:31 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]

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cmc
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lost on my way to where?

at least a full moon grants light

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deerpark27
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The situation of the the child, particularly 'our' child, as the referential nexus of all that might be right about the world, or, at least, that could be right about 'our' world.

Vampires. Our instrumentalization -- more the recruiting-- of childhood into a complex rhetorical system that expresses their fundamental hopelessness as our primary source of hope.

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deerpark27
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For the boy in his restless peace:

Sleepless now for more than sixty hours,
racing through another explanation
of a gamer’s half-life manifesto,
finger twitching in anticipation
of the headshot or annihilation’s
spasm in the bedroom’s timeless twilight;
spawned again into a grey-lit desert
where they come for you in herky-jerky
two-step until you slump down dead again
into your sickly body, exhausted
by the deathless metabolics; alive
to lifelessly await the Counterstrike.

[ November 21, 2007, 10:38 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]

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cmc
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peace
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deerpark27
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Look,
get out of your Jacuzzi, for a minute.
Swizzle or swallow that Martini's
cherry, wonder
where'd you put your housecoat?
Naked's not too bad on you, still
snow's a-piling, bending boughs
in silence, except
you'll just stand there, dripping
until (dropping)
you're not more than a trickle
to any people anymore.

The Jacuzzi crowd prefers the sweet martini
so they can place the cherry in between
their moistened lips
and languorously slip into their silk pajamas,
perhaps to grip that cherry, for a moment,
with their perfect teeth....
And if and if a little dribble tickles at their chins
they know somebody’s always willing
to lick it off; being of the rivers
to their people

Looking out
over the lip of his Jacuzzi,
limbs adrift in the boil, our a.k.a. Mr. Linguini,
from that fetid broth, lifts a steaming finger, or two:
his signal
beyond those planks of Douglas Fir, wallows
no further; the gurgling
water has swallowed
him under; thinking Martin Sheen
(from that Apocalyspe) though
his muddy Mekong would reflect
the dreamsung air-strike.
(so thinking: perhaps
just a little mouthful
of that sweet Chilean sea bass.)

“What dwells on our periphery,
part animal part instrument?
Drawn by domestic gravity,
what moves and breathes in unison?
Who, lured by our human fire,
dreams the dream of origin?”
Mais, mon cheri, c’est de vous qu’ils parlent a la tele!
(les filles disent toujours “Oui!” a M. Jacuzzi.)
And, pray tell sweetie, how can I say more
in French? Encore?

"...to set oneself a chore, and then
to do it...a relapse," he thought he thought
our Mr. J'accuse!-y, whose finest moment,
ex-aqueous, found him frying
trout and sky grey mackerel
in the same pan (Incroyable! les Anglais ne savent pas manger...)
to feed the beastly older woman,
dream undone
he'd tried to order pizza
and instead now found himself in bed,
or soon to be so. Foreign tongue tastes
best confused.

"Dah-Nile!" He was into it
up to his arm pits, under
covered; Monsieur Jacuzzi, at last, exposed
to darkness & the fishiness
of darkened things. To reach, to squeeze, to raise
the hemistichal stream.
Snow sloughed off an over laden bough and slapped its spot of sunlight:
this would be afternoon would be. He rose.
"Enfin, Cheri."
(That would be the dream.) M. Jacuzzi
took stock of things just as they are
and plopped.

[ January 15, 2008, 03:34 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]

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deerpark27
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What a sky. So white, so under the impression
that to go to left to right too primitive
to the distinction; to say more, to make
heaven, again, heaven; or to fall full
filled (filleted)(stop)

[ January 16, 2008, 02:30 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]

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Tante Shvester
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[Smile]
I'm déjà vuing all over the place!

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Tammy
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Tante - That's okay, just make sure you clean up after yourself.
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deerpark27
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You say you remember, but you don't.
You can't get it right. I know. I was there too.
And there was only one bird, one dirty gull,
and he floated there, staring.
You burned the paint with a blowtorch, remember?
Harrowing the surface. Caustic. Uncovering.
If you scratch deeply the trace remains,
the gesture. Lamentations.

The place was empty, like here, at first.
Dazzling white. And voices, yes, and you and you and you, but still as a graveyard.
You could breathe.

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Tante Shvester
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quote:
Originally posted by deerpark27:
You say you remember, but you don't.
You can't get it right. I know. I was there too.

OK, my mistake then. Sorry.
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Tammy
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I've broken down and visited SR. On one hand, it made me sad, because HR is still the place I'm drawn to, although it's not the same anymore for everyone. On the other hand it made me smile, because of comments like those above.

I just want you to know Tante that your comments are fun to read, especially those following deerpark's deep thoughts.

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deerpark27
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Have you ever
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deerpark27
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Have you ever felt that
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deerpark27
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Have you ever felt that the animals
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deerpark27
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Have you ever felt that the animals are louder than they were before?
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deerpark27
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heron squawks
frog croaks
pigeon flutter
fly buzz
sparrow chatter

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the_dog:
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I know what you mean. That's the problem.
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deerpark27
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And, they mean too much
to me anyway.
So hard to say anymore.

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the_worm
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Now, just hang on a minute...can you feel that? Close your eyes and go inward. There. How about that? It's not all yelling and screaming, you see? Sometimes just a little nudge or a churn.
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the_angel:
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Here today. The early bird:

Alone, on a gurney, swaddled in bandage...
No.
Wearing a hospital nighty, the patient,
No.
with no prospect either of the park or on the morning,
Yes.
raised a brittle finger to the dawn and uttered
Yes.
a little word: "See!"

Tubes and clips chimed on the railing and whispered over the covers.

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deerpark27
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I hardly think so.

Still digging your way out?
What could you, of all things, have known about this future?

Imago.
Cicada-breath.

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the_chorus:
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These legs are strong
These legs are strong
Just like my mother's
How many miles
How many miles
Are left to climb?
Carry me
O carry me
Up on the mountain
Too many miles
Too many miles
So far behind.

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Blayne Bradley
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I want to cry.
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Teshi
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Ooh, we're branching out.
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the_worm
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True, there may be a...darkness.
Thought of one, anyway, for no eyes here.
No eyes! No darkness! (Nor light!)
No light. Writhing seeing.

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deerpark27
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Containers: for lack of which we use ourselves. Or, the room of mirrors.

If the light is right, you can see yourself.

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monteverdi
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If it ain't old ponyhead.
I feel compelled to drag myself out of obsolesence to address the matter of your reincarnation. To my left, way up, the moon.
Compulsion to tell your truth. Once upon a time, when mice were fast and cunning, whatever goes for "you" (these days) built a procedure and left it on. Simple math. "On" as sufficient condition. And yet...

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the_existing_being:
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Safe. At last. I almost told about the crying. It just wells up, and I know it's joy, or love, in the beauty in things. And I ask myself, never looking in the mirror (oh no!) because then the games begin...no, I tell myself right there, tears on my cheek, a sobbing of sorts: "Yes."
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the_chorus:
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Ain't it dark out
when you wake up
and your wife's warm
at your side.

City's moanin'
in the distance
and you're tired
deep inside.

Headin'
down the Parkway,
passin' cars
in 2/4 time

It ain't love but
perseverance
'drives a small man
down the line.

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the_angel:
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Irrational. Deracinated. Nevertheless:

She simply grabbed a suitable stick and tromped into the woods. In her wake, a cloud of blackflies mustered and flew into the pungent slipstream of her discontent. Her unhappiness was met by a signifigant bit of uphill grinding and an excellent view of the turbulent shiny roots that crisscrossed beneath her every footfall. The flies weren't biting, merely crawling into every available crack and orifice exposed to their attentions. She stopped at the fork, closed her eyes and waited until she blended into forest. "Hello?"

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the_angel:
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I, of course, responded with my usual vigour.
Really.
A little creek tinkle, a whisper in the pines, a distant crow caw, riding the thermals...even, when she cheated (opening the left eye just a tiny, eyelash filled crack) a beam of sunlight straight into the eyeball.
To little avail.
To very little avail at all. Unavailable.

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monteverdi
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I remember running you down,
when my snow tires were still fresh.
I could feel them gain traction on your pointy head, steering wheel transmitting every nuance of each broken bone to my trembling hands.

I remember stopping and marvelling at the stain, my little skid mark, in the rearview mirror, and then slapping her into reverse for another caress, and you, yes you, before impact, lifting a scrawny finger to admonish me. I could still hear your voice echoing in the wheel well when I floored it and sped away to the secret rendez-vous, wipers on high, little bits of you gathering in that spot beyond the reach of the blades.

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Samprimary
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quote:
I remember stopping and marvelling at the stain, my little skid mark

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monteverdi
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The rear view!
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the_dog:
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"then, pulling the ripcord of his trusty poopchute, he drifted down behind enemy lines..."

But wait. As I lay there, flattened like a nightcrawler on the I95, vital juices pooling around my noble head and foam-flecked muzzle, limbs a-twitch in what could only seem a parody of my temporal-spatial miscalculation, I remarked upon the vermin. They were in the blood, little calico swirls, rudderless yet bound for ontological status, if I were able to survive long enough to bark out their ineffable nature.

Alas, I could only muster a quack, a gurgle, and a friendly final pant or two, tongue lolling on a crack in the asphalt.

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the_chorus:
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Blown.
Up.
Off course.
Away.
Down.
Over.

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monteverdi
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"Oui, t'en a des cheveux, et c'est pour ca que je te dessine"
I'm not japanese, sweetie--plus, it's NEVER your turn....Unless you speak english.
"Je veux le faire!"
Ya, but in English.
"Quoi?" (Sigh, cough.)
Look. I'm writing.
"Nooon, laaaaa, s'il te plait....allerghty yh ffbwdsxV"cwsaqwdw3efdgt

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deerpark27
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"Je ne suis pas un babysitter!"

I know, I know. I do. Really. But why do you run so fast, if you're not a babysitter? Why do you stand on my favorite stool, breathless, gasping the words for it? I can see, with all my eyes, that you've stepped on my painting. We could match feetprints, but why bother? They all lead to you! To you! Your little feet! And yet, you claim you are not a babysitter. Well, what then?

You'll never make it. Never, never.
I've already taken the pickles and vodka from the fridge. We've got all night.

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the_dog:
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So, I jump up to see what it was !
There's this two foot long rocket stuck in the ground,
right beside my empty dish.
So, I go apeshit
tear over in full on attack mode, forgetting
about the short chain attached
to the old wooden stake. YaouyaouyaouyaouyaouyaKOYP.
Man, that hurt.
I can hear them, over the fence, except
somthing's broken in my throat and
my wagger's got a mind if its own.

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deerpark27
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It's a science.
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Jenny Gardener
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Ah, deerpark! I love thee.
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monteverdi
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So, there's this paper on my desk, with writing.
I mean hand writing. Like from before.
They left it for me to see. Open.
It's proof: my mother was a tap-dancer.
I suspected as much, what with the brush-step-hop-step-step carried up from the basement through the ductwork and conduits, day after day, when I was young.
Her time-step was exhilarating, at least so it says.
I recall confusing it with rain.
(And when I finally went down, only a wall of mirrors and an empty chair. She'd slid a wood veneer panel from the wall and gone in. What a day!)
All this is made clear in the writing.
I daren't turn the page. Yes, there are two of them.

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the_chorus:
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O, the Tickle Girl
put down her broom
and her vacuum cleaner
to wash your hair
and push your head under
the deep bathtub water
where little toes wiggle
in the underworld
tra la l'air le loup.
Who broke your fingers?

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