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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 6)

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Author Topic: The mirror is the fall, the trap, and the case.
deerpark27
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Note to self:

I got a good grip on the hollow stem
and a couple of dirty leaves
of the screaming yellow dandelion
and pulled steadily, feeling the taproot,
buried deeply in the dirt of my front lawn,
start to give. There was a moment
when we both knew it was about to snap
and leave each of us with what we didn't want,
another shot at spring.

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deerpark27
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++I call it remediation
--You really screwed up his painting, he's going to really kill you, I mean, it's totally wrecked.
++The belt sander almost caught on fire from all the impasto bullshit. It turns into goo.
--There's strips of cardboard too, all stuck on the canvas and then painted over. It's stupid, you saw it before, didn't you? It was like he painted a close up of greasy, yellow and brown plaid sofa, from the mid 70s, like the one his mother lost her virginity on he probably thought, he even signed it, I couldn't believe it.
++ It's certainly f***ed now. You're dead.
--I used that thing Joe left, the grinder for the window frames, you know, that screamer...it was like the Spanish Inquistion with electricity, it begged for mercy, but I forced a confession out of it...flayed it alive. You can see the sun through it now, it's more of a lamp shade than a painting.
++He said he paid $1,600 bucks for it.
--It had at least $750 of paint on it.
++Is it finished? At least you could finish it.
--I'm going to write on it, with India Ink.
++You better do it soon, they're all coming back on the weekend. It's sort like a parchment or something.
--I've got to fix the rips so they don't tear any more, then I'll finish it.
++It's weird. All the anxiety that gets into this stuff.
--It's really working. It really is.
++You're still dead.
--Shown the tools, we all confess.

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deerpark27
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I meant that we were the begonias,
under this glass, row upon row,
forced to bloom -- pink begonias.
The greenhouse is full of begonias, row upon row.

An image of a greenhouse in winter, seen from the outside, after dark.

You're trudging along the road, it's getting quite cold, you can see your breath, you're going to buy a plant for you mother's birthday.

A teardrop pulled from the box of fragile old christmas ornaments. So thin, as if it's worn out and waiting to fall down.

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deerpark27
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Splash down.
Je ne suis pas un babysitter!
- Albert Frankenstein.

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deerpark27
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Selfish Note:

I dislocated my right shoulder
by putting too much weight
on the Olympic bar
for the military press,
or maybe it was the bench press,
or the chin ups,
or my slapshot,
the stick
stuck
to the ice
causing me
to yelp
in my helmet
O-O-O
that hurt.

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deerpark27
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paint from the shoulder
little dot
p-p-paint from the shoulder
little dots
p-p-p-paint from the shoulder
little dots

Ruptured
Punctured
Punctuated

Once,
O, ages ago, before the cataplasm
squeezed a rupestral squirt
of red ochre from the tube.

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deerpark27
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I blasted a stupid tulip with my kicking foot. A fake-ish pink one, there were millions of them and so what. It exploded like chickadee, leaving one dumb green stem waiting for a medal. I went berserk and kicked about fifty more, it was the most beautiful chaos to ever rain on this sunniest of Sundays and trailed by a crowd of Chinese tourists, I ran for it. I ran for it for a while, all the way to the phony lake surrounded with more tulips, millions and millions more in regiments. I just started pumping my skinny legs and headed in, kamikaze style, and must of got about five-hundred or so, totally wiped out the reds and was jumping up and down on the purples when I noticed my grandmother sitting there in her wheelchair holding an ice-cream cone that was melting over her hand and lap. So what? I thought for the second time, I mean so what? What's with the tulips? What's with Ruth? I lost my concentration.

This is always the turning point, this lack of focus.

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deerpark27
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Somehow,
Elton John had written a melody,
but Bernie Taupin couldn't think up any lyrics.
Maybe the music wasn't as good as usual, maybe there wasn't a good hook.
The song was called "Over there's my house".
I've got to get this down before she comes back.
She always does.
I've written the lyrics, now.
Just watch. You'll see.

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deerpark27
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Ok,
It's tough sledding, but a little snow's not going to stop me. Nope.
Just staring straight ahead, in my tunnel, trudge trudge trudge, it's still pretty far to go, far far far, but I'll make it, as usual, your legs know it and that's what keeps you at it, sniff sniff, dandelions are dead by now, that's for sure, frozen dead, even the greenhouse's dark, spooky with the stars shining up there, what a moon tonight, a witness, wide-eyed in winter, I did it, I did it, I'm coming home.

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deerpark27
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I want you to think of it as a science, a social science--you know what I mean?
It's as if there were a laboratory, a trial of strength, an answer. You know.

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deerpark27
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Lab life.
Waiting for the Louis Pasteur of moral morbidity to start isolating strains in a culture of digital pig urine. Turn on the centrifuge, we're going home.

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deerpark27
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Spontaneous morbidity.
Contagion.
Moral hygiene.
Posthumanism.

What's left of me wants what's left of you to consider what's left of us.

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deerpark27
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Whirled play.
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deerpark27
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Whirl
Whorl
World

Words for nothing.

Moral graffiti.

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deerpark27
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Two bugs
with really long legs
and invisible wings
were bouncing up and down
up and down
up and down
chasing each other I guess
in the middle of the jungle
beneath this big leaf
that had been lifted up
by the broken tip
of an old machete
in an act of feigned curiosity.

This was after the little serpent
squiggled in the mud
after the jaguar tracks
after the tumour was cut from the trunk
and the miniscule termites poured out
even after the treefrog
but well before dusk
when Clarindo told us
to turn on the light.

[ July 11, 2012, 10:16 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]

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deerpark27
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Clarindo, Clarindo,
you bullshit artist,
those tracks were just dog's
from the village, your light
attracted that Cobra Grande
who rose up only to fall on my back,
then pressing its head on my chest
it listened to hear if I breathed.
And all you could do was bang on the Ceiba.

[ July 13, 2012, 04:16 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]

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deerpark27
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Which
as you know
is more provocation than remedy
in the dark.

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deerpark27
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Which,
as we all knew
deep down,
had overtaken
the evening.

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deerpark27
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Rain, rain,
Sweet corn and rain,
pray for rain.

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777
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I wish deerpark wrote more. This stuff is brilliant.
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777
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In other news, I'm finding it difficult to share this page with my Facebook friends; it always generates a link to a notification saying that "you are trying to access a page that does not exist," which is bogus. Any ideas on how to do that?
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Samprimary
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I don't know how to do that but I do know how to get Hatrack to tell you that you are trying to hack it but it CAUGHT you trying to hack it.
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deerpark27
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What do ya call that suture
that joins the skull bones? Well,
I laid mine on the platter,
dropped the diamond stylus
in my groove:

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deerpark27
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At the end of the road there were these two trout sizzling side by side in a frying pan, a brook and a rainbow.

So the brook looks over at the rainbow, you know, with his good eye, the one looking straight up, and asks "Steelhead?"

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TomDavidson
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Hey, long time no see.
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deerpark27
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I kill myself! [Guffaws.]
[Narrative tone.]
Still. Here we are. Again.
[Normal tone.]
Remains.

[ February 25, 2014, 03:15 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]

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TomDavidson
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Have you ever played any of the Animal Crossing games, particularly the latest? The mechanism by which the game teaches you various emotes involves talking to a "comedian" who spends his mornings cleaning up the local nightclub. That "comic" manages to be a surprisingly rich source of pathos.
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deerpark27
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The World as I found it
with silent feet:
shuffle hop step brush step step

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deerpark27
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He lifted his warm stool bag
from its chrome hook
and rolled his way into
the puddle of light
expressed by the tungsten
of his last 100 watt bulb
to see the story unfold:
a broken white ring of raw onion
churned in the bag
with the otherwise usual fare(was that a peanut?)
segmented and glistening,
a guest!

[ March 05, 2014, 11:22 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]

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deerpark27
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It's a science.
He rolled over to his laptop
and sent a message to Brian:
Cestoda.
Taenia solium.
What next?

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Derrell
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Welcome back. I've missed this thread.
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deerpark27
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The great lake is frozen, so solid it presses in on its shores and buckles on top of the beach. Great broken plates jut up and sparkle under the blue of a jet-hollowed sky. If you were to walk out, beyond this glittering wreckage, one thousand steps further, you'd find it cracked open, punctured, as if something's fallen from the sky and gone through, leaving this pitch-black and specific hole. You'd have to be careful or lucky to work your way out to the exquisite edges, and to decide which wrong way to run when it gives out under your feet.
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deerpark27
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Yeah but, yeah but,
if it's so solid, then how'd it break?
I've counted footfalls and a thousand doesn't get you too far, they'd see you from shore, from Gladys's kitchen window, sipping coffee, "he's going way out, what's he gonna do? Jeesus Mac, he went through!" Or the airplane on approach to General Mitchell in Milwaukee, some guy's looking out the window of 8A, waxing poetic, sipping on the dregs of his diet coke, maybe chewing the ice cubes, and then he sees a speck, and then it's gone. He catches his own reflection in the window, cranes his stiffening neck a bit more, and swears he saw you go through. It's all mixed up with Milwaukee anyways. I swear if ot were me I'd've jotted something down in my notebook though -- "Big ice, big hole, a man? walking? as if going all the way, Poof! Vanished. My own face in the glass." Which way's North anymore? Things turning into themselves. All that jazz.

[ March 26, 2014, 10:51 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]

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deerpark27
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An empiricist,
I stick with my facts,
make explicit what we all know implicitly,
without demanding of any concept too much precision, no more than it allows--
just enough to get us out over the ice. So,
"A crystallographer of sorts?" you say, but I'm
afraid I can't give a straight, geometric answer:
whatever the Field Guide of Rocks and Minerals said when asked:
It's all a geometry of hardness
achieved by invisible structures,
fatal habits,
why (as I put it)
even the invincible diamond cleaves
along symmetrical axes
to small to be seen.
Threshold, my
lexicon
for traveling
too far out
on the ice.

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Orincoro
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You are one of the most tedious people I have ever encountered.
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deerpark27
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My tether is lying in a heap,
unclipped.
My phaser is drained:
click click.

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deerpark27
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It's just a silly game until it's over.
I turn the radio off, ears hiss,
I see just how she stood:
her shoulders hunched to launch
herself into the rush of Blues,
they're all behind her now,
she spins, she laughs, she gives the game
an oblique chase, just like the bus
she can't believe she's missed,
she'll spin and laugh, she turns
to look for me, the silly game is over.

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deerpark27
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So,
it's like a pigeon augury,
if you know what I mean.

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Unmaker
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sure i do,
deerpark27--
come
visit
www.davidbowles.us

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deerpark27
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Everything’s worn out Mijita, and I love you.
Our sheets are threadbare and stained, your shoes,
all of your shoes beneath our bed,
how my back aches from gathering dust
to be ready again for us:

our candles, our mirror, all of my roses
you’ve hung by the stems, and tonight
tonight’s for anchoas, Manchego,
Manzanilla, to the moonlight inside
of our silly flamenco.

And I’ll be too tired tonight
to know why my love, why it’s so cold,
or are we so drunk in the kitchen again
on the Cava we drink and we drink
that you can’t remember?

Tonight is for sunflower seeds,
your pipas, for gambas al ajillo!
And all of the shells you spit
into the ocean, Mijita,
we’ll sweep from our floor in the morning

[ April 15, 2014, 08:34 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]

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deerpark27
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Right on man, right on.
You said it. The floor is an ocean.

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deerpark27
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And the snoring.
It was the snoring that sealed the deal.
How could someone so beautiful snore like that?
A tritone in the flesh,
an unexpected dissonance,
aural graffiti,
the untapped eroticism of the epiglottis,
I don't know how to put it,
sleepless with your bangles dangling down darker than the darkness.

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Unmaker
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Oh, my. Gambas al ajillo. Se me antojan ahora.
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Unmaker
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deerpark27, my article "Translating 'An Otomi Song of Spring' from the Nahuatl Codex Songs of Mexico" from Translation Review is up at Taylor & Francis Online if you are interested in checking it out: http://www.tandfonline.com/eprint/q5sjcJrByaUkW3Y8wkfB/full
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Unmaker
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I'd totally buy a book of deerpark's poetry. Anyone know who the hell he actually is?
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deerpark27
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I've received another telegraphic communique from my father: "Still hot. Today normal clouds. Alacran!" as if he only had a moment on a lucky connection that might at any minute be cut by rebels,except he's at the St. Regis again, overlooking the infinity pool overlooking the sea smashing into the cliffs. Alacran is a kind of tequila. "Helicopter fixed." Good. What helicopter? I remember jumping out of the smoke filled canopy of the old one during that Nigerian fiasco, sickened by the smell of phosphorous and burning skin. Who are we to judge the good life? Instead,I pick up my pellet rifle and draw a bead on the grey squirrel with the rat tail staring at me from the cross. Pffft-Zing. Ricochet! Jeezus, I could've blinded myself. No time to reload.No time at all.
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deerpark27
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I guess if I wanted to learn something,
I would've asked a real Indian,
not one of these phonies,
foot sticking out of a wet blanket,
then built myself a so-called whirligig,you know.
Or sewn a cape from the pelts,
yeah--a metaesthetic squirrel cape.
It's one long lesson in beautiful nonsense.

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Mr. Y
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quote:
Originally posted by deerpark27:
It's one long lesson in beautiful nonsense.

Does this signify the end of this thread?
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deerpark27
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Hard to say,
really.
And did I tell you the one about the jellyfish?
O, the vile jellies! Let me screw my hook back on. There.
Now, if it weren't...Ehh-hemm...
for all the, the clickity-clacking...Yes...of our...of our...
v-v-v-virtual t-t-turnspit,
well then whaa?
Motor? Meat or Skewer?

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deerpark27
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I'm just gonna lie here and stare at your nose,
it makes me feel good,
I've seen it before on a totem pole,
in Chapultepec Park; or was it the Black Hawks
taped on the old bedroom wall? Anyhow,
asleep on your back, inscrutable Inca,
devour my heart.

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