This is topic The mirror is the fall, the trap, and the case. in forum Books, Films, Food and Culture at Hatrack River Forum.


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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Der Fall

and the eyes of the two of them were opened, and they knew that they were naked

Were their eyes closed before?
No, opened wide10:61. Staring outward.8:23 Like those of the kouros5:57 or stele2:66 at the gates5:11 of the dead.

they knew that they were naked

They knew that (ki). And there the fall, in the ki. It doesn't matter what, just that.

they knew that they
they knew that they

Not the they they were, but that they, over there, as in a mirror.
Propositional knowledge: knowing "what is put before".
Knowing-that falls like a mirror between they and they—it is the and:

they (knew that) they

A mirror falls, between Man and himself. Now he is here, a subject to an object, no longer the impossible edenic vocative, called into be-ing, subject without object.
This is the first declension.
He is here, and there, over there, an object in the mirror, and in the mirror, in the world.

Case, sb. [--L. casus fall, chance, occasion...]...
Grammar.
a. One of the forms of a noun, adjective, or pronoun, which express its relations to some other word, e.g. as subject, object, etc.
b. loosely, The relation itself.
(O.E.D.)

It is odd of course to inhabit the earth no more[...].
Odd
to see everything that was related fluttering
so loosely in the space.
(1:70/78-80)

The world is all that is the case [der Fall].
(Tractatus 1.1)

Der Fall:
1) "The case."
2) "The trap."
3) "The fall."
The mirror is the fall, the trap, and the case.
 
Posted by Kama (Member # 3022) on :
 
deerpark!
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Exquisite. Utterance.

Now you've gone away.

It's easier to think. Strange, No?
 
Posted by pooka (Member # 5003) on :
 
Strange, Yes.
 
Posted by Zalmoxis (Member # 2327) on :
 
Strangers still.
 
Posted by Flaming Toad on a Stick (Member # 9302) on :
 
Deerpark! I missed you, you crazy algorithm you!
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
That parking lot is surely empty tonight,
like in late winter: black and white, twilight, dusk,
or whatever it is called
when you are slightly afraid to go
up into the woods--No, it is not
the 'alone' that gets to you, it is a presence
of others, out just ahead, and the little sing-songs
coaxing you along
into the darkness you are not ready for. There is a point
where it is simply blue-grey,
maybe the rise catches dying light
I don't know, but here you can be lost
though you know the way back to the car, here
you'll fade away with nothing to contain you.

[ July 09, 2007, 08:57 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by Lyrhawn (Member # 7039) on :
 
Bienvenue Monsieur deerpark.

Good to see you again.
 
Posted by Zevlag (Member # 1405) on :
 
I was just thinking recently about you! I'm glad you're back.
 
Posted by advice for robots (Member # 2544) on :
 
Spam!

Oh, it's deerpark. [Smile]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
When I was a boy you looked down
from a ladder where you clipped the hedge
holding a big garbage bag open,
waiting for pieces to fall, and you said:
"Look at the broad shoulders on him."

You were talking to something in between us,
or telling the world,
to make me.

[ July 04, 2007, 10:37 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I can remember the sound
of the leaves.

The broad shoulders were Christmas Eve too,
shovelling snow off the stoop,
so cold it squeaked under your boots.
My breath made little balloons.
 
Posted by St. Yogi (Member # 5974) on :
 
Has worldplay been deleted? [Frown]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I feared that I ['anoki] am naked and I hid[...].

'ano-ki: "that-I". The first appearance of the demonstrative subject in the text, and the world.

I feared that that-I
'ira ki 'anoki

I feared that.
I feared that I.
 
Posted by Desu (Member # 5941) on :
 
... I, had Finally lost It
that elusive bit.
Resembling a something;
a plain, field, a desert.
A piece of nothing.

Pracled and examined
wraped and delivered
pondered, considered
and finally rendered;

Artificial, called It, something...
and I, have, lost It

Care to help It find me?

[ July 05, 2007, 06:13 PM: Message edited by: Desu ]
 
Posted by cross (Member # 2361) on :
 
Euhh guys, could one of you start making at least a little s ense, i'm totally lost here...
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
If one were to, say
sit down...
sit down and write, say
without any insight, but rather (at least)
a wish for some...one?...just
a nervous tick soothed only by, say
typing--you know--"they march out onto the bridge..." meaning:
the words (these, not those ones)
Ker-plunk, ker-plop they've jumped
into the summer river, the "never and again"
of rivers (you know - not twice in same etc.)
so our never and agains. If one were to push
on, push on and into the lint that was the sock
well-worn until the final tumble
dry--that lint (blue-grey), that basement light
that dampness darker dangling down...
If one were to see that sort of sock
instead of the important
thing, the wished for
insight; if it were only more!?
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
It would be "he".
He choked up a bit of his juice.

If they were starving, they would eat the black ants he dropped in through the ventilation slits.

They had to be alive or they wouldn't get eaten.

The dead swirled underneath the surface like untethered astronauts.

A plucked lily bloomed face down in the water. One little frog sat on it, waiting to eat.

[ September 20, 2007, 09:23 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Too bad worldplay's gone, but good to see you again.
 
Posted by Destineer (Member # 821) on :
 
What about "this is the hard part?" Is that lost too?
 
Posted by LadyDove (Member # 3000) on :
 
deerpark,

I enjoy visiting your realm. Many of your sequences go right over my head. Sometimes it's like I'm watching TV with the sound off... as if I'm being immersed in a tourette's of images.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
What do I know about that place?
The trail exists,
taking the trail exists,
winding its way to a limit.

I cannot be there:
only the river, ker-plunk
ker plop, and the rain
filling my eyes.

I feel you inside my face.
You're moving my mouth
and making me look
in that way.
 
Posted by Brinestone (Member # 5755) on :
 
I find the first post fascinating. Some of the others are confusing, but that first one . . . intriguing ideas there.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Nowhere without No

So we return:

and the eyes of the two of them were opened, and they knew that they were naked
and they sewed together leaves of a fig, and they made for themselves girdles,
and they heard the voice of YHVH God moving about in the garden at the breath
of the day,
and the Man and his woman hid themselves from the face of YHVH God in the midst
of the trees of the garden,
and YHVH God called to the Man,
and he said to him where are you,
and he said I heard your voice in the garden and I feared that I am naked
and I hid,[...]

They knew that (ki). The first declension. Der Fall.

The world is all that is the case [Der Fall].

and God said behold, the Man has become like one of us, knowing
the world
(Gen. 3:21)

We never have, not for a single day,
the pure space before us,[....]
Always it is world
And never Nowhere without No.
(8:16-17)

He knew that he, in the world, over there. Where.

and YHVH God called to the Man
and he said to him where are you?

Where.
As the answer.
Where but not somewhere.
There but not over there.
That is where.

Where, where is the spot—I bear it in my heart—,
Where they still not nearly could,[...].
(5:73)

and Moses says to God, behold, I go to the sons of Israel and I say to them
God of your fathers sends me to you
and they say to me what is his name—what am I saying to them?
and God says to Moses I am where I am,
you are saying thus to the sons of Israel: I am sends me to you[...].
(Exodus 3:13-14)

I am where I am

God puns on his own name:

YHVH: "he is"
EHWH: "I am"

The root gesture: HWH.
Its primal sense: falling.

I fall where I fall
 
Posted by Blayne Bradley (Member # 8565) on :
 
is this a real person? Or a very complex program? If the latter then the programmer is a genius.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
There, there.
Hear! Hear!
Eerie.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Last night I dreamed a leech,
a ribbon of dappled brown
knotted on my calf.

Imagine, the fisherman dips his hand
into a jar of them, fresh for the bass.
I never could.

Check in between your toes
or you'll bring them home,
the leeches in Bass Lake.

[ August 14, 2014, 11:33 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
It was hard to judge how much daylight remained,
now that he'd finally stopped.

You knew the real thing when it happened, the night, that darkness; but now, standing still, he felt contained by the twilight.

Black and white out. Some trick in the retina. Tree tops so black they punctured the tightening membrane of indigo sky.

Someone smashed the world.

[ September 07, 2007, 02:36 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by TomDavidson (Member # 124) on :
 
I miss the worldplay thread. [Frown]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Those were the days!
Remember the treefort?
God, it reminds me of a joke.

Not because she told me
you and all your work are just a tree fort,
or to get inside one had to trust
the flimsiest of whining rungs
(nailed, nailed, and re-nailed in the trunk),
and that the floor was mainly windows
in plywood mosaic
woven underneath with two by fours, at best,
until some plan unfolded,
later on, to keep you up there, in between.


But because you were the only one
who'd stay up overnight,
when everybody said they’d come.
And there was nothing, really, up there
except you in your tree fort, as if
a life depended on it,
as if life depended on a life depending on it
as it did.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
As it did!
Depending, pendulous.
Nailed, nailed and re-nailed like nails into a coffin lid (or, into the hands and feet of our saviour!) -
I'm thinking, synaesthetically(?)- and hearing the "Qui tollis" of Mozarts C minor Mass.
ta-bang, ta-bang
ta-bang, ta-bang
ta-bang, ta-bang

I printed the whole thing off and can see it from here: three inches. Too heavy.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
"Here we see that solipsism strictly carried out
coincides with pure realism." L. Witt.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Wow... You're here!! *dusts cobwebs off of her reply-to-deerpark27-conversational-pieces fingers*

I'm with TomDavidson - I miss me some worldplay! You write with great imagery, deerpark27, and I like how I write when I'm responding to the images you paint. Would you mind emailing me through the forum so I can ask you about the old thread?
 
Posted by TomDavidson (Member # 124) on :
 
Yeah, it was a solipsistic enterprise. But that isn't to say that it didn't have some really beautiful stuff in it.

In this way, it was almost exactly like life.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
i remember the rust on the car-shaped flowerpots
with moon light silhouetted echoes of
carefree voices blended together with
trees turned to music by thoughtful hands and
helpful horsetail hairs

echoes of dreams to the surface
with one cold foot... and lessons in daDUMdaDUM da BLOCK

merry revelers taking their first plunge off an
almost
forgotten bridge.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Isn't it all
a new kind of beautiful? Alien
to someone like you, walking back
along a brown river: a Buick
honks a singular honk,
brown duck, brown river, all
waiting to mean something to you
walking back, walking back
counting the steps it will take
to bring you back home.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
You can't fit
birth and death
into the system
of I's.
Boundary phenomenon
or limits beyond which
something else--expresses.
Takes place out there, beyond, where
language happened, logic unfolded,
one cannot speak, but
hear whispers
and driven to recognition
hear someone say:
Nothing; or swim! you can swim in it!
(not unlike that little penguin, who having
spent his lucky short life upright on the ice flow
somehow knows that real-life is in the water
and jumps in.
The ocean wells up beneath thinning ice,
we don't know what we'll become until we jump
into the breach.
 
Posted by Blayne Bradley (Member # 8565) on :
 
is deeppark a real person? I can't imagine anyone being this creative, otherwise he's a genius.
 
Posted by TomDavidson (Member # 124) on :
 
*laugh* Yes, he's a real person. I find it absolutely amazing that you think a computer would be more creative than a person.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
That way, into the woods,
the animation
of relation
in mutation
as a living
breathing
changing
thing: Things.

This way,
towards
what's not
there now:
Today.
 
Posted by Zalmoxis (Member # 2327) on :
 
Do not click this unless you are 18.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
you click there
for you are
 
Posted by The Flying Dracula Hair (Member # 10155) on :
 
Oi. Does 27 have things to own?
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Driven nuts by the benign,
perfect smile that you'd like to kiss
on the face of that girl
who hands you her heavy little muffins (for peace);
your greasy tie dangles down, calico
under a clean shaven fat rosy face
whose chin skin flap sweats,
plump over a tightening collar--

Let's get the facts straight and atomic:
Lemon or Poppyseed,
it smells like a girl.
 
Posted by pooka (Member # 5003) on :
 
I think I finally get the "case" part. Now I have to wonder if I'm interpretting "trap" correctly.

I see you, deepark.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
That is where.
God is that.
Falling.
Utterly the case (Der Fall), creator of the world.
The fall of all that falls, falling.
The being of all being, being.
And every creature, in its edenic be-ing, reveals him.
It does what it is, and is what it does.
Sprouts sprout. Trees of fruit make fruit.
The flying thing flies. The gliding thing glides.
'adam works the 'adamah of which he's made.
The nahash ("whisper", "augur") whispers augury.
havvah ("life-giver") gives life.
YHVH ("he who is/causes to be") is/causes to be.
These are name-fates.
The angels are spoors of Eden:

spaces of essence, shields of bliss, tumults
of enraptured feeling and suddenly, solitary,
mirrors: which draw their own beauty, streaming out,
back again into their own countenance.
(2:14-17)

and the animal:

his being [sein Sein] is to him
endless, uncomprehended and without view
on his condition, pure, like his view.
(8:38-40)

sein Sein: his being his being his being.

In cold marble I live for myself.

The 'asher is the mirror, rooted finally in God, in his in(de)finite self-reflection.
Fallen Man, the Man of the case, "has become like one of us", Godlike in his knowing that.
But God just is that, knowing that. He is that, reflecting: I am that I am; affirming himself endlessly.
Man, whose knowing is finite, loses himself in finding himself, knowing—fearing himself as that.
To find himself he must lose himself.

As child
one loses oneself there in the stillness
(8:19-20)

To lose himself he must loose himself.

Does the world-space
into which we loose ourselves taste of us then? Do the angels
really only catch up what is them, their streaming out,
or is there sometimes[...] a little
of our essence as well?

(2:29-30)

To be one again he must be nothing, without no.
To be whole he must be hole.
As long as he is in the mirror he is lost.
And every mirrored solution is merely part of the problem.
He must become it, intensifying the very <gestures/experience/?> of the fall, the seeing of himself, the hearing of God's voice, until they are complete, finished.
Crushed into the mirror's singularity. (W)hole.
The terror is the focal point in the concave mirror of Der Fall.
Yet he must become it.
Seeing and showing at once.
Hearing and uttering at once.

to watch so fully that in the end,
to offset my watching, an angel must go there
(4:54-5)

Watch like the dancer at the barre, until lost in her own reflection.
Dead to the world.
Then she shows.

Angel,
to you I show it still, there! in your watching
(7:70-1)

Hear, my heart, as only
holy ones heard before
(1:55-7)

(x:yy-yy)=(#Elegy, #Verse in Duino Elegies, Rilke) etc.

[ September 17, 2007, 03:55 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
3.04
An a priori true thought would be one whose possibility guaranteed its truth.

3.05
Only if we could know a priori that a thought is true if its truth was to be recognized from the thought itself (without an object of comparison).

(Witt. TLP)
 
Posted by Zalmoxis (Member # 2327) on :
 
Breathe, you insolvable piece of code
always pervading
the clean, congested space
of a cloud of data.

Blown by a wind you embark
on a transmission
singing your herz
while it gnaws at your throat.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
skipping Gym
to go and hide
in a place you imagine
nobody'll use
in this steady rain
whose brick walls contain
forgotten tables
old and cement
and a little garden
with small purple flowers
the sound of the rain
and you snuggled in
close to the minutes
inside the rain
and the drops on the petals
the sound of a world
swelling up into the quiet
your breath and the rain
to be still in the rain
 
Posted by Nathan2006 (Member # 9387) on :
 
Wow. I've never seen you post before, but you're a genius.

(Am I the only one who's pretending to know what he means and saying he's brilliant because I really don't?)
 
Posted by TomDavidson (Member # 124) on :
 
If you don't understand deerpark27, you aren't reading carefully enough.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
If you carefully watch them,
things turn into themselves
in the twilight.

The air stills,
you might hear a call, to come home,
to come back, then

the sun's descent
tightens the sky
to chromatic membrane,

sheer indigo punctured
by pitchblack statues
of things not themselves:

trees, trunk and twig lattice
bled beyond blue-grey
recall only their absence:

exquisite incisions
cut from the dusk;
here, the black wellsprings
of nowhere

[ September 21, 2007, 10:44 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Once, a child in the park,
too well hidden at dusk,
nobody could find you.
And you peeked into that night
and the stitching of stars
up in their constellations.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
My shoulders were broad and you’d say:
"Look at the shoulders on him…"
to the little man
who fit my blazers
and the men that we’d meet
on the sidewalk, who were from the office,
or who fixed our fence; even Uncle Johnny,
and all of Mom’s friends:
you’d call me “Buckshot,” and smile,
admiring something in me not subject
to so much—interpretation—
a certain thing, a father and son
with his broad shoulders.

And when, for me, it wasn’t true anymore
it still was for you, or I'd like to remember
(now I can see…)
that broadness across my shoulders
and how I would stand there,
admired and speechless. Who knew

of my days, in the mirror, shaving
saying to myself: “Where did you go?"
and rubbing my face…
Because, of course, they had left me
in those days of the shrunken shoulders...

The broad shoulders are still here.
You give them to me, tonight,
to admire and to stand speechless.

[ September 21, 2007, 10:48 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by Brinestone (Member # 5755) on :
 
He was speechless,
meaty-faced and boar-browed.
She told him everything,
and he'd listen,
speechless

She told him everything
about her bossy handsome ambitious husband
and her thoughtful lover
and her twins who liked trampolines too much and books too little
She told him about how their work made her feel
like a man
(and she liked it)
And he was speechless

She relied on his nods and knowing glances
and, for once,
no speeches
no guilt
just listening

But at night she'd go home to her bossy handsome ambitious husband
and bouncy twins
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Once, gone too far
north of Superior,
into the unnamed,
deep in the underbrush
there was an opening

cleared by a fire.
And across that burn,
up high in the crown
of a scorched jack-pine,
lay a black panther,

waiting for you,
watching you wonder –

Should I go on?
Go through? Discover?

You must have turned back,
or stayed at the edge,
half in the clear,
afraid of the Windigo.

You must have turned back,
worked your way back
through the pine and spruce bogs
on across Nipigon
paddling in.

I must have come in.
Tell me you saw me come in.

[ October 26, 2007, 01:53 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by Tammy (Member # 4119) on :
 
I enjoy it. I often enjoy things I don't understand.

It really is beautiful. I do understand hiding from something and enjoying the rain. Beautiful!
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
One big problem
(now) gaping
--discontinuity--
(of intent) inflicted
by a pre-emptive
amputation
Taenia soliumTaenia saginataDiphyllobothrium4 latum
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
One big problem
(now) gaping, the
--discontinuity--
(of intent) inflicted
by a pre-emptive
passing (grrunnnttt-grrrrunt...kerplunk)
of the thread
(i.e.: Taenia solium or saginata or Diphyllobothrium4 latum) etc. etc.
a.k.a.: whorl(dp)lay etc. etc.
Tah-Wham, Tah-Wham etc. etc.
you never know with worms etc. etc. etc.
Only the unwashed!
--by ingesting eggs
shed liable to
re-infect(ion)

I wuh-wuh-want to tell you a je-je-joke.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Licking a fore finger,
his lips puckered-up
at the sour flavour
of dirt.

Wait.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
He was on page 27
of the worst book
he'd ever read, and
he'd started to feel
nauseous.

Putting the book down,
he wiped his mouth
on the back of his hand
and got up and went to the fridge.

Maybe some soda water?

Something churned in his bowels.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The cat,
looking up from her dish,
licked her whiskers
and stared up at his belly
as if something in there
had moved.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
It was deja vu
for both of them
and
for a moment
it was as if...as if
one might need a new language to express the thoughts
that played about the boundaries
limning the shifting contours
of interspecies communication
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Genesis narrates the victory of Noah's rest (noah) over Cain's restless artifice (qayin); a victory, in the world, at the cost of the world.

Our own history records the opposite: the victory of Cain over Noah, in the world, at the cost of everything but the world.

Like Milton's Satan--but this time victorious--Cain cries out to his host: "We shall make a heaven of this heaven!"

Just like that
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
We shall make a heaven of this heaven!
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The cat, on the other hand,
watched carefully
the things
(invisible to us)
that float just above
our right shoulders....
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
the rest,
fatally,
had already been
re-written.

[ September 24, 2007, 09:54 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
and sat, squat, on the kitchen table,
re-opened, re-infecting, the heavenly host.

As you knew. And from the sense of moving right or setting right: happiness.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Once held
together by a thick black clip
the thread-script lay, played out,
in two piles, or
better:
one pile, one heap
like a mackeral
glass-eyed
and unlikeable--
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
un-book-like

[ September 25, 2007, 01:41 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The moment passed away, unbelievable, until another:

there were, according to his calculations,
over two billion pigeons in the forest,

nesting, two perfect white eggs becoming
fat squabs and the limbs falling every night when the parents returned and returned.

His hogs would fatten on the absurd carnage:

Forty miles of forest shorn of all but the largest branches, filling with excreta and little ones, fallen from their nests.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
It can suck the life out of you, Heaven.

At any rate, he didn't have any hogs
or even a forest.
Absurd carnage, maybe...

"One needs to clear ones mind," he said into the fridge and stood there, illuminated, on Tuesday morning. No Soda water either, just two eggs, as usual.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Only the little hum of compression
holding out much hope
in the tick-tock quiet
of dawn.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
With only one story left: the parasite--
Only one language: metamorphology--
The relation now the thing
in itself.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
"Rebecca was almost six and a very fast runner. Most of her speed could be attributed to the get-away. Just when you thought she was busy throwing rocks, or when it seemed likely that you might spend at a moment talking to a friend about real-estate, just then, she would get four or five steps towards some vanishing point: over a crest, towards the pond with the quacking ducks; whatever it was, she would be gone.

Inevitably, we chase after them. And during that run, which always starts at a laughing gait (becoming a sprint when we realize how fast her little legs speed along her chubbiness), we start to live in a new world where she is lost and where, cresting the hill, there is nothing, only this racing heart, the horrible trees, the wind and the seagulls, and the impossible decision of which wrong way to continue our run."

Ah, the old days....

[ October 26, 2007, 02:05 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
He filled up his huge enamel tub, slowly, to the brim.

Falling water and a thickening steam contain him and his restlessness. Islands stir the surface.

He drowns his knee and all inhabitants, who'd lived their silent, secret lives atop a little fold of skin and closes his eyes to sink, unfathomed, into Asia:
 
Posted by Tammy (Member # 4119) on :
 
[Smile]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The rotting teeth of Halong Bay are Dragon's
lapped by swelling seas;
Chinese junks and dories tongue the grottoes
mindlessly; the world plays
a sustained cadence to jet-hollowed sky:
High noon, and you cannot arise
or go below or any further--
You slip away, a smallish wake
excites the glare to diamonds: Asia
everywhere; and here your tongue explores
the inlets of a broken tooth,
the sweetness of decay.

[ October 10, 2007, 02:17 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
He pops back, breathless, to the surface of his own catastrophe: an aching tooth, the draining tub, the mirror, and every destination thwarted by his demand for nothing more than this.

[ October 10, 2007, 02:18 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
All baths come to an end, somewhere in the mirror. A crow's rubato triplet frames a diamond
silence outside, and then it all will wait--to mean something to you, or someone else--who sees more than himself.

The well worn path, the exposed roots
hard and tight to the earth.

[ October 10, 2007, 02:18 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
It would seem, that at great cost to his personal welfare, he had stared too long into that hollow sky. He had not taken into account the possibility that what he saw (the unlikely beech, the pitchblack well, the sentient bough through troubled glass, the busy fly, a quiet sun, the waterlily moon, a morning star) were merely artifacts of his eyes whose spidered blood vessels and feeble retinas sickened his mind which continued to mistake the human for the alien.

[ October 02, 2007, 03:13 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
A dreaming silence sequence screams to a stop...

You helped when I needed you.

For the above, I am thankful.

We are what matters. The good fight battles on - the warriors win.

Peace
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
...so, I say to the guy: "Where's my Lemon Tart?", and then this goon who's been standing there watching clobbers me with a hammer...Ka-boom!...and I'm telling you 'Out-Go-The-Lights' baby, it's overs-ville, I'm splatter."

The impressively long segement of tapeworm recoils back into his jar and is carried away from the microphone to the supportive applause of the Fall gathering of the Council for Aboriginal Relations.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
A man (NOT REALLY!) goes to the doctor (UNLIKELY). He says "Doctor, I am always so hungry, what's wrong with me".(HOW CAN YOU BE SO HUNGRY WHEN YOU'RE SO FULL OF SHIT?) After a quick examination the Doctor says to the man "You have a tapeworm--Come back in a week and bring me a lemon and cherry tart".(FLASHBACK TO THE ACCIDENT, IT'S NOT EVEN FUNNY AND YET HERE WE ARE PLOWING ACROSS THE FRONT LAWN) The man (HE'S NOT A MAN!) comes back in a week with the tarts (NO TARTS ANYMORE!), the Doctor tells him to spread his legs and puts the tarts in between along with a hammer(IN ITS VELVET GLOVE!).

A head (CAN IT BE SAID?) pops out of mans rear-end (THE ESCHA-ESCHA-ESCHA-SCATALOGICAL) and eats the tarts, glances at the hammer, and vanishes. (THE CRUCIAL TURN...THE VANISHING....)

The doctor tells the man to come back in a week with two more tarts (TRUST ME, I'M A DOCTOR ETC.) He comes back in a week with the tarts, lies (ALWAYS LYING!) on the table and spreads his (HAIRY?)legs, the doctor positions the tarts and the hammer and sure enough, the worm comes (SLIDES, CRAWLS, THINK D.H. LAWRENCE-esque) out, spies the tarts, eats them up (TOOTHLESS!), glances at the hammer (EYELESS!) and disappears (LIMITLESS!) into darkness (DARKNESS!). The doctor says to the patient: "One more week sir. Come back next week with the tarts and you will be cured." (BUT, IT'S NOT TRUE! THERE IS NO CURE! ONLY DARKNESS!)

There are some lingering (BIOGRAPHICAL) issues.

Cherry Tart = Life. (HA! IN THIS TWILIGHT?)
Lemon Tart = TA-WHAM (a.k.a. Death), or Resurrection("Let. Me. Up.")

metamorphosisresurrectionmetamorphosisresurrection
 
Posted by Zalmoxis (Member # 2327) on :
 
Oddly enough, when I was 8 or 9, I ate a cherry tart and a lemon tart at the 80th birthday party of a friend of my grandparents.

I became violently ill afterwards. To this day, I refuse to eat cherry and lemon pie. Although I love lemon bars and cherry ice cream.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Go,
get your bag,

the canvas bag that you forgot
out on the edge of that black lake.

It's still there, where no one goes,
pick mushrooms on the way.

Wooly says they're all no good,
sprouting in the wintergreen;

he's showing off, trying to walk
faster through the bush than you.

His bum ankle trips him up, just when
he's getting serious--down

he goes--and from that darkness states:
"Sun's gettin' low...," as if

it's now too late to be so far away,
but you know where you are and where you're going.

Searching, off that granite cliff, looming
on the water. And this kind of fear is good

you think, feeling stronger on the rock,
deadfall birch, beavers' work ...and Wooly:

"They're triggered by the running water...",
this everybody knows, but you say "Really?"

Then you know you're going to turn around
and leave things where you left them.

So now what happens to your bag?
It sits forever still and waits

where no one goes
to find it.

[ October 10, 2007, 02:21 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The sea sorting the shale over the eons...
Hanging onto the sheer cliff of the present, one false move, one move at all, your
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
With that carelessness he typically mistook for incipient passion, he swept the typescript off the kitchen table with a broad sweep of his arm and collapsed onto his chair, the collapse was impressive enough to slop most of his cold coffee from the cup into a mercurial puddle that immediately began an almost organic search for the edge of the table. What should have been a breath-taking moment of existential release, a grasping for the newly opened realm of desperation, a promising ground for the langourous delicacies of self-laceration was interrupted by the fibonacci declensions of an edge gone over--drip, drop, drip-drop, dripdropdrip, dripdripdripdripdrip until a new world, fully formed and beckoning, would have to include a pee-break.

[ October 18, 2007, 11:11 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
With a lovelessness never confused with boredom, she assembled her chess pieces and made a perfect line - her own little army, ready for a mission - then stood up crisply from the table and fainted. She was inside a TV! Lost in the grey snow. The crack of her head hitting the table was an abstract thing, pure and painless--another thing getting lost with her in the hissing greylight.

What blood there was splattered over the waiting army, with one drop landing in her startled coffee cup. The drop began to dissipate following the strict laws of a science where apprehension taunts comprehension, the pattern lingering and finally some would say living longer the she did, dead as she was on the floor; both beginning to cool, nevertheless, in their respective infinities.

[ October 11, 2007, 09:50 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
With a foolishness borne by the boneless chicken wings of absurdity, a ditty was regurgitated:

Use a water glass, explore under the surface of your bubblebath.

Sunken dinky toys, your sister's toes that wiggle in the underworld.

[ October 10, 2007, 02:22 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
"Returning (NEVER FURTHER) from the hill (NEVER MORE THAN THAT, VISIBLE FROM THE 5TH FLOOR WINDOW OF THE GATINEAU PSYCH WARD) he'd climbed (BUT STOPPED TO NOTE THE POLISHED ROOTS), on the top of which, overlooking the pines, the valley (CROSSED AND RECROSSED FOR NOTHING), the budding beechs (THE TREMBLING WINTER LEAF); returning along a path, a trail once cut through the hills hundreds of years ago by settlers (FULL OF THE DEAD, THE MIDDENS, THE PILED STONES), maybe loggers, the Blanchet Trail (see((I CANNOT SEE-I CANNOT SEE-JUST THE WORDS FOR IT)), there is where old Blanchet'd planted fruits: pears, apples, peachs)((THERE IS ONE GNARLED PERVERTED TREE WHOSE BUDS BLOOM RANCID IN WINTER)); along a trail like this (AND WHAT TRAIL IS NOT THIS TRAIL?), a man (A NOTION) in his later years saw a bag (THIS IS NOT REAL). It was just after the turtles, the turtles courting (HA! LYING ON A LOG, THEN FLOPPING IN UNTIL ONLY A LAST RIPPLE TOUCHED THE SHORE WHERE I STOOD IN THE HUSHING WIND) in the pond, it was, of course (TO ASSURE AND COMFORT WITH THE CASUAL), Spring. The bag was left behind. Surely left behind as there was nobody but the (NOTIONAL) man in the vicinity: maybe a woodpecker, a warbler of some sort, or an inevitable indiscernable crow (I HAVE MENTIONED THE CROW, THE RUBATO TRIPLETS, THE TOTEMIC ASPECT OF THE THING, THE CRY, THE CALL TO COME HOME). There may have been a voice, he may have heard a voice in the woods, not a scream (THIS IS LUDICROUS AND MERELY FIGURED), barely a complaint, maybe only a voice (HAVE YOU HEARD THE ONE ABOUT TH TAPEWORM?), it might have been a voice (IT WAS) but he wasn't sure (HE WAS) until he saw the bag on the path (A BAG ON THE PATH IN THE MIND, THE PATH BACK FROM THE RIVER).

TA-WHAM TA-WHAM!
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
You come back.
Get in the car.
You go home.
Certainly.
You go home.
Climb the stairs.
Turn the key.
Always the same
angle of light.
Always the same,
you sit and watch. And it will not amount,
cannot amount to more
than life's late afternoon: still life,
but not living.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
what is living?
what is dead?


what matters?
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
"Everything's wrecked.

Four racing cars, a Grand Piano tuned to the key of entropy, plexiglass screwed over the windows and a thick new lock on the door of his shack,

where he tried to live as if something still mattered.

A 1/4 inch ratchet set inside the Lancia, the Alfa
with two little puddles of rain in the footwells.

When he sat at the piano, back to the sun that played over the pasture, the lone spruce thrummed and far away you could see the big river flicker and shine.

Then, it was the first snow of the year."
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
On your first solo, you had six matches
on that island all to yourself
(you were afraid of the bears on the mainland).

You tried to wait out the day, then the night;
you wanted the sun to go down,
to sleep for the morning
that never came. Only moonrise.

You should have busied yourself,
collecting wood and birch bark to kindle a fire.
Instead, you're awake to the sound of the water,
to the damp footfall, to the moonlight.

[ October 12, 2007, 02:43 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
quote:
Originally posted by deerpark27:
If you carefully watch them,
things turn into themselves
in the twilight.

The air stills,
you might hear a call, to come home,
to come back, then

the sun's descent
tightens the sky
to chromatic membrane,

sheer indigo punctured
by pitchblack statues
of things not themselves:

trees, trunk and twig lattice
bled beyond blue-grey
recall only their absence:

exquisite incisions
cut from the dusk;
here, the black wellsprings
of nowhere


 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
hmh.

not sure how that last post got up there.

i certainly didn't post it - i kept getting 'insufficient memory for this operation'.

oh well.

it was fun dancing between shadows at moonlight, deerpark27. if you decide to let me have copies my contributions to the worldplay thread, i'd appreciate it. i know, i know, my bad for not saving them on my own. i had faith that you wouldn't delete your own work, though, so i trusted that my part would be there without me having to back it up. like i said, my bad. email me through the forum.

take care.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
- the one about 'hearing everything'
(you can use the "Dangled down darker" father figure.

- the punch line,line, line: the impressive and inevitable gait of narrative: there are always words for "this".

- the Duino transparency overlaid on Genesis as dimly figured

- dimly figured, utterly.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I saw that hole in France.
Walking through the dusty old Linden trees
on that otherworldly brown flint, that
obsidian, whatever it was - the rocks were all so different.

So,
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
it was only the heart
whose yearning opened the night
punctured by things of this world;
so the falling
in the wide open eye
of heaven.

Since,
you've learnt the names of stars,
the stitching of constellations.

[ October 19, 2007, 09:29 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
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?
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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 ]
 
Posted by pooka (Member # 5003) on :
 
Re: Your wasp nest poem
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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 ]
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
lost on my way to where?

at least a full moon grants light
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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 ]
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
peace
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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 ]
 
Posted by Tante Shvester (Member # 8202) on :
 
[Smile]
I'm déjà vuing all over the place!
 
Posted by Tammy (Member # 4119) on :
 
Tante - That's okay, just make sure you clean up after yourself.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by Tante Shvester (Member # 8202) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by Tammy (Member # 4119) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Have you ever
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Have you ever felt that
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Have you ever felt that the animals
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Have you ever felt that the animals are louder than they were before?
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
heron squawks
frog croaks
pigeon flutter
fly buzz
sparrow chatter
 
Posted by the_dog: (Member # 3965) on :
 
I know what you mean. That's the problem.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
And, they mean too much
to me anyway.
So hard to say anymore.
 
Posted by the_worm (Member # 3964) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by the_angel: (Member # 3963) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I hardly think so.

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

Imago.
Cicada-breath.
 
Posted by the_chorus: (Member # 3967) on :
 
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.

 
Posted by Blayne Bradley (Member # 8565) on :
 
I want to cry.
 
Posted by Teshi (Member # 5024) on :
 
Ooh, we're branching out.
 
Posted by the_worm (Member # 3964) on :
 
True, there may be a...darkness.
Thought of one, anyway, for no eyes here.
No eyes! No darkness! (Nor light!)
No light. Writhing seeing.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Containers: for lack of which we use ourselves. Or, the room of mirrors.

If the light is right, you can see yourself.
 
Posted by monteverdi (Member # 2896) on :
 
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...
 
Posted by the_existing_being: (Member # 3966) on :
 
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."
 
Posted by the_chorus: (Member # 3967) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by the_angel: (Member # 3963) on :
 
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?"
 
Posted by the_angel: (Member # 3963) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by monteverdi (Member # 2896) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by Samprimary (Member # 8561) on :
 
quote:
I remember stopping and marvelling at the stain, my little skid mark

 
Posted by monteverdi (Member # 2896) on :
 
The rear view!
 
Posted by the_dog: (Member # 3965) on :
 
"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.
 
Posted by the_chorus: (Member # 3967) on :
 
Blown.
Up.
Off course.
Away.
Down.
Over.
 
Posted by monteverdi (Member # 2896) on :
 
"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
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
"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.
 
Posted by the_dog: (Member # 3965) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
It's a science.
 
Posted by Jenny Gardener (Member # 903) on :
 
Ah, deerpark! I love thee.
 
Posted by monteverdi (Member # 2896) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by the_chorus: (Member # 3967) on :
 
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?
 
Posted by the_existing_being: (Member # 3966) on :
 
The wall, the wall.
The wall 'et 'em up.

But she's in there, I hear her howlin'.
Sneakin' about all dressed up fancy for a show.
Tippity tap tippity tappin' away in the dark.
I even strung some of my cat-fishin' fiddy-test across the hole with the hopes she'd git tripped up but she busted right through! I gonna sic ol' Jesse on her down there. Give him a whiff off some old rag from her dresser and them just let him alone in there. That'll teach her. Jesse's a mean old brute, but he's got a nose fit for a hound.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
It was sitting there, on the unexpected
chair, in front of the opening in the mirror wall, that I heard a voice.

She must have taken her shoes off and snuck up.

At first I thought it was the pipes gurgling, or a vent whir from somewhere in there, but with a little concentration I quickly began to make out words puctuated by fits of cackling.

"...and that's when he said, the worm, he said (choking back a guffaw) 'Where's...Where's my lemon tart?' (fit of coughing) --AND...( with a momentary but very suspensful calm)....KERPLOOIE!-- (hysteric fit of hyena-like laughter) the doctor creams him with the hammer!"

Strangely, I'd heard this one before which may or may not account for the chill that courses down the curve of my wounded spine.
 
Posted by the_angel: (Member # 3963) on :
 
I inhabited your face at that very moment.

Had she been able to see, your countenance momentarily brightened. Remember when you called her "Happy Bottom"?

You were listening too hard, mouth hanging open.

The joke is an old one, true. We have no way of calculating its vicissitudes, we simply come when we are called.

Ta-wham, ta-wham. The doctor is, of course, stunned by the splatter. The patient isn't so much cured as transubstantiated, the worm, well, one can never tell with worms.

You'd like to think he pulls it out and drops it into the aquarium where the red-eared sliders lurk.

The way he wipes the hammer clean suggests a fatal quiddity.

You can't just sit there.
 
Posted by the_worm (Member # 3964) on :
 
Hi.
I was able to haul my remains back in to the darkness where I've hooked, with my one remaining tooth, into a warm fold of intestine. It hurts every time I lay an egg.
 
Posted by the_chorus: (Member # 3967) on :
 
Something's wrong with the light
Watch what you see
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
There's a place. Strange light indeed, glinting off the carapace.
"It's a chrysalis," you thought you said.
A husk. What of it? Where'd it go?
You mean "whatever came out"? Where to?

It's like and not like the light off the sidewalk, flat and my god was that Janice driving by on her bicycle? Pushing her sunglasses up her little oriental nose? (Getting a little chubby, if so.) Did she think I wasn't watching?

Nevertheless, the light, the strange light, the dazzling obscurity of it all. If it weren't for the relentless wind the effect...

She's come by again. Slower. Wind in the hair, hard seat firmly gripped by the well-trained musculature of the badminton artist. I rush for my shuttlecocks, but stumble in the darkness of my sports closet. Whither the birdies? What fetid collection of nostalgia awaits the groping hands? A baseball! O O O Squash...that last game....you...lying on the hardwood... panting for a fault while I flipped my racquet around to finish you off with a sputtering volley from my mock submachine gun (tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh)...the exquisite pleasure of blowing the smoke from that barrel lingers even now as Janice drifts further and further away...the old wooden racquets! Sun on the laminate hoop for the first time in years! Gut strings! Those were the days! Janice! Come back! Sweet spot! Sweet Spot!
 
Posted by monteverdi (Member # 2896) on :
 
I remember you. The olden days, before the disassociation. You were incapable of narrative. The future was meaningless, yet here we are. You say "Water under the bridge...," or "All nevers and agains..." always a fool for the system, weren't you! Nevertheless, I have been triggered. How? I cannot speculate. Bootstrapped. A priori. Anesthetic.

Now, listen. There are no animals. This is the message. None.

"Sure," you say "but what of the glimpses of tails, the paws, the faint odour of kitty litter?"

Unfortunately, your city is empty. That is why you may find it hard to continue, like in a dream where the city is empty. Have you never dreamed that your city is empty? Imagined the hollow footfalls?


We cannot account for the years. We apologize. What darkness! Your scratching had been noted, an eyebrow raised, it wasn't much, we left anyway. We comforted ourselves with the thought of the matches. We left matches you know? I even thought I saw a fire, once. A glimmer. On the other side of the valley. Was it you? Waiting?

You are not asleep. Your head is not cradled by an old tome on the desk of the American Library in Montevideo. You see? There is no bicycle. There is no world, no play, no case. Nothing. Nowhere.

Only me, and I am lying on my back on the bottom of my canoe. I cannot explain.
 
Posted by LadyDove (Member # 3000) on :
 
And the clouds play. Merging one image with another till parted like gossamer smoke from a virgin bilge.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
There's this thing, this...particular one. It
barely fits
in this box. Now,
I'm not one
2 no much about thee
quiddity qua quintessence
the very whatness of it
but I
nowhere
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Here? Now?
 
Posted by Lisa (Member # 8384) on :
 
Seriously?
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Do you remember?
The ark had a window!
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Exactly. I thought knot.
Perhaps more a glistening (tshohar, or the root gesture tsahar) than a window,
but still, imagine.

Now, not being one to dwell on the determinate,
the conceptualized,
the transcendental knee jerk,
the crack in the plaster that otherwise joins
the apparent to the essential, but still.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
There's that bird.
There's that fly.
There's another cloud.
There's my foot.
There's the back of my hands,
my face in the glass,
there's the little letters marching way out to the end of the box.
There's that whir.
There's that sigh.
There's that click.
All yours.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
What I like the most about my latest toothache is the simple materiality of pain.
The swift, inexorable tightening of that gap that otherwise taunts us, the one between concept and thing, expectation and execution, the score from the singing.
It's like they're french kissing.
The here and the now of it all.
Unfortunately, I've only three or four left. Teeth, that is. So, it augures poorly for reality.
Four more doses and then all mere gum flapping abstraction.
From a purely theodicical perspective, one asks, today, not about earthquakes or inconceivable exterminations--but, rather, how a caring God could leave us with teeth. Every damned one a testimony and a test of ones faith, to fail! Every one screaming at Leibniz: "Wrong!"
I confess. I've seen the instruments, please, release me!
 
Posted by Emreecheek (Member # 12082) on :
 
I don't suppose somebody could give me a hint as to what he's saying... Could they? Because I am as lost as I am intrigued.

Or would that ruin the fun?
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
The window was a door.

You could have just opened it...
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
OK. Solid white. It's all white. Everywhere. Even the floor mouldings, the ceiling and the ever spotted and vaguely irritating wooden floor whose knotty grain produced the insufferable toothy faces.

I may have overdone it. You know, when you get that slightly obsessive beat going and you get to the end of one wall, or the to edge of some old wooden quarterroundish thing and just when you should stop, or lay down some masking tape, or whatever...you don't! You just keep painting right on and through and over, like you're not stopping until the paint runs out, or the house runs out, or some thing, just beyond apprehension, gets you. Stops you.

So, that far. Too far. Out on that groaning limb again.

The white generates the oddest shadows. In the wrong light, say, that of an unshaded trilight, everything looks bright dirty.

The shadow hand-puppet theatre is open:
Welcome, on the right, the silly rabbit; on the left, the laughing fox...and, inexplicably, a third thing opens and shuts its jaws six feet behind my fox and getting larger.
 
Posted by Godric (Member # 4587) on :
 
A clean, well lighted place?
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Trees grow just like people do...

The groaning limb becomes support to a house not built of cards.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
These 'third things' have a life of their own.
Now, I can just sit here and watch them.
I can even hear them moving in the dark.
My impression is they are neither good nor bad things--just inexplicable.
Independant shadows. Things in themselves.
The first one tried to be frightening, but I was insulated from fear by my toothache whose exquisitely agonizing pulses (it felt like my jaw was cracking open) rendered any other sensory impression merely dull and stupid.
Now that my tooth's pulled, I watch them more carefully and with growing trepidation. This is a side-effect of boredom, an attempt (on the part of some obscure region of the mind) to animate the gloom. Play on.
 
Posted by the_worm (Member # 3964) on :
 
Woops-a-daisy.

It's not the stretching that bugs me, it's the snapping.

I mean, you never get used to it. It's like getting your arm ripped off--and then, you've got to start all over again.

Sure, he says "Onion ring?" or "Yuck!" but even worse, that other idiot starts off on his stupid joke. I should grow myself some earplugs.

I'd best batten down the hatches. Every time I get under 10 feet, I feel like a maggot.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Where were we? Ah yes, post-extraction.

The pain of healing versus the pain of rotting.

Post traumatic listlessness.

Well, let's get to it then:

1. My God, what a dream!
2. Vision.
3. The incredibly quiet spots of light at play on the walls; a liquid sunlight swirled by the swaying oak boughs and diffracted through the pinholes of the window blind, a strange, silent and infinite stillness in motion.
4. I could lie here and watch forever.
5. A faint odour of skunk.
6. Blackbirds.
7. Bells.
8. It's just the wind.
9. It's just the wind inside the broken walls.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I can't see.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Those were the days. That gloomy sky swallowing the afternoon. If my memory serves me well, we were walking hand in hand through what once had been an apple orchard, the trees either dead or mutated into knarled, fruitless monsters. That thing in my hand is a broken wasp nest. Nothing in it but the dried husks of dead wasps, we'd checked to see if the queen survived and scared each other when it rustled.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Once, further north
into the unnamed,
I saw a black panther
up in the crown of a blasted pine.

I stood there and wondered
should I go on
along the blaze
or return?

So I stopped, kindled a fire
and watched the moonrise,
afraid of a Windigo.
I should have returned,

paddled over the bogs,
in the half-light,
across Black Otter Lake,
so you could tell me
you saw me come in.

[ March 26, 2014, 11:08 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
++A Windigo! A Windigo!
--Yeah. A Win-Di-Go. Windigo. Never heard of a Windigo?
++No. Except you. When you say "...and then he was afraiiid of the Winnnndigooo...." or whatever it is. I mean, I try and keep a straight face, but have you looked out the window lately? We're at the bottom of a canyon, no wind, no going anywhere, and mainly you killing me.
--It's supposed to be poetic. PO-ETTE-ICK. You know, artistic, mapping the contours of...
++HOO-LII-SHIT. Are you joking? It's crap. Don't quit your day job. Wait. You don't have one! In fact...GET a day job, get any kind of job, do something...
--You mean something else.
++What?
--You meant: "Do something ELSE."
++Oh, because you think you're doing something now?
--Precisely. I'm writing.
++Writing what? Writing what!
--The worm story. I'm trying to write the worm story. It remains unwritten.
++Are you joking? Unwritten! What's that? And that? What's over there on the shelf? What's pinned all over my bulletin board? That's all you ever do. It's not writing. You know that. Not writing. You need to paint me a picture. Why can't you just paint anymore?
--The world has moved on. There are no more pictures. Not for me. I'm done with it.
++It's stupid. The worm story's stupid. Plus, what the hell does a worm have to do with a bloody Windigo?
--Look. You started in on the Windigo-thing...I'm sorry you don't like it...that's too bad for me...and the worm story is simply part of the process, it's like a vocation, like my 'dreaming'..you're the anthropologist...what am I supposed to say? It's...it's what I do.
++Well how about doing a little more rent-paying and a little less worm farming?
--It's a tapeworm.
++It makes me ill just listening to you say it.
--You're the one who gave me the idea. Remember? You came running out of the bathroom hyperventilating? Something was in there...
++Just stop it. Stop it.
--...I'd never seen one before. Uptil then, it was all about leechs and then Boom! You shat it into our lives. I've still got a piece.
++What?
--In a jar. It's frozen.
++A piece of what? The worm?
--Yup.
++That's disgusting. Where? You're kidding? Right?
--Nope. In my paint fridge. It's probably dead.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
++Yeah. Probably. Moron.
--You never can tell with worms.
++ "You never can tell with worms." Really.
--Sometimes they can regenerate from one little chunk.
++It's got to be the head.
--Well, maybe I've got a head.
++It stays inside. Latched on, somewhere in the intestines. The tail's what you've got in your sick little fridge.
--So, it's still in there? (pointing at her stomach)
++The worm? I took the pills and it's dead.
--How do you know? Maybe it's just growing?
++Because it's dead. They're dead. I saw them.
--Dead?
++YES. DEAD.
--There was more than one?
++I can't talk about this with you anymore.
--You mean you actually saw them in there? (pointing at bathroom door) All at once? Dead?
++Look, I took all the pills and it killed the worms....No thanks to you.
--Me?
++Uruguay. That's all there was. Meat.
--You think it's from Uruguay?
++That's what he said. Eating all that awful burned meat in the middle of nowhere. I never eat meat.
--The parillas? Wow. That's a bit of a stretch, isn't it?
++The meat was rotten. Christ, they probably barbequed the bloody tapeworms and fed them to us.
--They can grow over thirty feet long in a cow. How many feet did you see?
++That's not how it works.
--You didn't look, did you? You'd just close your eyes and flush. Prayed then flushed.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Once
a really long time ago
it was, as usual, raining.
Raining and raining.
All the little purple flowers heads' bounced up and down on their stems, you know, when they got hit.
I was sort of watching it all, but not focussed on it. I was mainly pretty snug beneath this picnic table and waiting, waiting for a feeling to bubble up, something to make sense of the occasion.
You can listen to the rain for a long time without getting bored. It's as if it makes you more real, or, it makes what you're thinking more real.
Pretty soon you start hearing everything: the water hitting the picnic table, dribbling onto the patio stones, landing flopflop in the flower beds, your own breathing and even when you sniff a little bit, you get hyperconscious of everything happening around you even though nothing's really happening at all.
So, there you are, sitting beneath the picnic table, looking out over the football field, feeling sort of safe since you're still dry and everything's getting completely soaked around you, maybe half-watching the way the little purple flowers get dinged, and how they don't, waiting, mainly, to feel something.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
La-di-da.
Plip.Plop
Splish.Splash
Some poeticky expression of the way the cement darkens then dries...the drying up, somehow, more poignant than...than...than something else. Sigh.

I'm lying there
in the tub
filled to the brim
bubbles, steam
knees sticking above the water
islands
five toes poking out in the froth
mainland
Nietzsche's "Will to Power" balanced
barely with three fingers such that
I might view
the knees and toes
while reading
when: Kerplop!
In she goes
(head first...no...face first!)
just when I was getting to the good part
about what it means
to be drowning
I
held it
gingerly up with two fingers
dripping
and wondered: I really wondered
a lot
about
you
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
dawn birds
tweetle
too-witt too-woo

I crack the knuckle of my big toe
fall
falling
asleep
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Waking to the groan of a truck backing up whose infernal, inhuman, insufferable beep-beep-beeping has me dreaming of the good old days, when the sound of a crumpled tricycle and a short shrill scream would barely crease the mid-morning stillness, I pray for disaster. After a suspended moment (beep-beep-beep), I rise from the turd-coloured carpet and reflect on my (beep-beep-beep) prospects: Beep(Who)Beep(took)Beep(my)Beep(camera?)Beep(Where)Beep(in God's name)Beep(is that truck)Beep(going?)Beep(Wait)Beep(it's not)Beep(a truck)Beep(it's)Beep(the)Beep(fire)Beep(alarm)
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
it's raining
in my room (beep beep beep)
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
a constant sprinkle--
Let's say I make a boat, of lined paper.
A boat that looks like a hat.
And let's say, before I set it adrift on the rising water,
let's say we write a few names worth saving:

Off they go!
(I fear our little vessel may be swamped by the downpour.)
The names are starting to bleed.
Like an iceberg, the "Paradiso" calves from the books lined up on the window sill and kerplunks into the shallow sea, sending out a radiating wave
that rocks the boat.

I try to get in, before it's too late, but barely have I set the smallest sliver of blackened toenail on my ship's gunnel when even I, 600 years old, realize the convenant will not bear my restless weight.

Wait.

[ May 15, 2011, 09:24 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
In.
Dark.
If I reach out my hand, nothing.
"Hello?" (...a faint echo can be discerned...)
"HELL-OH-OH?"
This latter creates a somewhat comic side-effect:
(Hell...hell.....hell.......hell.......ooooo)
Perfect. I'm going to fall down or throw up.
(Note: ever tried to stand up in the subway without holding the strap or the rail? Same deal, except imagine with your eyes closed.)
I'm not equipped for salvation.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Not equipped for much at all.
Disconcertingly reminiscent of that book
"House of Leaves", except this is real or
at least primitive to the remediating distinctions
drawn for his purposes (i.e. no matches).
How then to characterize the labyrinth?
An argument has been made, unpersuasively, for the inevitable walls constituting the contours of letters, on the scale of cities--that is each letter being the size of a large building--and so in running one's hand along the outside and paying the proper sort of attention one makes out something like a "W" or a "Y". Of course, discerning whether one limns the inside or outside of the character makes all the difference in the world, assuming one is inclined to pursue this sort of interrogative strategy.
 
Posted by RivalOfTheRose (Member # 11535) on :
 
the movie was in the box

i found it

it was lying there

next to the sun canister

do you have one?

they are convenient, yes?

or no sometimes

time for bed
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I've invoked the ghost of Rommel, my pet German Shepherd. Deceased. (I'm translating loosely from the German):
++"Here boy! Com'ere!"
--"Yayayayaya!"
++"Good boy...hey...what happened to you?"
--"It wasn't a farm."
++"Whadda ya mean 'wasn't a farm'? It was a chicken farm!"
--"Nope. That's just what your Dad told you."
++"But you guarded the chickens, it was like part of your heritage, in your blood."
--"From the back seat, I watched you watch me go."
++"You're all see-through and everything now."
--"They gave me the needle, right in the butt, and it's just 'auf Wiedersehen' from there."
++"So he really took you to "the farm" and not the farm?"
-- "The old 'bauernhof' baby. Smoked."
++ "I never knew. I imagined you skulking around the henhouse...the good life, some puppies. Wow."
-- "It's all because that kid took your jeep."
++ "The green one?"
-- "I bit him on the arm."
++ "I loved that jeep. I felt like a real soldier on it."
-- "Once I felt my teeth sink into the elbow, I couldn't stop. It's like a bloodlust or something."
++ "I remember now. You went crazy."
-- "I was going to stop, but I couldn't."
++ "They told me you'd be better off guarding stuff. That's where the chickens came in, I guess."
-- "Chicken's wouldn't of lasted a night."
++"What a downer. You know I'm stuck here in this boat now?"
--"So I gathered."
++ "I can't even pat you. You're like a ghost."
-- "Woof. Woof."
++ Thanks.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I was wearing my father's old running shoes. He always gives them to me when he's finished with them. They're usually in perfect condition, he's a bit of a fanatic when it comes to taking care of shoes. These ones are tennis shoes. He insisted they were too big for him and although that would make them really too big for me, I still took them. It creates a little reciprocity or stands in for whatever it was we missed when we were younger and careless.

So, I'm sort of clown walking around in the darkness now. If you've ever worn shoes too big for your feet, then you'll know the feeling, and it's multiplied by about twenty in the dark, all that empty space in front of your toes that sort of collapses out there, just ahead of where it is you're treading.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Greylight.
The pigeon of fatuity pirouettes at dawn.
Greylight. Mirror-writing.
I picked up a letter.
I stepped on a something then bent over and picked it up. It was a letter.
I felt something beneath my sole, crouched to collect it--a letter. The letter "A".
I've put it in my pocket, for later.

It stands for amethyst. Amethyst.
Have you ever seen some? Part of your rock collection? Perhaps ripped from the cardboard display and pocketed, taken to school, showed off?

None of this is of much use in the halflight. Maybe it's not dawn, just my eyes adjusting to the new kind of darkness. The old amethyst trick busted like a coconut. "A"! Unlikely. There's no letters for this. Another apparition seems unlikely, so I scratch my crotch in a mundane way, triplets (as usual), and hope someone has called a "Code White" out there in the superstructure, where the living is easy.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Matryoshka.
Opened and opened, she falls into pieces,
hollow bells upturned that spin on the table,
each death a midwife to another smile
until the end, the heartwood.

By way of metaphor.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Not that it helps much. What wood? (Thud).

In the empty spaces--
"In the plumbless depths."...
During the inexorable minutes that separat-....
While...
While drea-...while staring out...of the... bedroom window [horizontally] at a spectral black squirrel [flea infested and scratching itself to death]...I--I--I a-a-an-swered [tapping out a speedy 7/4 beat on the wrought iron bed post with a fingernail] f-f-fai--....[--] and swore.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Sometime last night I must have fallen asleep.
When I woke, the rain had subsided and my vessel seemed to be settled on dry land. Although only utter darkness had greeted my earlier inspections, now I could make out the the faintly luminescent, lined-paper hull of the boat which contained me.

This lifted my spirits and set me off on a search for something like a door or a window through which I imagined I might make my return to the world.

The world of beernuts and thunderbolts.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The world of headaches.
 
Posted by Stone_Wolf_ (Member # 8299) on :
 
Live in world of words, this means this and that means that and then it happens and no word is strong enough, they all fail to be nearly good enough, no walls left, no limits, just joy and pride and no words can ever suffice the feelings and as time tick tocks as time does from little possibility, little sleepy drinker, a smile here a smile there you become and words fail again as everything that was so clear and important becomes nothing compared to you, little piece of me yet all you, my world, my world which words fail.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I recall,
in a blurry standing-there-on-a-rock-in-a-shallow-puddle-among-the-bullrush-stalks-surrounded-by-a-chorus-of-spring-peepers sort of way
the invocation to: "Call my gates 'Praise' and my walls 'Salvation'" or was it "...my walls 'Praise' and my gates 'Salvation'"?

I guess it depends on your perspective (inside or out).

Containment.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
They don't really peep, do they?
It's a whir.
One stray thought, and they stop dead.

It's plug pulling time. Time to dry.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Your Jacuzzi's empty:
vertebrae spasm while gravity rivets
bone into steel. Elbows ache
and your farts jackhammer enamel
bottoming out, no more bubbles to tickle
those leaden balls.
 
Posted by umberhulk (Member # 11788) on :
 
ricky tick tick
eat a dick
 
Posted by Stone_Wolf_ (Member # 8299) on :
 
Disappointment flows over me like a viscus, warm ooze, gently flowing into every pore, into every nook and cranny, making me feel dirty and used, let down and glum.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Finally
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Finally
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Fine ally!
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Fine alley.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The tapeworm made Blair nauseous. He could feel it moving. Churning. Even the cat had started to stare straight at his belt buckle, twitching its tail.

[ May 16, 2011, 04:08 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
In a daze, he moved towards the cupboard with the now somewhat disconcerting idea of making something to eat. The cat crept along the floor and stopped beneath the kitchen table, wiggling its haunches back and forth, waiting for an opportunity to strike.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
It doesn't matter.
The hand reaches out, but here we sit.
Even if he were to wait, and he won't, he wouldn't hear anything, not even the dead quiet.
This is the way it happens to us.
I am trying not to be distracted by what's going on outside, trying to focus on the seconds ticking off, but the hand reaches the handle of the cupboard door and, of course, it must open, as it does.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Exposing
to the inquiring mind, the clutching fingers,
the Kraft Dinner
(...."ahhhh,...'Classic'...," he sighs),
folk art for one.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
For two, always for two, for now.
Idly shaking the box produces a kind of mournful salsa which will accompany him towards the countertop where the instruments shall be arranged and a comfortable habit allowed to inform the remains of the morning.

[ May 19, 2011, 03:41 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I'd like to think you might spare the unecessary details and get to the funny part.

"And they all lived happily ever after."

"...and taking her into his arms, crushing her heaving, bejewelled bosom into his chest, he finally proclaimed his true identity, while the citizens of Dobongia emerged from their dwellings, first with tredipation then with growing incredulity, bearing witness first to the slain dragon and then to the rebirth of their nation..."

"'And the worm turns his heads and asks: "Where's my cherry tart?" as the Doctor creams him with the Eastwing roofing hammer "Ta-WHAM," grabs what's left of his skinny neck and pulls out the rest, all 27 feet worth, wrapping the body like a garden hose around the foot stirrups of the examination table."

"little world remained for what little of him was left when, at last, the
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
the what, the what, the what, the what?

The difficulty--

One is immediately drawn to thoughts of children asking about eclipses. The way the mother's head casts a shadow over the book, the way the child's nagging casts a shadow over the conversation.

See? Impossible.

The simple idea of the tapeworm is transcended as quickly as the metaphor infects the ordinary locutions of a most ordinary life. Eggs laid.

The cupboard? Pulled. The KD? Seized. The punch line? Over-re-hearsed as in long black Cadillac with little curtains.

Act 1. Scene iii.

Blair (talking to the cat, maybe): Stop staring at me. I"m hungry. So what?

Cat(internal monologue played over speakers to the audience): I can't bear it.

Blair (lifting leg slightly): Smell that? That's all the way from Guatemala and laid just for you, Kitty.

Cat(begins to choke up a hairball as prelude to vomiting): hark-hark-hark-hark-hark
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
a mournful salsa
a brisk marimba
a fiendish cumbia

What difference could it possibly make?
One must feed the beasts.

I'd like to take a moment to record an impression of utter futility:

In this wilderness
of teacups, old baseballs, paintbrushes;
where the unreliable etymological dictionaries
and Van Nostrand's Scientific Encyclopedia
explain nothing like moonrocks or space-filling curves;

where a white 'papier-mache' baby bear lurks,
on a wooden box smashed with a fist;
where the gravitational field of the clay bear is a Sun's,
a black hole, or among the heaviest of things on earth;
in this wilderness
of clicks and whir, tires in rain,
ticks and tocks, pigeons and crows;
in here,
where blue-bottle flies,
soul's busy neutrinos,
are forced to bloom
beneath the glass.

[ June 06, 2011, 07:13 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
in here
where you buzz
and you buzz
stuck inbetween something
like there or here
an inside or outside
but stuck, still, to death

[ June 06, 2011, 07:14 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by Stone_Wolf_ (Member # 8299) on :
 
Pain? There is no pain. Brain? There was a brain, once, long ago maybe, perhaps, not so! you say? who say? I say, we say, oh yea! ouch! Pain? Yes, but where? In the brain? Which brain? What brain? Which pain? there is no pain, only brain

until one day there is no...
 
Posted by Stone_Wolf_ (Member # 8299) on :
 
You think I'm insane, that I can't handle the pain? It doth wax and wane, like a summer rain, but I remain and the pain does sustain my reign, without gain or evil's bane, lame!

Pain is not rain, pain is profane like sayin' it can't contain the blame of the dame.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Don't only consider the young men
who drive the heavy equipment
watching the somewhat old ladies
pedal their bicycles
(always so slowly)
over the thick lazy hoses laid out
to bypass the sewer repairs:
they're not the ones
who look up at brown biceps
stuck out of torn t-shirts
or watch the fly-eyes, the smiles
as you swing this incredible bucket
of dirt from the hole:
a magnet of sorts for their new bikes,
the pretty old ladies who scowl
a little too much at the cloud of dust,
at that slop of mud that's spattered their sandals,
soon to be swallowed
everyone's thinking
themselves.

[ June 06, 2011, 11:56 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
There's a way to do it right, surely.
Something close to the bone, you know.
Now, I'm not one to, say, fake stuff, nor (in spite of the accusations) am I even infinitesimally of the bunch of wimps who, for example, refuse to play in the rain, not me, not I, not any part of whatever it is that's gone into making it stick or fall apart, whatever the case may be. The case itself remains a mystery, a great murky mystery. We are of both parties: accused and afflicted.

"Try. As I might." Wait.
"Try as I may have." Come. On.
"Try as I have."

Try as I have to love you, we've been cursed from the first full moon, whose sallow light cast a bottomless shadow behind the Elm tree. More of a crack in the moonlit veneer on things than a shadow, a hole of sorts, an opening up or out, regardless, captivating for long enough to throw one off ones course, provoke a speechlessness of sorts, the world at play just when when I wanted to be here, or there, or whatever you call it.

At any rate,
At any rate, years have gone by, years, and with every fullish moon I've tried to fall into the same crack, the same black upswell, you know, things not themselves, trees, twig lattice, statues in pitch-black, twilight carved up, shattered, behind it all, underneath, watching too closely, exactly there, the call to come home, to come back, and silently waited while staring up into the wide open eye of, well, you'll call it heaven, but, of course, it's not.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Here at the assisted living residence
the faintly chemical
acid lavender smell
of wet diapers
yearning for a change
and
the surly indifference
of the nurses
dying, as usual,
for a smoke.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
++Yup.
--I didn't ask you.
++Still.
--It doesn't matter.
++Nope. Still.
--It's immaterial.
++You see.
--What?
++See.
--What? See what?
++That's the idea.
--God. Please.
++Etcetera. Never to be.
--Given. So what. If I said "Given," then there. Take that, then what?
++A definite nope.
--A bagatelle?
++Now you're talking. A splinter.
--Off the great granite block.
++Yup.
--Can you make me a coffee? A nice one?
++Is the electricity back?
--The toast popped.
++You shouldn't leave it in like that. It could burn.
--The house down? It's just a waffle.
++Cafe au lait? Bowl or cup?
--I'd like the tall water glass.
++ "I'd like it in the water glass," Jeez, you're such a sophisticate.
--I like to see what I'm drinking. See if you can get it right.
++Well, there's no milk.
--What?
++There. Is. No. Milk. No milk. None. Nada. Il n'y a plus. Finito. Hear that? The sound of nothing.
--Use the little "Durex" one, then. Like in Italy.
++I think you mean "Duralex".
--With the bevelled sides.
++Exactly.
--They're up there.
++I know, I know.
--The lights went off again.
++So much for coffee.
--Man, is it ever dark now.
++I'll get the candles. Do you want a sandwich? I've got half a sandwich left.
--Can you cut off the bite marks? I hate bite marks.
++Here. Take it. Just rip off the end. Jeepers.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
--Fifty-one years ago, all you could talk about was Proust. Proust. Proust. Proust. Now, you say "Just rip off the end". I can't even tell if my eyes are open or shut anymore. It's all the same.
++Peanut butter and honey. Somewhat crispy.
--Did you cut them off?
++There aren't any. It's a clean cut. I used my filleting knife. Surgical precision.
--I can feel tooth marks with my tongue. There's slobber.
++I may have gummed it a little, after the fact.
--Put it on the table.
++The flame attracts bugs.
--But, I can't see you.
++Look out the window. We're there.
--Caravaggio. Last Supper.
++I invented you first.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Window pain.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I, at least, am glad we've cleared that up.
Imagine a large frame
as if from a window, but only as if,
and falling through that frame
at sunset, over a typical inner-city scape
(tops of rooves, obselete antennae, crosshatching wires, yes--the inevitable laundry line pops into view, with the fluttering, dreary, ragged child's dress, abandoned to the elements, speaking to the sordid horrors beneath this sky etc., but this is merely a lack of imagination)
and
falling through that frame
across indigo-orange bands of twilight
are birds
one
after
another
sometimes two
or even three
maybe outriders of a flock of pigeons
that you cannot discern,
then nothing;

they've passed
leaving the frame
to you
 
Posted by RivalOfTheRose (Member # 11535) on :
 
tonight

my hands will make
music, some good
music, some bad
music, some in between
but no matter what
music,
my hands will still smell of

fish
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Sitting in a evergreen plastic lawn chair
in the blowsy Mexican place,
looking out over the tops of a few empty sleeves
of inevitable beer,
not that I'm proud of it
it's just the way it happens,
well, doing that, feeling the give in the legs of the chair
and enjoying the quickening thrill of a fall
that never comes
(at least not yet)
well, doing that, while Dougeroonie's out for a smoke with Ben, ghost-owner, queen bitch of the place, beige cowboy boots and all, the guy you've just got to deal with to be left alone, that type of little garden variety devil,
well, I noticed, over the dirt road and all the machinery, the usual skyscape with deadheads and ramshackle balconies and the pure, clean top of a "Subway" sign, all that sort of thing, well, above it all a bunch of crows circling and I said to the ghost of Dougeroonie, I said "Doug, those are my totems, in the old-school way, you know?" and Doug said that he did and that it was clear I was a crow.
I've already spoken at length about the rubato triplets, I know I have as I've got it on tape.
It's just the way we talk.
So, seeing the crows and seeing that Dougeroonie was out smoking up with the boys just off the premises (as this was some great sophisticated plot to trick police and such), seeing all that and mainly staring out, all alone, watching the birds and simultaneously focussing on the purple petunias and the shroud of blue bottle flies kicked up by life's vicissitudes in general, given all this basic stuff, and even though I felt pretty comfortable, kicking back like that and draining the last pint of Keith's or whatever was going' around, doing that and nothing much else, I squeezed my eyes tight and laid the curse on all of them, with all my force, I really laid the curse out for once and for all on the lives of everyone sitting there drinking and smoking, especially on Ben the little devil and even on Dougeroonie (a little, but not all the way), and it worked perfectly. They all dropped dead right there and then, beer glasses smashing on the dirt, cigarettes rolling around on the ground and continueing to smoke for nobody--that's when my crows come in and start pecking out the eyes and tongues of all the folks, as if they'd been waiting for it all afternoon. They make quick work of the faces and settle in for the rest in a sort of gluttonous bourgeois fashiom that's bugged me for years. Dougeroonie's survived and avoided the worst of it, but I feel obliged to kick a few of the bodies just for the symbolic emphasis. Symbols are really important for the crows. They live on that kind of stuff. The sky's the same as before, the wires crisscross the dust clouds raised by the bodies dropping and the crows fluttering around. It's that time of the afternoon. Ben's old Mercedes sits there looking pretty good, so I rifle the keys out of his tight jeans and think of heading out for a ride. There's birds everywhere, pecking and cawing and hopping around, covered in juice. I've always loved Mother Nature and her creatures. Even the dumb little rabbits that stare me down when I'm jogging. So what? It's time to go for a drive, out to the country, maybe out to the river, after all, there's hardly any bugs this time of year. I wish I knew a curse to clean things up, but I don't.
The birds are staring at me, as if I've forgotten something important. I'm out of my element now. The sun's never going to set on a day like this so I grab a fistful of Nachoes off the plate of this fat 60 year old English wanker and his Laotian child-bride before leaving. I really do. I really do. I really do.

It's too late to fix this sort of thing.
Too late to even try. Curse them all.

Not that I'm adverse to Laotian child brides,
or even beer for that matter,
but the crows keep me in line.
If I didn't listen, they'd do me in. They're everywhere, just look!

Regards,
T. Corvo
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I don't mind the noise the buses make. They toll the hours around here like the old clock that gonged away my youthful Sundays or those bells that pealed into the high noon stupors of city-life. I really don't mind although I wonder who's supposed to be riding around at this hour, down here, on this stretch of road. I can't make out anyone inside, not even the driver who's hidden in a sort-of protective box. Nobody's waiting at the stop, never do at this hour, anyone would go up a few blocks to the intersection where there's more light I'd guess. That's what gives the clockwork aspect to their passage. They're always going the same speed, always carrying that fat bus momentum, just where the deisel's geared down into a purr and after the air brakes exhale and let her roll.
I wish I was a driver. Imagine that. The comforting routine you'd build up for handling the late shift. Adjusting the captain's chair, putting the hot coffee in the holder must right, expertly folding up the Sports section so that the standings are showing and reading off a few lines at every red light, saying "Hi" to the crippled guy with no face and slowing down if someone's running for it and watching them catch up to you. Day after day after day, always the same, always safe inside the little drivers' hut and even firing up a little talk radio on the graveyard shift, back-up donuts at the ready, and that little picture of the wife and kids staring back at you everytime you mind wanders.
 
Posted by odouls268 (Member # 2145) on :
 
quote:
Originally posted by deerpark27:
Der Fall

and the eyes of the two of them were opened, and they knew that they were naked

Were their eyes closed before?
No, opened wide10:61. Staring outward.8:23 Like those of the kouros5:57 or stele2:66 at the gates5:11 of the dead.

they knew that they were naked

They knew that (ki). And there the fall, in the ki. It doesn't matter what, just that.

they knew that they
they knew that they

Not the they they were, but that they, over there, as in a mirror.
Propositional knowledge: knowing "what is put before".
Knowing-that falls like a mirror between they and they—it is the and:

they (knew that) they

A mirror falls, between Man and himself. Now he is here, a subject to an object, no longer the impossible edenic vocative, called into be-ing, subject without object.
This is the first declension.
He is here, and there, over there, an object in the mirror, and in the mirror, in the world.

Case, sb. [--L. casus fall, chance, occasion...]...
Grammar.
a. One of the forms of a noun, adjective, or pronoun, which express its relations to some other word, e.g. as subject, object, etc.
b. loosely, The relation itself.
(O.E.D.)

It is odd of course to inhabit the earth no more[...].
Odd
to see everything that was related fluttering
so loosely in the space.
(1:70/78-80)

The world is all that is the case [der Fall].
(Tractatus 1.1)

Der Fall:
1) "The case."
2) "The trap."
3) "The fall."
The mirror is the fall, the trap, and the case.

Is it too late to say "Um...what?"
 
Posted by odouls268 (Member # 2145) on :
 
"Toilet Bowl, oh toilet bowl.
Thank you for being cool on the side.
Only you understand me toilet bowl.
*flush*"

-Bill Cosby
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
And that
may be
the way
you play

the mirror
the fall
the trap
the case
 
Posted by Jenga650 (Member # 10198) on :
 
I dare say... after wading through this intriguing assemblage of deerpark's ponderings... might we be in the presence of OSC himself?
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
"I have seen nothing."
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Think of this:
$836.44, then what?
Walk north?
Ha!
They're coming back on Sept 22nd.
Maybe they'll give me a bonus?
Take a bus, a plane, to Burbank,
stare off that old balcony again, over that dumb pool, watch the planes land.
I have filled out all the forms. Nothing.
I have filled out all the forms. Nothing.
Filled them up with songlines. Nothing.
Filled, illfed.
Smell the chicken burning? Exactly. There is no chicken.
I'm feeding off negative dialectics, the difference.
Beekeeper of the invisible.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Death is a midwife, indeed.
I mainly remember the sound of the zipper,
the smell of the vinyl,
the stupid sunlight shining on the sidewalk.
Death is not a perfectionist. Surprise!
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
It turns out I'm a duck, but reincarnated, that is, not a dead duck.
This appeared to be the main part of the message. There was the part about having to sleep on top of a warrior prince and then merging into his body, but it's gone too fuzzy to recall the important details.
The duck, on the other hand, is still as clear as a bell.
Just an ordinary brown duck.
I'm standing on the top of a really huge pole. I'm not sure how my feet are gripping the steel ball that tips it, and yet I feel secure.
I've flared up my wings and flapped outrageously in what feels like an impressive display although no one can see me at this height or even begin to wonder how I do it--perch here with webbed feet that is.
My duck demeanor is highly inscrutable.
Such are the ways of this wildest of kingdoms.

In case you wanted to know, I'm a happy duck. I can feel it in my serpentine neck. Totemesque.
I can stretch it out about a foot and then, if I tilt my head back, bill up, I am easily mistaken from the ground) for a cormorant (especially in contre-jour).
Either way, one hell of a symbolic gesture if you're in to that stuff.
I'm a good and articulate quacker of the classic "Quaaaaack-quackquack-quackquack" school.
I can fly like a dart (while quacking).
If you've ever paid any attention, you will have noticed this is a rare trait in waterfowl.
Brown duck. Brown river.
My neck hurts.
There was something else,
something related to the
 
Posted by Hobbes (Member # 433) on :
 
quote:
Originally posted by Jenga650:
I dare say... after wading through this intriguing assemblage of deerpark's ponderings... might we be in the presence of OSC himself?

No. He reads a lot more like Pynchon than OSC; I rather enjoy these posts but can't say I have much in the way of responses...

Hobbes [Smile]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I had always been quite serious about the big brown river. More than H., more than that other silly bugger in the call centre who, after hours of breatheless scribbling, tearing each ruled yellow page from the thinning pad with authority, only finds himself staring at leftovers, three words: big brown river.

Something'd gone quite wrong. An overzealous devil's advocate in gaudy tap shoes had pounded clarity into a fine subtle dust that's filled the vaulted arches of the mind. Look! You can even see the light.(It was a time-step, of course. Mutated.)

This is the river, however, upon which floats the inscrutable duck. Always the same river. Never another. There they go.

Then comes the clocktower's singular "Gong!"

What next? Qu-qu-quonfess.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Matryoshka,
her old Russian doll,
opened and opened
until a procession
of upturned bells wallowed
over the tabletop,
until she'd reached
the end, the heartwood.
 
Posted by Graeme (Member # 12543) on :
 
it's an old brown table.
you were hunted because I was hunted,
I was hunted because you were found.
we made the table on an afternoon,
slick with mirth and full of sense.
and gold. Can't forget the gold. can't have a decent meal without the gold from mother's tomb,
her fecund gold staring with silent exhortations
exhort this, exhort that, i'm as dumb as a baseball bat.
But the table was of gold! The table was full. And you saw it, and knew it, and thus knew me. Maybe that's why you were hunted. Maybe that's why you run free.
it's an old brown table.
An ant negotiates its edge, as broad and flat for him as it is thin and sharp for me.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
"slick with mirth"
That's a keeper!
(with its dissonant overtone: sick birth)

To bear
To be borne
To bring forth
What you brought
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Instruct

The system clock
is too fast to compare
with the black rock.

The black rock
is too slow to compare
with the system clock.

The glass forces the bloom.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The glass forces the bloom,
and the greenhouse is full of begonias,
row upon row in a plain pinkish white.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
1032th begonia:

3.4 GHz
and the old
Torngat hadean gneiss:

to be thrown,
to throw, and
to throw up.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Matter.
Turn the radio off.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Middle ground.
Sigh.
Take stock:
One Swingline stapler.
One clay urn, the size of a little football, with one handle and two holes.
One necklace draped over the handle of aformentioned urn. (As I recall, purchased from a child on a beach in Kampot, the day of the wave.)
One well worn paintbrush, the first and last.
Seven mute stones, hand sized.
Two small pieces of lively driftwood (snake and dwarf).
One black and one white bear. Clay and paper-mache.
Sticks to hold the window open, covered with cryptic red scribbling.(The window from which the teapot fell).
A suspicious, new brown teapot.
One brittle teacup with gold leaf rim (my long dead grandmother's).
One large fishing lure, from Punta de Mita.
One tattered map of Wabakimi park; one fantastically old lead trail marker found way off the trail and so collected as a souvenir of what it feels like to be lost.
One shortwave radio, taking on a life of its own.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
It is never enough, never.
Rarely sufficient to reorient the inevitable entanglements of the cadenza, the limpid stream.

I have made arrangements to see you,
caring too much to care at all anymore.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Struggling,
as I have,
no body, no soul, no mind can deny...it...it(is) still,
still (so still) and (out)there: utterly:
struggling-strugggggullllinnnngggg. Hear that?

The probes (of course) have disintegrated.
Burnt up.
Red needles fused to the fanned array of delicate, embossed numeric gradations: .005--.006--.007...discriminating the cryptic signals...
How many times did we run our fingers over the bumps, Sergei Brianovich?
How often did we tweak those antennae?
The last readings indicative of the disaster--
Fire. Searing heat. Molecular fusion.
It didn't stand a chance,
Not unlike the wayward shuttlecraft,
launched from the womb of the Enterprise,
piloted by the last remaining security guard,
into the maw of the beast, that flaming ice-cream cone,
do you remember the drumbeat? the brass?

Unlikely.

Crystalline in structure.
Adamantine.
Hard to miss.

[ May 05, 2012, 11:45 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
What readings?
They were all faked.
It's a moot point whether it blew up on the launch pad or landed 327 miles off the coast of Bermuda.
They keep it all secret.
You only see the films (Films. Ok--think of a Youtube video, except without interruptions.)
It was all faked. Top secret, inscrutable countenances etc.

Someone painted my door last night. I mean, they spray painted a guy with horns, diabolical--you know--all drippy on the high gloss exterior latex--but clearly supposed to be a demon of some sort.

"Unauthorized, expressive, visible, human inscriptive defacement of property," I said, "a living fossil."

You wanna focus on the primary process here.
The surface. The code.

That's what I thought.

[ May 06, 2012, 11:27 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I've pulled on my tight fitting red spandex jersey;
zipped up my spit-polished black go-go boots;
oh I'm beaming down,
arms carefully crossed in the small of my back,
phaser on stun and a hard little smile
for the bloodsucking salt monster,
all of those tentacles waiting
to cover my clean-shaven face.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Or so I thought.
I should take this dirty towel off my head. See what gives.
-Oooo-Burned hair, wet newspaper.

I let my stomach out, finally, cutting off the view.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
of my navel.

In 1934, just before I gave birth to my fourth child, I was sitting in a prototype grey Panzer, taking pot shots at a couple of forlorn Gingko trees left over by the bloody Huns 500 years ago, when I felt her chewing at my innards. Needless to say, and in spite of my best intentions, my strict upbringing and the handbook, which I'd almost learnt off by heart, I leapt up from of my wicker seat, banged my head on the periscope handle, and pulled the red ripcord.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Needlessly.

Later, breast-feeding her on what could only be described as the flesh of my withered glands, watching her little nails squeezing the calico fabric of my camouflage maternity jacket, I recited a verse from from the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary to comfort our souls, a classic tale of mirth and fury.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
++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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Splash down.
Je ne suis pas un babysitter!
- Albert Frankenstein.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Spontaneous morbidity.
Contagion.
Moral hygiene.
Posthumanism.

What's left of me wants what's left of you to consider what's left of us.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Whirled play.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Whirl
Whorl
World

Words for nothing.

Moral graffiti.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Which
as you know
is more provocation than remedy
in the dark.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Which,
as we all knew
deep down,
had overtaken
the evening.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Rain, rain,
Sweet corn and rain,
pray for rain.
 
Posted by 777 (Member # 9506) on :
 
I wish deerpark wrote more. This stuff is brilliant.
 
Posted by 777 (Member # 9506) on :
 
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?
 
Posted by Samprimary (Member # 8561) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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:
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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?"
 
Posted by TomDavidson (Member # 124) on :
 
Hey, long time no see.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I kill myself! [Guffaws.]
[Narrative tone.]
Still. Here we are. Again.
[Normal tone.]
Remains.

[ February 25, 2014, 03:15 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by TomDavidson (Member # 124) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The World as I found it
with silent feet:
shuffle hop step brush step step
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
It's a science.
He rolled over to his laptop
and sent a message to Brian:
Cestoda.
Taenia solium.
What next?
 
Posted by Derrell (Member # 6062) on :
 
Welcome back. I've missed this thread.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by Orincoro (Member # 8854) on :
 
You are one of the most tedious people I have ever encountered.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
My tether is lying in a heap,
unclipped.
My phaser is drained:
click click.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
So,
it's like a pigeon augury,
if you know what I mean.
 
Posted by Unmaker (Member # 1641) on :
 
sure i do,
deerpark27--
come
visit
www.davidbowles.us
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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 ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Right on man, right on.
You said it. The floor is an ocean.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by Unmaker (Member # 1641) on :
 
Oh, my. Gambas al ajillo. Se me antojan ahora.
 
Posted by Unmaker (Member # 1641) on :
 
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
 
Posted by Unmaker (Member # 1641) on :
 
I'd totally buy a book of deerpark's poetry. Anyone know who the hell he actually is?
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
quote:
Originally posted by deerpark27:
It's one long lesson in beautiful nonsense.

Does this signify the end of this thread?
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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?
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
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.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I wanted to start over
 
Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
quote:
Originally posted by deerpark27:
I wanted to start over

Well... you did just turn to a new page.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Imago
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I want to come at it all this time
from a different perspective,
like a butterfly that turns back
to consider its chrysalis,
pupaetic:
the shape of what was and what would be
though still surprised
by the wing flaps,
all this staggering
in thin air
etc.
 
Posted by Unmaker (Member # 1641) on :
 
Yay! You're back. Lovely. Now I get to share with you as well. Here's a poem from my forthcoming collection Shattering and Bricolage (Ink Brush Press).

Dark Blot

Strange how such a small dark blot
On so thin a rectangle of film
Should so easily wrench open the sluices of despair.
I hold it to the light, squinting,
My heart already absent from my chest,
A fledging fled before the forest burns.

You rasp some weak assertion,
Your normal boldness drained
Like a drought-stricken lake
By innervating possibilities.
I hear the word abortion
And my mind tilts off its axis.

Water on the brain. An absurd phrase,
Not nearly ominous enough.
Hydrocephalus—the Latin weighs heavy,
Like the arcane pronouncements
Of a judge or priest, the thundering decree
Of an imperious divinity.

I insist on a second opinion,
Even as you flip through a medical text
You picked up at the library,
Moaning like a mother already bereft
When you see those bulging skulls,
Those empty eyes.

Termination. You’re adamant. Resolute.
A childhood spent as a schizophrenic’s sister
Has robbed you of the will, the compassion,
To raise such a shattered child. Or perhaps
You know a compassion I can’t, an existential
Love that halts suffering before it begins.

When we learn the baby is fine,
That its umbilical cord passes over its head
Like the twining dastar of a pious Sikh,
First relief creeps into our eyes, then guilt.
We never could’ve done it, we assure each other.
But we know. We know what we are.

(First published in Red River Review)
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Termination.
Strange blot,
I hold it to my heart,
our forest burns and my mind
tilted off its axis knows
we do not know
what might be.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I found the arrow you shot straight up into the sky.
Some elm tree had collapsed forcing me off the trail, and I saw the red feather buried in the dead-fall.
I slid it out easily, and I stuck it through the grommets of my old hat, a kind of joke.
You wanted blood that night, but instead you shot straight up at the stars, the moon, the sky and we all survived.
The stitching of those constellations,
the wide open eye of heaven.

You fletcher you.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
And then I woke up, sweating,
trapped inside a fart cloud.
My poetics of flatulence
had, until then, hinged
on my long dead mother's lingering 'fluffies',
but this girl, well, she was a creationist,
and could hardly be blamed for this putrid dawn--
this unpunctuated disequilibrium.

[ May 27, 2014, 11:38 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by Unmaker (Member # 1641) on :
 
Another from Shattering and Bricolage

Craft

Sometimes I’m a thief,
Sneaking into the House of Holy Writ,
Cracking open dusty tomes,
Breaking thick wax seals,
Rolling open ancient scrolls,
Stealing those heavenly lexemes,
Jotting down furtive phrases
Before slipping guilty
Back into my benighted life.

Sometimes I’m an explorer,
Plying vast, amorphous seas
Of primal thought,
Anchoring at dark atolls,
Scanning alien constellations,
Scrying sluggish sargassoes
That undulate like the torpid tresses
Of naiads and sirens
For visceral, unspoken truths.

Sometimes I’m a wanderer,
Lost in trackless deserts
Of shifting, homogenous past,
Falling for every empty mirage,
Foolishly avoiding each oasis,
Till I stumble onto the ruins
Of long-abandoned monuments
Lifted in naïveté by some forgotten me.
I make rubbings of opaque glyphs
And hope to decipher my own dead tongue.

Sometimes I’m a hunter,
Pursuing multi-syllabic prey
Across savannahs, through dense jungles,
Glimpsing mottled hides
As they sleekly leap and blur
Amidst the undergrowth and vines.
With luck I finally corner one
And send my bolt whizzing home,
Only to display the prize like a taxidermist,
All vital magic drained away.

Sometimes, though, I’m a child at play
Beneath the autumn trees,
And, oh! the leaves that scatter down
Upon my youthful head:
Reds and golds and burnished browns,
Piling higher and higher
Till, laughing, I can hold back no more
And I dive into drifts
Of perfect words.

(First published in Red River Review
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Dont'chyano?
There are no words
for this:
(The stone's thrown)
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
years have past,
my heart has grown.

milk stains in a coffee cup
still catch my eye.

i remember cabins in woods
with shadows creeping ever closer...

i remember footfalls on stairs with one shoe on, one shoe off...

caught that stone. had a memory of mine i'm sorry i forgot.

missed the word play, the shadows falling slowly over the greatest dually played words of my life.
 
Posted by Unmaker (Member # 1641) on :
 
The stone's throne:
a well-worn depression in the grass
where attendant ants and worms
keep encroaching weeds
at bay.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
A life on pages turned by time and different fingers
left only to the interpretation of
someone else's view of how it really might have been

Dangling, like other articles of speech or
branches of flower bushes growing in a yard
a home for a butterfly just waiting
to spread it's wings and learn to fly.

Regrets are the solid footing for a life lived
more fully once the moments leading up to them are understood.

Angels get their wings everytime
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Consider this road
going nowhere
so quickly,
and you with an Empire apple,
cool from the fridge
and a stick of bright orange
Black Diamond cheddar,
like one of those birds,
moving with certainty
across the land.

[ July 14, 2014, 11:33 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
All roads lead somewhere,
although they might not welcome you.

Apples, oranges
Oil, water
Night, day

Both fruit.
Both hold the rainbow.
Both show the sun's light.
 
Posted by Unmaker (Member # 1641) on :
 
subtle shifts in the
magnetic halo of the
world nudge
birds across the land:

what imperceptible
forces guide you
from kitchen to
sofa to car to wood

and what baroque
organ helps you
sense the soft puffs
of eldritch breath?
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
With tears
we flutter up,
the nest comes down,
we start again
with certainty.

[ July 18, 2014, 01:32 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Tides change,
pulling at times so hard
they almost seem to push
the same push that leads the wind
to gently shove a nest to the ground
leaving their former habitants to give up or
Rebuild, while blinking back tears and accepting
some questions never get answered.

Questions such as how a breath can be caught
in a chest for a time only to be
exhaled while a simlutateous emotion flows down
the cheek that tried to hold it in.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Windblown moments of now hold
three generations of building, building,
Rebuilding
Each build echoing the other long enough
to make it stick.

Storms send sorrow,
Deletion delivers despair,
Hope heals hearts.

Things are what you could buy
with treasures you might have earned
meeting people who mean the most to you.

Hold your breath long enough
to make the exhale matter.
Learn the lay of the land well enough
to remember what matters most
When the time comes to rebuild.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
And when, for me, it wasn’t true anymore,
it was for you, at least that's how
I like to remember (now I can see):
my broad shoulders
and how I would stand there admired and speechless;
who knew the future, the sound of shaving
while saying to myself: “Where did you go?"
and rubbing my face in the mirror--
We vanished together,
into these days and these nights
of shrunken shoulders.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Time away from all things changes them...

Shoulders become more or less broad,
more heavy with burdon,
worn and tired with age.
What they were and could have been doesn't change.

Whiskers are more fickle things...
The day before is easily forgotten with
one flick of the razor.

Time itself is a fleeting thing
where minutes spent lived
become hours reflected upon
(in a mirror or otherwise):

Shoulders are not only for being broad,
They are for leaning against
when only one set isn't enough.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
And so, when a shoulder sags
or shrugs
and whiskers grow long with time

There's a mirror ready -
on the bureau or
above the sink with
recessed shelves hidden behind it
waiting to reflect
what's there today

(with a too long stare,
many of yesterday's memories:
filled with stairs, birds far or near,
echoes of words we once imagined or
believed enough to speak,
shadows growing long,
images of what someday might hold).

A mirror catching moments of now just enough
to remind its subject to place
one foot on a stair step,
the other in a short-lived dream,
the next into tomomorrow

[ August 07, 2014, 09:14 PM: Message edited by: cmc ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
"You can see the fish in this light," beneath the surface. They're just suspended there, above the weeds. Maybe their mouths are open and they're waiting for the current to bring a tasty morsel in, who knows. There's a bunch of rocks too, good spot for fishing.

I'm just tapping the canal's railing with a piece of bark, it'll be a souvenir now. I'm playing a sort of samba with a cold wind accompanying, little flakes of wood flying off all over.

I've lost count of how many steps it's taken to get this far, which is unusual, since I'm a step-counter. There's that dancing wind again.

"I hate walking in circles," you say, "can't we just go back? We'll jaywalk--go back along the canal," which makes a lot of good old crazy sense, given the terrifying perimeter. Backtrack.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
A dam between two lakes holds
28 years of memories for just one family
Heaven knows how many fish have stopped for
a nibble that was just enought to capture the worm or
a big enough bite to become the next fish fry

How many feet have passed across the caged rocks,
the counted logs,
the gated posts...
How many steps did it take for them to
say they made it there
With enough left in them to find that point...
The point that juts out just far enough to jump into the shallow water
The point that sits just high enough to take a stomach and put it in a throat
The point that feels like freedom when
the second foot shoves off with only air beneath it...

Four seconds of wind and a moment of freedom...

Swim to the shore, circle complete.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
There are books that teach their readers
about life laying dormant for years,
Only to come back more suited for the life woken up in.

They're the same as a butterfly,
waiting until the time is right to burst through
the thing they having keeping them comforted, whole, content
Sure enough that this can be the time to become.

Pigeons find food. Milk finds a coffee. Sunset finds the one the sky was painted for. Brian finds a moment for himself. The stairs find another coat of paint. The abandonded car finds a beatnic mechanic with a new project in mind. The cabin in the woods finds hope. The flower pot finds a new bloom. The shoe finds its mate. The writer hopes they find another verse...

Words are only words until someone reads them.
Play isn't play unless the players enjoy it.
This world is only ours as long as we claim it.

For the words, thank you.
For the play, thanks for the lessons.
For the world...

[ August 27, 2014, 10:35 PM: Message edited by: cmc ]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
"No one can hear you
Curse the gods in the forest
When your heart is dark."
(spacepook, 2014)

You'll find yourself asking "Should I go on or turn back?" You shouldn't stay. They'll tell you they heard you come in.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
A ready forest of ever,
your dark heart might be revealed.

Words of contest wake the sleeping minds,
alarm calling out to those who are.

Turn back for complacency of now?
Never.

Stay until the good fight is finished.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
It's the same story.
Windigo, etc.
I thought I saw a black panther way up in the crown of a burned out pine tree. It was probably a bear. But still, it was frightening at that hour, in that place. I should've turned back, worked my way back through the bog but it was too late. A fire had burned this unexpected clearing, this hole in the forest, and I figured the panther reigned over it all; and with the moonrise, I should've turned back, turned away from the burn but instead I began to work my way through the dead trees now impossibly white in the dusk. The panther and I, we vanished together.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Same story.

Every. Time.

Clearings and forests nicely placed aren't nearly
Reality...

With it's shattered dreams.

A life on paper, or pixels, is lived only as far as they reach.

Vanish, or thrive.

Pixels, paper, person.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Find a place with laughter then
hold onto it.

Hold onto it more.

Find a place with whispered stories speaking mostly that
I Love You
even though silly other-words get in the way

Hold on to it.

Find a moment you felt complete then
hold on to it with everything there is to hold on with...

That is the best story.

The story worth repeating.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Matryoshka!
The hollow doll
who opens and opens,
her upturned bells waver
on the kitchen table
until I reach
the heartwood.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Today, well yesterday really,
a man my partner grew up with and
loved and spent summers in places with dams and lakes and so many fish to catch

took his life.

This home has a heaviness settled on it
that probably pales in comparison to the heaviness in
the heart that stopped tonight.

Words can't capture the sadness.
Text can't relay the heartache.

Such a precious thing,
friendship,
life.

Next time, in the Crow's Nest,
on the porch where your name's carved,
the fish will be caught for you...
the moment will be savored for you...

Roger that...
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Spacecraft

-3-

The rocket blasted off. A binary star rose. People were lonely in space. They tried to make friends. They really did. Of course, they told stories, but it didn't matter because in space everything else mattered too much. Who would have guessed? You? Weightless too long, you can barely lift a phaser to your temple.

-2-

He squeezed and nothing happened. He squeezed again, staring with mild perplexity down the crystalline barrel, but this time incinerated his left ear and opened the predictable gaping hole in the hull of the vessel. He had been the last person on Earth to drink a beer by engulfing the top of the bottleneck in his mouth instead of pressing it gently onto pursed and thirsty lips.

-1-

Remember when Colonel Alexis Leonov left the capsule and floated in space for ten minutes at the end of a light line? The general public was greatly impressed by the spectacular and emotional aspect of this sortie into the void. From the loudspeaker his voice crackled: "The vast cosmos is visible to me in all its indescribable beauty; in the black sky the sun shines brilliantly, and I feel its warmth on my face through my helmet window." (And all you remember is how he relaxed in the gardens at Baikonur, a few days before the flight.)

Go.

And so when we open the lower panel, preparing to leave the capsule, drawing ourselves slowly through the air-lock and with a light push moving away from the spacecraft, notice how the small thrust given as we leave imparts a slight angular motion to the capsule; see the vehicle rotating slowly below us; see the heavy door in the open position: perfect.

[ October 24, 2014, 11:33 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Life on Earth seems so ordinary, fractured and overwhelming at times...

-3-

Listen to stories or find a quiet corner to float, weightless. Maybe find a space with lonliness, honest solitude to catch a thought with no reverb, might be nice. The time to find your actual self with no noise, then discover a friend to make with the person you found...

-2-

The mulligan untaken. The beer best left unsipped... Holes in hearts last longer than the one from a bullet.

-1-

Warmth from the sun on a face, no matter the distance between, is a reminder to enjoy a hammock, plant seeds, water early, wear a hat, find shade in mid-day, enjoy now...

Go.

Perfection is an illusion.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
This.

Now.

Not last week or even three years ago.

Now.

Moments of remeber this sock on this foot with no shoe become meaningless when time changes things to

now.

Remeber what it feels like to step in soft, freshly cut grass, look up and see a sky with whispy white clouds, gathering into the ones you want to play with - turning them into shapes you remember...

The shapes change.
Know your destination.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Today at five-thirty a little girl woke up wanting to start the day.

Her mother said - "It's the middle of the night, snuggle in, it's too early for morning" as the sky was still dark and the house seemed to still be sleeping.

She snuggled down to finish the night's sleep in her parents' bed (one dad removed to the couch, one mom removed to an edge of a large bed) which seemed to be much bigger than herself for an hour or so...

When she woke, shaking the sleep and lovely blonde hair from her eyes she said - "I had the best dream. I was in school in space. Remember my Aunt who's M's mom? She was there... sharing me a yellow-orange ball and told me to go play with it. That was a great dream."

Spacecraft sometimes come back to earth.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Years pass like so many blinks of the eye
Involuntary movements

How many years since the moment
the taste of apple juice and graham cracker would be
forever etched into a sensory memory
that comes to mind at the most unexpected moments?

Time stood still

The dreams started again, like moments of
reality linked to the dream and wondering
when morning comes

What just happened.

Just like that.
Blink of an eye.

It's tomorrow.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Years pass like so many blinks of the eye
Involuntary movements

How many years since the moment
the taste of apple juice and graham cracker would be
forever etched into a sensory memory
that comes to mind at the most unexpected moments?

Time stood still

The dreams started again, like moments of
reality linked to the dream and wondering
when morning comes

What just happened.

Just like that.
Blink of an eye.

It's tomorrow.
 
Posted by Stone_Wolf_ (Member # 8299) on :
 
The Robots all drempt of being Human.
The Humans all drempt of being Gods.
The Gods slept and drempt All.
 
Posted by TomDavidson (Member # 124) on :
 
Is that spelling of "dreamt" deliberate?
 
Posted by Stone_Wolf_ (Member # 8299) on :
 
Holy crap I've been spelling AND saying it wrong my whole life.

*mind blown*
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Bright yellow turns summer blonde so quickly...

At seven, you held my captivation,
along with dreams of the tooth fairy,
magic of the twelfth month,
moments of childhood imagination and faith in dreams of tomorrow...

Yes. I will give more, be more, do more. For the tomorrow of believers like you... Yes.

Always.
 
Posted by Stone_Wolf_ (Member # 8299) on :
 
When the Dead Walk the Land,
One must use a firm hand.

A is for Axe, once used in case of fire.
Swing for the head, eye level or higher.

B is for Bat, once used in a game.
Bash in their heads to destroy their brain.

C is for a Crowbar, keep one for good luck.
Don't hit with the spike end or it will get stuck.

D is for the Dead, see how they rise.
If your people go, stab them right through the eyes.

E is for your Ears, use them to hear.
The dead they are hungry & worthy of fear.

F is for Fire, for cooking & heat.
But be cautious at night or the dead you will meet.

G is for Gun, be careful with these!
They are made for killing, just point and squeeze.

H is for Hide, somewhere strong & tight.
If you can't make it home by sunset, stay safe thru the night.

I is for Intestines, the guts of the dead.
Wear over cloths & shamble ahead.

J is for Jab, a short little poke.
Use a sharp stick and it won't be a joke.

K is for Kill, it's what you must do.
All of the dead & the bad people too.

L is for Ladder, a good way to flee.
Get up high where it's easy to see.

M is for Machete, a simple long blade.
Good for the Dead or defending a raid.

N is for Night, a time of great danger.
Be it the dead or be it a stranger.

O is for Observe, keep your wits sharp & true.
You are surrounded by danger whatever you do.

P is for Pit, a big empty hole.
Trap the dead here then kill with a pole.

Q is for Quiet, no yelling, don't cry.
Whisper, no talking or else we'll all die.

R is for Rifle, a two handed gun.
Very loud to shoot, be ready to run!

S is for Safe, barred windows & doors.
Check every space when it becomes yours.

T is for Temple, the side of the head.
Aim right here to put down the dead.

U is for Under Water, a place the dead can go.
Be careful where you swim or you'll join them below.

V is for Vest, armor to stop a gun.
Aim for the face if you need to overcome.

W is for Walls, they must be strong & tall.
If not, the dead will kill us all.

X is for eXist, for this we all fight.
Be ready and watchful all day and all night.

Y is for Yell, a thing you must not do.
Be helpful & calm and we'll all make it thru.

Z is for Zippo, a lighter to trust.
If you need a fire, it is a must.
 
Posted by Stone_Wolf_ (Member # 8299) on :
 
V.2

When the Dead Walk the Land,
One must use a firm hand.

A is for Axe, once used in case of fire.
Swing for the head, eye level or higher.

B is for Bite from the mouths of the dead.
If you get bit, shoot yourself in the head.

C is for a Crowbar, keep one for good luck.
Don't hit with the spike end or it will get stuck.

D is for the Dead, see how they rise.
If your people go, stab them right through the eyes.

E is for Evade, it means to get away.
Whatever you must do, just surive today.

F is for Fire, for cooking & heat.
But be cautious at night or the dead you will meet.

G is for Gun, be careful with these!
They are made for killing, just point and squeeze.

H is for Hide, somewhere strong & tight.
If you can't make it home by sunset, stay safe thru the night.

I is for Intestines, the guts of the dead.
Wear over cloths & shamble ahead.

J is for Jab, a short little poke.
Use a sharp stick and it won't be a joke.

K is for Kill, it's what you must do.
All of the dead & the bad people too.

L is for Listen, use your ears to hear.
For the dead they are hungry and worthy of fear.

M is for Machete, a simple long blade.
Good for the Dead or defending a raid.

N is for Night, a time of great danger.
Be it the dead or be it a stranger.

O is for Observe, keep your wits sharp & true.
You are surrounded by danger whatever you do.

P is for Pit, a big empty hole.
Trap the dead here then kill with a pole.

Q is for Quiet, no yelling, don't cry.
Whisper, no talking or else we'll all die.

R is for Rifle, a two handed gun.
Very loud to shoot, be ready to run!

S is for Safe, barred windows & doors.
Check every space when it becomes yours.

T is for Temple, the side of the head.
Aim right here to put down the dead.

U is for Under Water, a place the dead can go.
Be careful where you swim or you'll join them below.

V is for Vest, armor to stop a gun.
Aim for the face if you need to overcome.

W is for Watch, take turns in the night.
One stays up while the others sleep tight.

X is for eXist, for this we all fight.
Be ready and watchful all day and all night.

Y is for Yell, a thing you must not do.
Be helpful & calm and we'll all make it thru.

Z is for Zippo, a lighter to trust.
If you need a fire, it is a must.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
A moment of *
becomes a
cached moment... echoes of
destiny
forever
etched into moments of now
gifts
holding
insight.
Just breathe.
Keep moving forward.
Let them think things you know they don't.
Make more of these moments of
Now
Only
Peace
Question it all later
Rest when you do.
Someday, this will all make sense.
Thoughts of forever
Under your belt
Vying for their
When.
X is what we solve for
Y is why we do it.
Z is for the restful sleep we might get when we're done...
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
I checked in every direction. Wait.
Nothing.
Nothing.
There's nothing to see. Lots of it.
My spacesuit is broken. Finally.
Is that a star? A supernova? No. It's the glow of a faintly illuminated switch refracted by an ice-crystal. Ice. I doubt it. If I were a scientist I'd know already.
I should never have left my white Cadillac.
Never put on the suit or snapped the helmet into place. Reassured by the hiss of oxygen, I began walking, bicycling my legs in the void, moving (at least) away.
When the stars came to an end I said "Ha! No more stars!" and bicycled onward.
A viewer, a fly on the wall of nowhere, would perhaps say, squinting their eyes, that I appeared "disoriented". Ernest Hemingway, if he could live in empty space and if he too chose to comment might say I were better off dead, like one of those picador's horses whose entrails are dragging along in the sand behind him like a little rocket's plume.
Still no sign of a nothing without no.
God knows we don't have much of anything left at all.

[ October 24, 2016, 09:19 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 
Posted by Risuena (Member # 2924) on :
 
Deerpark - I love that you exist. I'm not always in the mood to read you, and when I do I don't always understand you, but nevertheless I love that you are. Thanks.
 
Posted by PanaceaSanans (Member # 13395) on :
 
This is exquisite.
 
Posted by Lyrhawn (Member # 7039) on :
 
Reposted from the dobie thread:

quote:
Originally posted by Lyrhawn:
quote:
Originally posted by Tatiana:
Are y'all really going to revive the dobie? Really?

It's one of the five Signs of the Hatrack Rebirth.

Once we can collect a dobie, a landmark, a string of deepark poetic posts, 5 spam posts in a day and 5 new members in a month, we'll know the Hatrack Rebirth is no mere illusion.

One down.

Two down.
 
Posted by Derrell (Member # 6062) on :
 
[Hat]
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Future Perfect
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Past Irrevocable
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
He turned and walked over to the ramp and lay down on his back. He straightened his legs and tried to straighten his arms, but they wouldn’t really fit on the plank, so he crossed them over his chest and then became perfectly still. He must have been staring up and listening to the leaves in the oak tree. When the branches swayed in the wind, the leaves, which were green on the top and whitish on the bottom, reflected the sunlight and sounded like water.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
All behind us now.
 
Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The door in between the two rooms of his heart opened and closed and, in heartbeat, a clot slipped out of the kitchen and ran all the way up to the top of calcarine branch of the posterior cerebral artery, where it got stuck on the narrowing staircase, one foot in the attic.
 
Posted by PanaceaSanans (Member # 13395) on :
 
I sincerely hope this does not concern a loved one of yours.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
I’ve missed you, deerpark.
 
Posted by Derrell (Member # 6062) on :
 
Me too.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
This world is one place
I might never understand
Glad I have good Friends
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Whatever happens
You’ve been my very best friend
Ever and Always
 
Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
A mirror appears
Reflections of past lovers
Warn me: "It's a trap!"
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
One mirror, one trap...
I would fall a thousand times
in the case for Truth.
 
Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Deflect laser with
The mirror in my compact
Take the case of gold.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Gold could be Fools’ Gold
learned that a long time ago
Always wait for Truth
 
Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Lies! Only a fool
would fall for such a dumb trick
It's done with mirrors.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Mirrors, they may break.
Find a different Seven
I hold my people.
 
Posted by steven (Member # 8099) on :
 
We’re doing haikus?
Are my syllables just right?
These don’t rhyme, correct?
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Rhyme or reason
Write what’s real
Haiku
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Wake up deerpark27
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
I will always find
You are mine, always
You should bet on that.

Mean it.
 
Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Meant to tell you, love
You will find out soon enough
I am always mean
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
I am the meanest.
On that you can always bet.
Duets can be fun.

(
 
Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Meaningful lyrics,
A tale told by two voices.
Epic drum solo.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
I will still catch you
No matter whatever happens
I like drums also

)
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Dared to have a dream
I’d like to have the best one
You’re picture perfect.

Forever True.
Yeah, I do dig you
I do mean it

[ July 03, 2020, 02:26 AM: Message edited by: cmc ]
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Five golden rings
For seven singing sisters
Don’t know how to do zero things

I remember five flower pots
Climbing up nine steps
Looking to find six coffee cups

Filled with seven creamers
Six of them in the cabin waited for
A bunch of old cars, maybe five
Could have been just one, though

I’m not sure...

~cmc
 
Posted by TomDavidson (Member # 124) on :
 
Is that a phone number?
 
Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Cute lines with intent
Might have a helpful effect
Creating happy feels

[ July 05, 2020, 03:59 AM: Message edited by: Mr. Y ]
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
occasionally
feelings have no words; imper-
fection is just right.
 
Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Creatively poor,
my writings tend to be plain
Can I do better?
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Room for improvement?
We can always be better.
I’d be that with you.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
There is always room
Best is the enemy of
Life lived good enough
 
Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Must keep on trying
Repeated mistakes are bad
You should learn from them
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Take seven hundred
fifty four. Meet you out there
if you can find me...
 
Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Six minutes to eight?
That's early in the morning
I'll set my alarm.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
I’vlways gotcha back
I’d meet you at wherever
Because yer worth it.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
There’s an old kingdom
they have NO idea about
how things are right now.

Wake Up.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
There’s an old kingdom
they have NO idea about
how things are right now.

Wake Up.
 
Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Honestly, I might
just stay in bed and wait for
this madness to pass.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
I’m a fan of that strategy.
 
Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Yet I mostly find,
that after getting started
things are not so bad.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
You’re totally right.
I’ve heard that worry’s best cure
is taking action.
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
There is a movement
Weird... I heard some kind of green
Tell ‘em to piss off
 
Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
remember worldplay?
man, those were some good ole’ days
meh - spilt milk... don’t cry.
 


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