Honestly, I'm a Liar, & Other Balances & Imbalances

December 19, 2018

How to Abide on Queue / G. Paul Randall

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 12:56 pm

be calmer than an earlobe
but alert to subtle sound
quiet as a muscle twitch
as sterling as a pound
be lofty like the heavens
as consistent as a judge
unattached as fleeting clouds
be disinclined budge
reflective like a polished tile
be brighter than a flame
stoic as a VP’s portrait
valid as a claim
right like rain, and true as grit
determined as a dog
be quiet like a bell rope
and well rested as a log
be patient as a telephone
and sounder than a ring
stiller than a sheeted corpse
but proper, like a king
be ready like a boxer’s glove
for when they call it out
a name upon the intercom
it’s you, there is no doubt




November 23, 2018


Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 5:25 pm

providing that my night’s POV,
(incited & incensed,
advancing instances of
ghosts and guesses,)
doesn’t reach ridiculous,
might you see me assembling a way…
tonight’s sweeping trick of keeping
trembling at bay.
Always, again.


.I’ll pretend to care about Everything
If you’ll see that I freely can
Call out to nothing in the way, an’
Call out to nothing in the wind.




“No, no, no, no! Come, let’s away to prison.
We two alone will sing like birds i’ th’ cage.
When thou dost ask me blessing, I’ll kneel down
And ask of thee forgiveness. So we’ll live,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales”
from “King Lear”

November 19, 2018

j u n k l e

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 1:51 pm

It’s not only at night
One ought to be quiet
So as not to .startle
A sleepwalking man
So you stay still
Mostly I still do
I wouldn’t awaken
A sleepwalking man
He’s steering past scenery
He’s deaf to the dreadful din
It’s as if imbedded in him
An old ghost holes up
And mostly he still goes
All lost.
He’s explosive
World wrecking
But mostly he’s expecting
All lost.





October 30, 2018


Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 10:34 am



I  can  do  candor

My favorite secret

Reads & takes stock

On a Miami-lime rocker

Far, on a Vermont autumnal

Calendar’s glossy next month’s

Promissy  call.







“There’s a red house over yonder/ That’s where my baby stays..” -Jimi Hendrix

October 29, 2018

Arte ombrosa…

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 10:12 am

IL MONDO DI ZORYANA ...dove l'amore inventa il suo infinito...

arte ombrosa...

Nel mio mestiere o arte ombrosa

praticata nella notte quieta

quando solo la luna s’infiamma

e gli amanti riposano a letto

con tutti i dolori nelle braccia,

il mio lavoro è cantare la luce

non per ambizione o pane,

non per vanagloria o commercio di incanti

su impalcature in avorio

ma per il modesto salario

del loro più segreto cuore.

Non scrivo per l’uomo orgoglioso

che si ritrae nella furia di luna

su questo zampillo di pagine,

non per i morti che torreggiano

con i loro usignoli e salmi

ma per gli amanti che abbracciano

i dolori di tutte le età,

e non offrono lodi o compensi

incuranti del mio mestiere o arte.


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September 21, 2018

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 9:16 am






September 10, 2018


Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 4:19 pm


August 6, 2018

nobody but you By Charles Bukowski

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 3:33 pm

Ars Poetica

nobody can save you but
you will be put again and again
into nearly impossible
they will attempt again and again
through subterfuge, guise and
to make you submit, quit and /or die quietly

nobody can save you but
and it will be easy enough to fail
so very easily
but don’t, don’t, don’t.
just watch them.
listen to them.
do you want to be like that?
a faceless, mindless, heartless
do you want to experience
death before death?

nobody can save you but
and you’re worth saving.
it’s a war not easily won
but if anything is worth winning then
this is it.

think about it.
think about saving your self.
your spiritual self.
your gut self.
your singing magical self and
your beautiful self.
save it.
don’t join the dead-in-spirit.

maintain your self
with humor and grace
and finally
if necessary

View original post 31 more words

May 28, 2018

Ursula LeGuin Weighs In

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 6:23 am

May 20, 2018


Filed under: dream, DREAMS, fragments, lost, prose, stream of consciousness, surreal, Uncategorized, visions — Tags: , — namelessneed @ 10:53 am


Grand Hotel Sousse

Sousse Monday, March 15, 1920

This Africa is incredible

. . . Unfortunately, I cannot write coherently to you, for it is all too much. Only sidelights. After cold, heavy weather at sea, a sparkling morning in Algiers. Bright houses and streets, dark green clumps of trees, tall palms’ crowns rising among them. White burnooses, red fezzes, and among these the yellow uniforms of the Tirailleurs d’Afrique, the red of the Spahis, then the Botanical Gardens, an enchanted tropical forest, an Indian vision, holy acvatta trees with gigantic aerial roots like monsters, fantastic dwellings of the gods, enormous in extent, heavy, dark green foliage rustling in the sea wind.

Then thirty hours by rail to Tunis. The Arab city is classical antiquity and Moorish middle ages, Granada and the fairy tale of Baghdad. You no longer think of yourself; you are dissolved in this potpourri which cannot be evaluated, still less described: a Roman column stands here as part of a wall; an old Jewess of unspeakable ugliness goes by in white baggy breeches; a crier with a load of burnooses pushes through the crowd, shouting in gutturals that might have come straight from the canton of Zurich; a patch of deep blue sky, a snow-white mosque dome; a shoemaker busily stitching away at shoes in a small vaulted niche, with a hot, dazzling patch of sunlight on the mat before him; blind musicians with a (hum and tiny three-stringed lute; a beggar who consists of nothing but rags; smoke from oil cakes, and swarms of flies; up above, on a white minaret in the blissful ether, a muezzin sings the midday chant; below, a cool, shady, colonnaded yard with horseshoe portal framed in glazed tiles; on die wall a mangy cat lies in the sun;ia coming and going of red, white, yellow, blue, brown mantles, white turbans, red fezzes, uniforms, faces ranging from white and light yellow to deep black; a shuffling of yellow and red slippers, a noiseless scurrying of naked black feet, and so on and so on.

In the morning the great god rises and fills both horizons with his joy and power, and all living things obey him. At night the moon is so silvery and glows with such divine clarity that no one can doubt the existence of Astarte.

Between Algiers and Tunis He 550 miles of African soil, towering up to the noble and spreading shapes of the great Atlas range, wide valleys and plateaus bursting with grapes and grain, dark green forests of cork oak. Today Horus rose out of distant, pale mountains over an unending green and brown plain, and from tie desert there sprang up a mighty wind which blew out to the dark blue sea. On rolling, gray-green hills yellow-brown remains of whole Roman cities, small flocks of black goats grazing around them, nearby a Bedouin camp with black tents, camels, and donkeys. The train runs into a camel which cannot make up its mind to get off the tracks; the beast is killed; there is a great running up, shrieking, and gesticulating of white-clad figures; and always the sea, now deep blue, now hurting the eyes with its glitter in the sunlight. Out of olive groves and palms and hedges of giant cactus floating in the flickering, sun-shot air rises a snow-white city with divinely white domes and towers, gloriously spread out over a hill. Then comes Sousse, with white walls and towers, the harbor below; beyond the harbor wall the deep blue sea, and in the port lies the sailing ship with two lateen sails which I
once painted!!!!

You stumble over Roman remains; with my cane I dug a piece of Roman pottery out of the ground.

This is all nothing but miserable stammering; I do not know what Africa is really saying to me, but it speaks. Imagine a tremendous sun, air clear as in the highest mountains, a sea bluer than any you have ever seen, all colors of incredible power. In the markets you can still buy the amphorae of antiquity things like that and the moonlll! . . .~Carl Jung; (Memories Dreams and Reflections; Pages 371-372.)


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