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

May 8, 2017


Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 10:19 am

I’m  ripe  with  dereliction

My repast  still  strewn out before me

I’ll lap seeds from fruit eden fronts me

Though I’ll stick slow to my sloth….my depiction

April 12, 2017

Gethsemane, by Mary Oliver

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 10:01 am



Gethsemane, by Mary Oliver

The grass never sleeps.
Or the roses.
Nor does the lily have a secret eye that shuts until morning.
Jesus said, wait with me. But the disciples slept.
The cricket has such splendid fringe on its feet,
and it sings, have you noticed, with its whole body,
and heaven knows if it ever sleeps.
Jesus said, wait with me. And maybe the stars did, maybe the wind wound itself into a silver tree, and didn’t move, maybe
the lake far away, where once he walked as on a
blue pavement,
lay still and waited, wild awake.
Oh the dear bodies, slumped and eye-shut, that could not
keep that vigil, how they must have wept,
so utterly human, knowing this too
must be a part of the story.

March 27, 2017

“BURDEN” ( Lesson From Bergman’s “The Seventh Seal”)

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 4:01 pm


March 22, 2017

Birthday Tribute

Filed under: music, poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized — Tags: , , , — namelessneed @ 12:52 pm

It’s likely/ It could be

That when Leonard Bernstein,

At his piano bench…

It was very late when he,

In a creative trance,

Had opened an envelope

From a Mr. Stephen Sondheim,

And started to work on

A musical phrasing for

“There’s a place for us”,

He eyedropped a gold teardrop

Into a test tube, & heaven reacted,


& now can make me ache

20,000 late nights after






Happy birthday, Mr.Stephen Sondheim

March 10, 2017

No Verse

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 11:15 am

Since the day before Donald Trump’s inauguration, filmmaker Ethan Coen (brother to Joel) has been a writing politically-tinged poems as a blogger for the Huffington Post, penning articles such as “Be Fair!“, “Wasn’t Wanted,” and my personal favorite, “Oh Where Did Your Balls Go, Paul Ryan?” (His bio reads, “Ethan Coen is a totally overrated filmmaker. Sad!”)…

via Ethan Coen for Poet Laureate of the United States! — Flavorwire

March 3, 2017

Knocking On A Locksmith’s Door

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 11:48 am



I need to knock on a locksmith’s door.

It’s trying   on my entrance in

It has me hammering   for him,

The  man outside, stands right in a stance

On his  home mat.

My security windows live up to their damn claim.

Cats perched there can watch me.

I Calmly curse in the rain,

Calm for keys  that Mercy sees

Cures to unlatch me.



March 1, 2017


Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 11:56 am




“The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of true art and true science.”
Albert Einstein, The World As I See It

February 25, 2017


Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 11:17 am




The Danes have hygge, the sense of coziness that helps propel them to to the top of all those happiness rankings. The Swedes have, um, Ikea. But in the ranking of trendy Scandinavian exports, Finland’s coming in hot: Introducing kalsarikannit, a Finnish term that roughly translates to “drinking home alone in your underwear, with no intention of going out.”

As my colleague Melissa Dahl has written for Science of Us, there’s a certain satisfaction that comes with putting a name to the highly specific emotion you’re experiencing — like ilinx, French for “the strange excitement of wanton destruction,” or torschlusspanik, a German term for the panicky sensation of time running out. With kalsarikannit, the Finns have given us a similar gift: You’re not just being too lazy to make plans. This is your plan. You’re doing something, and that thing has a name, and that name is kalsarikannit-ing.

Or something like that, anyway. “Is it a noun? A verb? Does one kalsarikannit, or does one take a kalsarikannit?” a Chicago Tribune writer wondered. It’s not totally clear, but according to its description on Finland’s list of country-specific emoji, the concept may best be understood less as an activity and more as a state of mind. (Other emoji, in case you were wondering, include a sauna, “the original Santa,” and, weirdly, a headbanger, the last of which is helpfully captioned with this fun fact: “There are more heavy metal bands in Finland per capita than anywhere else.”)

The beauty of the whole thing, though, is that when you’re drunk in your underpants, it’s just so hard to be bothered about whether or not you’re using it right. As the Tribune put it: “Who cares, frankly — turns out my house has been a temple to kalsarikannit this entire time.” That’s the kalsarikannit spirit.

                                                                                                                          – Cari Romm

January 17, 2017

Baldwin on the presise role of the artist

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 12:17 pm

The precise role of the artist, then, is to illuminate that darkness, blaze roads through that vast forest, so that we will not, in all our doing, lose sight of its purpose, which is, after all, to make the world a more human dwelling place.”

JAMES BALDWIN The Creative Process

December 27, 2016

From author Jim Crace’s “Quarantine”

Filed under: fragments, prose, visions — Tags: , , , — namelessneed @ 5:40 pm

“After his boyhood years of study at the temple school, steadying the scroffs and holding down the parchments beneath the pointing fingers of the priest, Jesus had learned to match up some of these Aramaic shapes to sounds–the little candelabra of the letter sha, the lightening strike of enn, the falling plough sign of the kaoh. He liked the places on these parchments where scribes were changed. The one who’d stitched his way across the page with wary, threadlike marks passed on his verses to the playful and untidy  one who led his muddy sparrows leave their tracks in undulating lines. Then came the scribe whose writing always toppled backwards, as if the meanings to the words were riding faster than the shapes which soon would fall on to their spines.

“This was a happy ignorance for jesus, only knowing a dozen words amongst so many thousands. He would not want to read as easily as scholars, he told himself, for that would only help to split the meaning from the sound, to divorce the music from the shape. If he could read like his priest could, by simply dragging the forefinger underneath the script and speaking every word he touched as if these were not verses but an endless rote of errands to be run, then the scriptures might become little more than strings of tiny tasks, a list. There’d be no mystery. But in his ignorance, he could both listen to the words of the reader and marvel, too, at the unspoken narrative of shapes, or concentrate not only on the script but also on the spaces in between. God was in the spaces, he was sure. God went to the very edges of the page.”

Author Jim Crace, from “Quarantine”

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