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

September 19, 2015

The Infinite Up Against The Finite, Up Again

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , — namelessneed @ 4:49 pm

After a rain

I have to stand straight

As my back pain

Will let me  and  wait

To take note.

Take it all in,  Breath first.

“Skin second,”  He wrote,

Then Worked to recall.  All by breakfast.

May 11, 2015

SEA FOAM PHANTOMS

very lately

I’ve looked to see

just off a shoulder,

sharp right outside a window,

just off camera,

some one  or thing, I think.

The  There, then not  trick.

Here I’ll see it

here I’ll see it for what makes sense.

Y’see, I’ve evidence.

sea foam phantoms

left a belated beat back

just after this wave sweeps back.

I don’t think it’s drink

or the hours I should sleep or

all the private pranks I

fall for.

I’ll envision these

(facts)

green sea black deep.

April 25, 2015

Seaside Outlook Bench

SEASIDE OUTLOOK BENCH

April 25, 2015

bonita 14 011

Down near  out of waiting, or out of lord’s luck

Down on their seaside outlook bench

Grown  men  searching

Aim down for sombre storming

Strict on the straight sea

“Comfort me”/ “Come for me”

& Sure more  in ecclesiastical clenches

& More  in a chimerical clutch

Love’s  fanciful  watch

February 11, 2015

SHUNNING CLASSICAL INVESTIGATION

It’s meant to be  a pair of documents,

Y’see, But I signed both.

.

Caught, I could  share   the clench

He put on that  pair of documents.

.

Bright lights washed this whiteish room.

The solemness thing   a candle brings,

Though I searched,  all the shadows had no shade in this room.

.

We digressed some away from

the heart of the matter

When he stressed  my stories were

fog & mirror

.

I’m sure I concurred  that if

Scenes and factors shift

From tellings to retellings,

It seems the fact is  seems shifty.

.

“But plainly, a  planned  lie,

A tall Alibi, that had ironclad  unchanging,

Mimicry! is one word for word bed story,

Read to children.

.

Isn’t that one good bet

That wins & sets the liar free”

.

I think he let it sink in, and then set.

.

“And you expect me to reject

Classic casebook investigation technique

& instead of  doubting inconsistency,

Instead ..One consistent story

Is a tell tale “good bet”

for Guilty?  And yet,

changing ones tune again & again  is uniquely

Honest?   it’s best to revise to clarify..

As one more clearly

recalls  new  old  details?

Just as pieces of night dreams

Resurface  into..Really??!”

.

“Um, yes.”

January 17, 2015

AND AN ADDLED, SAD MAN SAID

It’s unsafe for you too

Assume  We’re leaning

Into Leaving

(an intangible caress)

I lean into

The careening custody  of my mess.

December 15, 2014

“CHRISTMAS IN PRISON” by John Prine

It was Christmas in prison and the food was real good
We has turkey and pistols carved out of wood
I dream of her always even when I don’t dream
Her name’s on my tongue and her blood’s in my strings

Wait a while eternity
Old Mother Nature’s got nothin’ on me
Come to me, run to me, come to me now
I’m rollin’ my sweetheart
I’m flowin’ by God

She reminds me of a chess game with someone I admire
Or a picnic in the rain after a prairie fire
Her heart is as big as this whole goddamn jail
And she’s sweeter than saccharine at a drug store sale

Wait a while eternity
Old Mother Nature’s got nothin’ on me
Come to me, run to me, come to me now
I’m rollin’ my sweetheart
I’m flowin’ by God

The search light in the big yard turns ’round with the gun
And spotlights the snowflakes like the dust in the sun
It’s Christmas in prison there’ll be music tonight
I’ll probably get homesick, I love you, Good night

Wait a while eternity
Old Mother Nature’s got nothin’ on me
Come to me, run to me, come to me now
I’m rollin’ my sweetheart
I’m flowin’ by God

.
John Prine
.

December 8, 2014

MEDITATIVE/ Kafka’s “The Way Home”

The Way Home

by Franz Kafka
Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir

See what a persuasive force the air has after a thunderstorm! My merits become evident and overpower me, though I don’t put up any resistance, I grant you.

I stride along and my tempo is the tempo of all my side of the street, of the whole street, of the whole quarter. Mine is the responsibility, and rightly so, for all the raps on doors or on the flat of a table, for all toasts drunk, for lovers in their beds, in the scaffolding of new buildings, pressed to each other against the house walls in dark alleys, or on the divans of a brothel.

I weigh my past against my future, but find both of them admirable, cannot give either the preference, and find nothing to grumble at save the injustice of providence that has so clearly favored me.

Only as I come into my room I feel a little meditative, without having met anything on the stairs worth meditating about. It doesn’t help me much to open the window wide and hear music still playing in a garden.

December 4, 2014

PHANTASMAGLORIOUS

Oh  my

Secret mission is to dream  the dreams

That  visionarys  fly

.

Balthus/ Chagall/

Dorothea Tanning/

I see Cecily Brown/ Karen L. Darling/

Munch/ Klimt/

& Sol Halabi/

Falk/ & Kobliha/

Lars Elling/ I have Kanevsky/

.

Fevered Maddening  among jungles

Fervid colorings sing

These are a few of my favorite things

October 31, 2014

HALCYONDER

This  season

The storms  staid off

Or didn’t  set in

I needn’t pack  sand bags

Nature spared me  the necessity

To save myself from flood

Anyway

September 30, 2014

“When You Lift The Avacodo To Your Mouth” by Troy Jollimore

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , — namelessneed @ 9:01 am

When You Lift the Avocado to Your Mouth

What matters is that when you lift the avocado to your mouth
you bend all your senses toward it, yet
allow a sliver of its flavor to escape
your lips—not into the muffled ether
of radio static that deadens the air
around us, but into the nearly real lips
of those who have gone before us, the pale
blue shadow-forms of the ancestors
who no longer have bodies to touch or to taste with,
to sing or to fuck with, but who still recall
what it is to touch or taste or sing or fuck
and who long for it and, in their longing, attach
themselves to the living, incarnated ones,
in the hope of feeling, once more, by a process
that must be mostly imagination, some spark
of sensation, the thinnest, outermost layer
of the experience of hearing the ocean,
of watching the moon rise over a city,
of kissing a woman, of stroking the fur
of a cat as it stretches to meet your palm,
of holding a pen, of smelling the pine-scented
breezes at dusk, of gazing deep into
a fire, a well, the eyes of a lover,
of tasting a teardrop, of tasting avocado.

—Troy Jollimore, The Believer, June 2012

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