Writer's block's been squared away -- temporarily, as always -- but brush strokes now cut a swath pointillist on minuscule canvases, bits of cardboard hacked from a box. And I, plenty of I, which is fine, here & head & home. Universal statements aren't mine, but grand in a selfish sense & best kept shrinkwrapped save inside where things need no embarrassing gloss. The verse is enough.
Amanuensis
No artist's blade summons the smell of andante
round stormwracked branch & volleyball nets.
A no sky soul under spell of blue sky,
upper respiratory ailing with pneuma --
dirty breaths agitate to make
tactile the recklessly flecked icon.
Canopy hot as Thera that thorned
lions to defy veneration, heart of sulfur
searching meridians for relief crests over
the breakwall of the quotidian things.
Cerulean foam beautiful & terrible moves
sprawling puppet whited with salt, hit
by a fifty foot wave's sensual thought
worth a penny or ten. Washed up
on green incense, I believe in
ataxia, welcome uranium & lead. I believe
everything can be equally quotidian, here. Seen
on the wing, the El Dorado of fools
who cut the grass slow,
who take this in stride when the sun says go.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Flying high again
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16 comments:
So you got high cutting the grass again?
More power to you, says I.
~
Stay away from the bad weed and you won't be bothered with ataxia.
I wish I could write like you, but I had a Catholic education and we were too busy learning Latin to get to the creative writing stuff.
Graves, you swine!
You are not a literary or artistic assistant, however, you might be a sous-chef at Famous Ray's.
Regards,
Tengrain
if, everyone always assumes the illicit. I'm just high on life, man.
nunly, 13 years of Catholic education here, so your excuse flies not high.
tengrain, no daily special for you. Full price.
"I believe in ataxia"
Just when I think everything that can be said or written has been said or written before, here comes Randal with a breakthrough statement I'm sure no one has ever made or will ever make again.
I wanted to escape from Witch Mountain but I could not, the sludgy blues held me fast.
I believe in this Ataxia:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rSTgycueLD0
and I can actually somewhat explicate this (practice does make perfect)
SWA, oh, you realists & your quaint literalism.
karl of the österreich, if Hendrix had a doom side project, this is what I picture them sounding like.
thatgirl, rock and/or roll! I recall you posting one of their tracks before at your place & it was good. I should pick up the two.
The verse?
I like some of your other ones better from a totally noncompositional gut reaction standpoint, but this one's good, scurvie alchymie created out of the scenery of every day is always a good thing.
Hmm, I might dig this one a bit more - 'tis not entirely a nature thing, gloss begone, though mostly composed whilst tending the vast acreage - but this is why I enlist (read: punish) the Peonage for third party commentary.
Writer's Block -- I hate when that, uhh
Rock on Dude!
hey... listen... I gotz nuttin to say... but have you a spare beer or two?
A penny or ten for a thought? Come now we know they go for at least a buck. Inflation you know.
I enjoyed your poem much more than the results of my drawing today. Continue with cutting the grass slow and smoketh not.
tom, just think -
BB, don't be bogarting those corn chips, man.
okjimm, beer? moi? vino!
demeur, you assume I didn't mean British pounds.
susan, if I can elicit something half as swanky as one of your drawings, I'll have accomplished something.
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