. “If I were just careless and began to have the conversations with myself

if I were a blank page of time

a page of time

that everyone around was folding

so everyone all around just kept folding

parts of me all around up

downs and ups and ups and downs

soft little rips
of visions of morning

WHICH MORNING?

ALL THE ENDLESS MORNINGS AND

ALL THE ENDLESS VISIONS OF THEM ALL

IN

C

utting delirium out

love is not even

little bits of shredded papers

WHO SAYS?

HE

SAID IT SO.

in any way and sleeping through that or the invitations to,

all strange men and woman having conversations

and having conversations

all kinds of conversations and all of them kind of

all of the conversations beginning to be had all

at once in swift ecstatic rotation

spinning and spinning and spinning

feet

flickering off feet flickering the fuck off for what seems an eternity for what is only three minutes really

until sinking to the knees.

the reason i called is to tell you about my dream I had a dream of you last night. Did you. Yes you were this old Indian guy standing on the back porch
and there was a pail of water there on the step with a drowned bird in it--
big yellow bird really huge you know
floating with its wings out and you leaned over and said, Come on now
get out of there--and you took it
by one wing and just flung it right up into the air WHOOSH it came alive
and then it was gone.

LOVE IS A FOG THAT BURNS WITH THE FIRST DAYLIGHT OF REALITY

.



.

an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth
but anyway i told the truth

.
Charles Bukowski's definition of LOVE

.
Don't sing love songs...

.

cute one in the sun

Gullivera y O Palhaço

.

O Palhaço

Gostava só de lixeiros crianças e árvores

Arras trava na rua por uma corda uma estrela suja.

Vinha pingando oceano!

Todo estragado de azul.

Gullivera

La mujer más alta de la ciudad es seria

y muestra una sonrisa perversa a deshoras

cuando ofrécete un bombón que otro regaló

cuando gravita las cosas al rededor

y dice ‘liliput yourself in your little place’

No sabe la mujer más alta de la ciudad

que la altitud puede ser un peligro

y que tienes ardiles para coger seres así

¿pero para que tú quieres capturarla

si puedes tenerla sin suelo solo aire?

.

but enough is enough.

Cantiga para nao morrer (Ferreira Gullar)

Quando você for se embora,
moça branca como a neve,
me leve

Se acaso não possa
me carregar pela mão,
menina branca de neve,
me leve no coração

Se no coração não possa
por acaso me levar,
moça de sonho e de neve,
me leve no seu lembrar

E se aí também não possa,
por tanta coisa que leve
já viva em seu pensamento,
menina branca de neve,
me leve no esquecimento




.

foto via this one here

the truth of the erotic event can only be found by those who abandon themselves to the risks of emotional intoxication.

-simone de beauvoir (more or less)

echoes in form

.










.

.


it is what flows between us that is dangerous

and that, though beautiful,

has bombed the world.



.



your mother and i want you to know

that love has taught us nothing

outside of its own terrific force

which though we have withstood it

has only

cracked us open

and made us spill

out.


.




waits

son.

it is in the design of what i have called love

to not be able to be completed.

it is this incompleteness

that has brought about the spillage

and leftovers that for millions

of years perpetuated the world

and it is this selfsame

incompleteness

incontinence if you will

that will end it


waits


very shortly, son,


waits





shortly,

shortly now

.




...
Ariana Reines



.

.

I don't know no love songs,
and I can't sing the blues any more.
But I can sing this song,
and you can sing this song
when I'm gone.


.

.


...where absent is present and now can include then without ceasing to be "now"



.

this woman is amazing

Take Away Show #100 _ SOEMA MONTENEGRO (part 1) from vincent moon / temporary areas on Vimeo.

SLEEPWALKS

.

ONE THOUSAND TEARS OF A TARANTULA


SLEEPWALKING THROUGH THE MEKONG

.

"Women of Troy"

You were the green pastures of Ilium
You are the crumbling theaters of Troy

you can fall

take it to pieces

Yesterday I smoked the placid lake

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . s a i l bo ats cr as hing

. a ll their little swarmings

threw them more tomorrow

I woke

I went

I drank

I went

I kept walking

I reached


I told myself


I came

I thought of you,

¡Oh!

¡You!

/ desperate delirium gushing / / / / / / / / / / / /

Julia Kristeva quotes Mayakovsky on his experience of rhythmic rapture:

""""""

'"

''"

'''""""

“Rhythm: “I walk along wordlessly interrupt

trimmed poetic work

. . siren raining . .

sun

“there is tornado”

my dress my head

Half way through the garden

harder

I pulled some of the broken ones one after the other

desire

the dangers of living

o

wanting/looking

Us Tomorrow

.

.

I AM THERE WHILE YOU CHOKE ON ME

Show me
To my
I meant
Your kinda chocolate

TEN AM IS WHEN YOU COME TO ME

LOUISE BOURGEOIS

HEART AND SOUL NEBULAS

.

...

Nameless for Millennia

the Venus of Willendorf was figurative

first and foremost,

a figure of the ripe fat flesh folds:

On the first night, he told her,

“You smell like a cookie.”

Her embouchure pushes through and the focus of her gaze intercepts breath.

“How I want to bite you.”

See the sand colored dunes that drift and shift and cover grasses with rolling, spreading motions.

See the accumulation

and the rondure of the hills,

soft curvature,

totality of rotation that comes under the pressure of a flat palm pushing down.

I see the moon

and its tenderness has tilted me.

I see the moon and its face turning towards me,

turning off to infinity,

turns its face to face me

turns away to infinity.

Funnels her river there, the current leaks tide

her nipples peaking from the water's bed

dip between the rustling grasses.

A soft hand parts where the mud feels cold

slits the silt open like an envelope,

wet folds with tongue

are pressed firmly to send her off and away.

Corporeal undulations echo over eternity.

However,

the thread of her corn rowed head

is a hand basket afloat in oblivion.

Even at the party, nameless, navel gazing,

he asked her, “so what is it with the constant self-reflexivity thing?”

Her gaze focused on the fat lady's thighs.

He called her Venus as if she'd been missing for millennia.

.

If you love the sea by Terayama Shuji

If you love the sea


There are those who love the sea, and yet the sea is not a lover
The Sea is "La mer," in French, a feminine noun.

Whatever you write
upon water
will eventually
disappear.


However,


I am a poet who writes upon water.
I write love on water.


Even if the poems I write on water
disappear
each time I return to the sea,
I recall love.

And she shows you where to look Among the garbage and the flowers

And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning

THE STORY OF THE FIRST GRASSHOPPER

Francesco de Mura
Aurora, goddess of the morning and Tithonus, Prince of Troy Unknown
Museo e Gallerie Nazionali di Capodimonte, Napoli


IN a country that is far away there once lived a young man called Tithonus. He was strong and beautiful. Light of heart and light of foot, he hunted the deer or danced and sang the livelong day. Every one who saw him loved him, but the one that loved him most was a goddess named Aurora.

Every goddess had her own work, but the work of Aurora was most beautiful of all, for she was the goddess of the morning. It was she who went out to meet the sun and to light up his pathway. She watched. over the flowers, and whenever they saw her coming, their colors grew brighter. She loved everything beautiful, and that is why she loved Tithonus.

"Many a year have I roamed through this country," she said to herself, "but never have I seen such bright blue eyes as those. O fairest of youths," she cried, "who are you? Some name should be yours that sounds like the wind in the pine-trees, or like the song of a bird among the first blossoms."

The young man fell upon his knees before her. "I know well," said he, "that you are no maiden of the earth. You are a goddess come down to us from the skies. I am but a hunter, and I roam through the forest looking for deer."

"Come with me, fairest of hunters," said Aurora. "Come with me to the home of my father. You shall live among my brothers and hunt with them, or go with me at the first brightness of the morning to carry light and gladness to the flowers."

So it was that Tithonus went away from his own country and his own home to live in the home of Aurora.

For a long time they were happy together, but one day Aurora said, "Tithonus, I am a goddess, and so I am immortal, but some day death will bear you away from me. I will ask the father of the gods that you too may be immortal."

Then Aurora went to the king of the gods and begged that he would make Tithonus immortal.

"Sometimes people are not pleased even when I have given them what they ask," replied the king, "so think well before you speak."

"I have only one wish," said Aurora, "and it is that Tithonus, the fairest of youths, shall be immortal."

"You have your wish," said the king of the gods, and again Tithonus and Aurora roamed happily together through forest and field.

One day Tithonus asked, "My Aurora, why is it that I cannot look straight into your eyes as once I did?" Another day he said, "My Aurora, why is it that I cannot put my hand in yours as once I did?"

Then the goddess wept sorrowfully. "The king of the gods gave me what I asked for," she wailed, "and I begged that you should be immortal. I did not remember to ask that you should be always young."

Every day Tithonus grew older and smaller. "I am no longer happy in your father's home," he said, "with your brothers who are as beautiful and as strong as I was when I first saw you. Let me go back to my own country. Let me be a bird or an insect and live in the fields where we first roamed together. Let me go, dearest goddess."

"You shall do as you will," replied Aurora sadly. "You shall be a grasshopper, and whenever I hear the grasshopper's clear, merry song, I shall remember the happy days when we were together."

aurora and tithonus

Love

— era um mundo de se comer com os dentes, um mundo de volumosas dálias e tulipas. Os troncos eram percorridos por parasitas folhudas, o abraço era macio, colado. Como a repulsa que precedesse uma entrega — era fascinante, a mulher tinha nojo, e era fascinante.

-Clarice Lispector

Clarice was tiny. She stood only two or three feet tall. She had little golden curls that spilled in tendrils around her face and her face was the face of a cherub, plump and rosy. She did appear so that everyone always had the same thing to say when seeing her for the first time, “oh. You are sweet,” and they truly believed and they were surprised when she spoke: “is that your computer?” her sharp, child’s finger pointing at the woman in the bank who blinked in a way that made her eyelids widen and her eyeballs switch to the other side of her head.

Clarice was tiny because at that point she had only been in the world for a few years. Clarice’s parents took her to the beach. They took Clarice to the beach all the time. The water was a dull turquoise. The red tides cluttered the white sand with broken shells and washed up stars. They dressed her in a blue suit with pink and orange ruffles that floated up around her fat cherub thighs when she sat in the thick, salty water. She was thirsty. She was a jellyfish caught in a hot little tide pool left at noon, abandoned by the sea momentarily until it came to lap her back up again, to rock her in the waves with all of the other fishes instead of drying out alone underneath the sun. She wanted so badly to drift about in that ocean.

silly to forget what is sittin in your own backyard

Katherine Ann


A poor poet
divining Gail

The baby looked toward me
and I was born—
to sound, light
lift, life
beyond my life

She wiggles her toe
I grow
I go to school to her
and she to me
and to Bonnie




Poet's work

Grandfather
advised me:
Learn a trade

I learned
to sit at desk
and condense

No layoff
from this
condensery












My Life by Water

My life
by water—
Hear

spring's
first frog
or board

out on the cold
ground
giving

Muskrats
gnawing
doors

to wild green
arts and letters
Rabbits

raided
my lettuce
One boat

two—
pointed toward
my shore

thru birdstart
wingdrip
weed-drift

of the soft
and serious—
Water

*

Far reach
of sand
A man

bends to inspect
a shell
Himself

part coral
and mud
clam






Lorine Niedecker lived in Wisconsin.



.

because everybody steals lilacs...

Once upon a time two young girls were living one of those summers when it feels like everything is either setting itself free or setting itself on fire. They felt the ocean of time and the wide blue sky splayed like a massive patchwork quilt of possibility squeezing past the seams of their dreamcrusted vision and treading in the black pools of their pupils. They stole flowers and ate them as if they wanted to become what petals are made of.

and now the forest grows between us....

“Y la incertidumbre es la formula del Nuevo lenguaje."

i adore my sisters:



she says this:

"What're you doing?
I don't know
What do you mean, you don't know?
I mean that's what I'm doing"


I really like Fernanda Laguna's work:


see her flickr stream here: Fernanda Laguna

I've been reading and thinking about Fernanda Laguna's text "Bailemos igual". It is one of a few of her stories in an anthology of "young argentine writers" published by Eloisa Cartonera in 2007. Its a story narrated by Dalia Rosetti (Laguna's literary alterego). Everything is pink and rosy. There are fans and autographs and dancing and delicacies paradisiacos. As Dalia writes her name on the body of a young woman the woman drops a strawberry bomb of an idea on the dance floor:

“Ella había pronunciado un nuevo hechizo. Bailemos igual, con o sin música, de eso se trataba, de bailar. No de juzgar o de disfrutar por gusto, sino de hacer porque sí.”

"She had cast out a new spell. Us dancing regardless, with or without music, this was what things should be made of, of dancing. Not to judge it or to enjoy it for pleasure, but for doing it just to do it, just because.”

and so Dalia asks us (the readers):

“¿Qué les parece? Hasta el “todo bien” era una frase hecha y realmente a ella no le importaba si yo estaba junto a ella o si no. Alaska me tenía atada. Yo, de otra generación, estaba prendida a su, no se cómo llamarlo, ¿Sin sentir? ¿Sin gustar? ¿Sin reaccionar desde el deseo?”

"So what do you think?"

"I, from another generation, was caught up by her, I don't know what to call it, senselessness? tastelessness? lack of reaction from desire?"




"L'humeur est-elle un langage?"

"On the frontier between animality and symbol formation, moods--and particularly sadness--are the ultimate reactions to our traumas. For it is true that those who are slaves to their moods, beings drowned in their sorrows, reveal a number of psychic or cognitive frailties, it is equally true that a diversification of moods, variety in sadness, refinement in sorrow or mourning are the imprint of a humankind that is surely not triumphant but subtle, ready to fight, and creative . . ." - Julia Kristeva, Soleil Noir





bailemos igual?

my name is you

micropoemas de ajo

tomoyasu murata is still my HERO

small crushed poememe

1.

deshacerse (o la tigresa)

miles de inútiles besosabrazos digitales,

we behold many small folds of skirts gathering and pleated,

paper crane kaleidoscopes que se están desmayando por tanto twisting,

bare feet brown from back and forth of pacing,

the wild tiger thrashes at encagement

growls forgotten and collapses

coastlines of architecture, undanceable, u n da nc es

la miramos and she is pelted by our gazes

.

I got caught in a storm That's what happened to me So I didn't call And you didn't see me for a while

For the past five years or so I have been listening to Lhasa de Sela sing, her smokey voice drifting like a tendril from my stereo into my ears: I wandered around the world, took off in airplanes, saw the clouds roll by, walked for hours with nothing but bare tree branches and her voice in my head, in my eyes. I think I always start to see the world in the color of the music that I hear.

I just found a link to a video from her last album:



After listening to this heartbreak of a song, I was floored and I wanted to hear more so I went to her website. There, it struck me to read that she had died of breast cancer at the beginning of this year, January 1st, 2010.

And isn't it strange and wonderful how music, songs, films, thoughts, words, people, conversations, and such and etcetera come together at times and seem to make a cohesive sense to your heart of hearts when it is in a moment of bottomless confusion, angustia, crisis, trembling at the edge of where it will not run out into the words that we desperately use as we try to find relief, release from the pressure, that's when some one offers us a song.

You find yourself having a cup of tea with a man old enough to be your grandfather, but he is a man out in search of love again nonetheless, despite everything, eyes wandering, a gentleman. He wears an ivory, glittery, feathery cake shaped hat. His shirt has flowers and shiny buttons. You tell him that you like it. He says he'd hoped you would.

And he said to me, "every opportunity presents itself in this life, you just have to be open to it." And I watched him skeptically. His eyes deep wells of wisdom, were they? Or, is it easy to say such a thing once you are on that end of life, once you have made it to the other end? Is it easier to say that it is all there for you, that life was and is always giving.

Abundance. Joy.

You just have to keep your ears and your eyes and your mouth and your heart open?
In spite of it all?

Llhasa de Sela...I never met you, I never saw you, I do not see you, I will never meet you.

But I can still hear you,
and I am still listening.


.

Haiku

Haiku Michael Shouflikir

Via OCCHIATA



Ignotum mare

Eliott

Links:

Cosmos and Culture Blog

SETI

Old NUNU article about Peter Pilotto

Tavi


.

berlin

moons and stars.

Norman Laliberté and Joseph Pintauro: The Rainbow Box

I am going to try to find this at the library on Monday....

Pintauro is an author, Laliberté is an illustrator. They collaborated on this box of books in 1970.

images via The Snail and the Cyclops and studiosmith