Saturday, October 8, 2011


(Artist unknoun)

I ask for little miniature things,
perhaps imperceptible mythical little zests,

it is because I demand dreams so much...

...taunts of continuance.  

nostalgia for me has always been an orgy of mostly youth, the unending possibility of yet even grander mistakes.... i could crave a few mistakes right now.

I don't know... I've almost always been this way.  Allah of the education I've ever received has not helped me, has not stopped me, has not helped me stop me.

If you can not listen to this piece of music (Rainbirds) for the rest of your life, as it is, non-stop, then please leave me alone... I don't crave poets, only poetry.

As god said, leaning back in his hair:

and as my grey hands
drop a last desperate pen
in some cheap room
they will find me there
and never know
my name
my meaning
nor the treasure
of my escape.
- Bukowski

He could have just as easily ended that poem with the word "scallops" and nobody would have loved it any less... because we are the era of ideology, or not at all.

memory is more than most of us.
dreams are unshared whirlpools.
never empty, never full.

I am also in love with the visions of image, the dreams,
the site of life, the containers,
the seems, bursting,
it seems.

at first,

jesus was probably a woman,
the sacrifice is too much to bear,

12 men followed her,
to share.
one doubted,
one betrayed.
10 stayed.

who cared.

not only was jesus a woman,
she must have been astonishing.

and praised.
and praised.
and shared.