My body is a torn mattress,
Disheveled throbbing place
For the comings and goings
Of loveless transients.
The whole of me
Is an unfurnished room
Filled with dank breath
Escaping in gasps to nowhere.
Before completely objective mirrors
I have shot myself with my eyes,
but death refused my advances.
I have walked on my walls each night
Through strange landscapes in my head.
I have brushed my teeth with orange peel,
Iced with cold blood from the dripping faucets…
My legs are charred remains of burned cypress trees;
My feet are covered with moss from bayouts, flowing
across my floor…
“
| — | Would You Wear My Eyes, Bob Kaufman |
Just a Note; April 8, 2013
I don’t know my life
only music n’ strides
don’t know my friends
just trendy fights
don’t know emotion
without low n’ high
don’t know no family
but emphatic cries
Don’t know my strength
don’t know my size
I don’t know my poetry;
don’t know if it lies
don’t know mathematics
or scientific prize
don’t know nothing
or why I have pride
I don’t know my lover
just fling springed spice
don’t know what to know
so I know my vice
I don’t know no feeling
since feeling don’t survive
I don’t no nothing
that I did last night.
Our story begins on a sunday afternoon
Just between halfway tree and spanish town
Where a young boy
Not yet the cock o’ the walk that he would soon become,
Was lying on the grass and takin’ in the sweet and sensuous scent of hibiscus
That languidly lilted along the summer breeze
Honey, when it comes to love
There’s a fire in the deep bend of my heart
Givin’ me the heeby-geebys
You see
I know the land of wood and water is
Merely fooder for the loves slaughters
And darling, I’ve watched you cake walk to the immaculate conception
For far too long
“
| — | Devendra Banhart |
Just a Note; April 6, 2013
Bashful
cold
strange
old
tattered
wild
indelibly
folds
vintage
pepper
stone-souled
leather
Watch me
dance
trampled
treasure
You may never see home again. Loneliness is your bread. Your bones may turn up someday in some riverbank mud. It grants freedom, expansion, and release. Untied. Unstuck. Crazy for a while. It breaks taboo, it verges on transgression, it teaches humility. Going out—fasting—singing alone—talking across the species boundaries—praying—giving thanks—coming back.
“
| — | Survival and Sacrament, Gary Snyder |
Human beings themselves are at risk—not just on some survival-of-civilization level—but on the level of heart and soul. We are in danger of losing our souls. We are ignorant of our own nature and confused about what it means to be a human being.
If we are here for any good purpose at all (other than collating texts, running rivers, and learning the stars), I suspect it is to entertain the rest of nature. A gang of sexy primate clowns. All the little critters creep in close to listen when human beings are in a good mood and willing to play some tunes.
“
| — | Practice Of The Wild, Gary Snyder |
Just a Note; April 5, 2013
I watch unfamiliar faces drool, waiting to feel special, and turn my head down to mud-stained tiles. Conversations resonate in my head, in others heads, in the walls, on the floor, but silently dissipate under delusional dynamic.
.
My legs shake, and I can’t help but think someone notices, and then they shake more. My stomach sinks into paranoia. I leave for some air.
.
Regaining composure, I head back to the room, and after drinks, everyone can pretend they care what everyone’s saying. And maybe pretend thoughts will turn into real thoughts through placebo. And maybe not.
.
Smoke bellows out my lungs, eyes, ears, cock, mouth. Dry-gagging in the name of good time. Building bridges in the name of progress. Loving in the name of loneliness…
Just a Note; April 3, 2013
Take me home
to deep-laked pine
riding garden ledge
long since tended.
.
Past city-light
cosmic smog, past
muttering engine
groans, past spare
time idly spent.
.
Take
me home to poetry
read ‘round fire to
minds lost in
stars. To summer
breeze, to winter
oasis. To silent con-
versation, to warm
smiles. To the top of
towering rocks
we lay, jump, run,
scream, whisper,
laughing at any car
driving by.
.
Here we
are home, but this
home is not any place.
It’s in our dreams, in
heart, in the uncon-
scious. Here, for always
and forever.
So the blue mountains walk to the kitchen and back to the shop, to the desk, to the stove. We sit on the park bench and let the wind and rain drench us. The blue mountains walk out to put another coin in the parking meter, and go down to the 7-Eleven. The blue mountains march out of the sea, shoulder the sky for a while, and slip back into the waters.
“
| — | Practice of the Wild, Blue Mountains Constantly Walking, Gary Snyder |
Just a Note; April 1, 2013
Bend back brittle wings to fact proof
any ‘angel’ coming
your way.
.
Curse suspicious smiles
to the ground. Disprove
transcendence! Maybe that would
make you feel better.
.
Read prestigious segments from
books already in agreeance with
your distinguished sword.
.
Look onto civilization, onto man, vast
with wonder, full o’ love, sacred in
beauty. Then tell me how you treat the
ones you know specifically.
.
Build me a bridge. The longest,
the strongest, the boldest
ever built. Then show me
the next suicide hot-spot.
.
Sing me a soft song coated with
caramel relevance. Then sing me one
you wrote.
.
Show me the lessons, the grand-
mother wisdom of the world. Explain
it to me in secluded night-time
wood-walks. And then leave me in
the darkness.
.
Write your stories, defensively
on point, and please tell me you
cried when truth rang free.
