Crunch

Jardin de Luxembourg, Paris. October 2010.

Did they die verse unwritten or did they refuse to have themselves strait-jacketed into form, into structure, how much of a leaf do you truly admire outside the canopy of the tree, or do you find verse in its free fall, its cascade into the heap that gets swept away, billowing into playful clouds and then melt into dust, until the next season of appearance, an appointment you are never fully aware of, that chances itself upon you, like that half glimmering side of the suncatcher that you happen to pass by, that for a fraction of a moment glints your eye, and you think what was that sparkle of light, the sun? It was attention that thing we fall short of, like the beauty we reflect upon in hindsight, like the cool shade of the canopy of the tree, and never the leaf or its veins in itself, it is the legion of recollections that flood in, billowing into playful clouds and then melt into dust.

(Penned Nov 9, 2013)

Small talk

Bobs in own's keg of brine. Here a regret, there a lost love, a piece

of pride chewed on, unraveling string of childhood self, a life of

kites and bicycles, like mirror shards, a broken top, favourite gum,

page torn off a book, yellowing letters, all pickled bits, cast away

one memory at a time.

A packed room, chink of ice to crystal, only the finest trend in the

luxe will do, all deep words and hollow eyes, darting slow and

cursive, a shadow in the now, yes it gets as interesting, as a fly on

a sugar cube, or an empty subway with its twinkling lights at

midnight.

Oh the allure, swagger, free association, entices as much as an onion

shell, whirling to the breeze. Human pickle, bottled in your skin, you

are stacked on shelves by the dozens.

A relic maybe. Prized? A matter of opinion. Vintage? There're better

specimens in museums of the world.

That travels not

Lovely gift of gleaming green, outside the rain, without water, soft and thriving, jumping hoops, snares and kind words, a little resting, little cajoled, every which way discoursed, very welcome - winsome suggestion, not every arrow, bee, lost horse, heads where pointed. Load the lode, your map a dot. Flight foregone, is loss of journey. 

(Penned Fri, Apr 19, 2013)

Circuit Breaker

The circuit

Blogged on, Friday, August 27, 2010 at 9:54am ·

Version: Medium-Rare
_

There are some things among some of us that we have common.

You'd either know what I'm talking about or it may just go wasted. Either which ways, let's begin.

It takes us time, effort and inclination to explain to people what we do and why we do what do and how it impacts who and when, somewhere in the macro scheme of things.

Our parents may not understand what exactly we do or what keeps us awake in the middle of the night. Anything that takes more than 10 seconds to explain to the relatives is a bit of a bother.

Most of us are classic conditioned, borderline OCD cases, damaged irreparably. Those beyond the border OCD, wait to welcome us on the other side.

Our (non-air kissing) social life is confined to commuting hours. We are thankful to have a social life. Ditto for commuting hours; possibly since it allows for the former.

Our friends 'on the circuit' speak the same minimalistic language. Raised eyebrows, knowing smiles, nodding glances, supportive shoulder pats.

Our friends off the circuit wonder what the constant state of the big fuss is all about and tell us to get a life.

We are terribly guarded, perhaps not so much by baggage or biases but rather out of habit.

A history of political correctness ensures that we can’t really *talk* talk to just about anybody and everybody.

We especially enjoy our silences. When we have them.

Our personal accomplishments, however mediocre, are milestones and our world rejoices with “Alleluia!” Our professional accomplishments, however remarkable, are hygiene and yea, whatever.

We know we'd be most appreciated, at a point in time that we fervently hope ourselves, never arrives that we truly be needed.

We catch up only over whatever allows for generous doses of caffeine or alcohol. These are particularly less tedious if we speak the same language.  

Those who nurture us inspite of our scrolls of damnation can never be venerated enough for their large-heartedness, patience and compassion.

Our dream break is trotting off to see the world, getting all scratched and muddy in green forests or sunning like mudskippers across beaches, preferably over more alcohol.

What we truly need however, is to be heavily sedated and laid to rest with our ears underwater.

-

Image source is here

@TylerKnott

16-bit Intel 8088 chip (Charles Bukowski, 1985)

with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can't read each other's
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can't use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and
flounces before his
hens. 

Source is here

Image source is here

 

Meanwhile, elsewhere...

"Gore Vidal has died: "As societies grow decadent, the language grows decadent, too. Words are used to disguise, not to illuminate, action: you liberate a city by destroying it. Words are to confuse, so that at election time people will solemnly vote against their own interests." At The New York Review of Books, Charles Simic reflects on Aurora. The Atlantic reports on one poet worrying about information overload in 1821. The Poetry Foundation has announced the long list for the Ruth Lilly Fellowships. Suicide Girls interviews Anne Carson. And Gore Vidal has died."

Source: The Boston Review

Image source is here 

Things to worry about

On August 8th of 1933, author F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote the following letter of advice to his 11-year-old daughter, "Scottie," who was away at camp.

La Paix, Rodgers' Forge
Towson, Maryland

August 8, 1933

Dear Pie:

I feel very strongly about you doing duty. Would you give me a little more documentation about your reading in French? I am glad you are happy — but I never believe much in happiness. I never believe in misery either. Those are things you see on the stage or the screen or the printed pages, they never really happen to you in life.

All I believe in in life is the rewards for virtue (according to your talents) and the punishments for not fulfilling your duties, which are doubly costly. If there is such a volume in the camp library, will you ask Mrs. Tyson to let you look up a sonnet of Shakespeare's in which the line occurs "Lillies that fester smell far worse than weeds."

Have had no thoughts today, life seems composed of getting up a Saturday Evening Post story. I think of you, and always pleasantly; but if you call me "Pappy" again I am going to take the White Cat out and beat his bottom hard, six times for every time you are impertinent. Do you react to that?

I will arrange the camp bill.

Halfwit, I will conclude.

Things to worry about:

Worry about courage
Worry about Cleanliness
Worry about efficiency
Worry about horsemanship
Worry about. . .

Things not to worry about:

Don't worry about popular opinion
Don't worry about dolls
Don't worry about the past
Don't worry about the future
Don't worry about growing up
Don't worry about anybody getting ahead of you
Don't worry about triumph
Don't worry about failure unless it comes through your own fault
Don't worry about mosquitoes
Don't worry about flies
Don't worry about insects in general
Don't worry about parents
Don't worry about boys
Don't worry about disappointments
Don't worry about pleasures
Don't worry about satisfactions

Things to think about:

What am I really aiming at?
How good am I really in comparison to my contemporaries in regard to:

(a) Scholarship
(b) Do I really understand about people and am I able to get along with them?
(c) Am I trying to make my body a useful instrument or am I neglecting it?

With dearest love,

Daddy

P.S. My come-back to your calling me Pappy is christening you by the word Egg, which implies that you belong to a very rudimentary state of life and that I could break you up and crack you open at my will and I think it would be a word that would hang on if I ever told it to your contemporaries. "Egg Fitzgerald." How would you like that to go through life with — "Eggie Fitzgerald" or "Bad Egg Fitzgerald" or any form that might occur to fertile minds? Try it once more and I swear to God I will hang it on you and it will be up to you to shake it off. Why borrow trouble?

Love anyhow.

Source is here 

Image source is here 

A ware

There are windows, by which we pass, by chance in passing, a brief moment, lost in the landscape, or in the weather, and the thief of time becomes the knave of hearts, a gentle cloud of forgetfulness, drifting by, whispers sweet nothings, stay with us, everything melts, the lotus eater's clock of Dali, he sees everything, you in that dark, misty corner, at the lost end of the world, in a haze, tilting over your toes, into the grey looming chasm of open arms, is it Samothrace, her whiff of revival, a new waking, a mouse squeak, a third eye, remember, remember, remember what you love. 

(Penned Thurs, July 12, 2012)

Image source is here 

La mia prima poesia italiana

Siete i benvenuti a mia casa

C'e' dove,
La tua candela si scalda sempre
il cuore del focolare

(Penned June 27, 2012)  

Image source is here