Eine Woche später gibts dann das Aufeinandertreffen von Pornohacienda, PingPongPussyParty, Mashup und WeLoveBass im Schaf.

Wie war das nochmal mit dem Sommerloch?

someday, life will be less confusing and Lonely no more,
Love will be abounding, overflowing onto the floor.
like a Child on the playground, my heart will be finally free
to find you, my love, the Man I want for me.

so know that no matter Where you are, near or far
my love is fully yours, I give you my Heart
but I’ll keep it for Myself until you show your face
and then, in Your heart, I shall claim my place

Naked but Not

Scales of darkness fall
from brown irises black
pupils long dilated contract
stark honest brilliance illumines
flaccid flesh now stretched
taut over skeleton sinews
toiling muscles convulse tearing
tight tissue raw beneath
dead layers sloughed aside
till naked but not
skin flaunting bones I
see myself revealed whole
less and more.

I got such

savage licks with Styx

from an unpaid ferryman.

I just asked the horsemen

where I should stand

to see the apocalypse

of the sun.

It seemed to eclipse them.

Pharoah feared the portent showing,

Brightly in the evening sky.

Though the priests were wise and knowing.

None could tell if they would die.

Comet passed and was forgotten.

Egypt turned its face to sun.

Four millennia after Pharoah,

Comet made its great return.

Hale and Bopp foresaw its coming.

Told of its celestial route.

Dirty snowball, bright and glowing,

Spread its tails across the sky.

Intruder in the night sky showing,

Who knows what, to you and I.

From a higher source though, some knew,

What the comet tail contained.

Those thirty nine took steps so fateful,

Leaving through, closed heaven's gate.

Even though some might pursue it,

Seeking truth, or hope, or peace.

Our snowball is just cold and rocky.

Swirling round dark, empty space.

Farewell comet on your journey,

See you when you're next around.

I’m free!!!  Free to do as I like, to shape the world at my whim.  I say people have purple heads because people in my world have purple heads.  I say red is white and green is obscene, all because this is my world, my prose planet, my written utopia.  There are no constants, what is now is not so then and what was once is no longer for I, myself, am a chameleon, ushering in a righteousness of change.  What I want changes from day to second.  What I wish, however, is unending.  What I desire is not like anything I know, it is an ever present, always static freedom.  In that freedom I find myself and I find you.

The ebb to my flow the nexus of my being, but I decree this notion to be false.  That such a person is to simply exist, that such a completion is possible, that I am to be fitted with you in a manner that suggests perfection or unity.  I reject the notion for you are not real and I am not here.  I reject the notion on merit that you complete me.  I leave the burden of proof upon you for I am too vain to assume such a vanity of truth, for I am Socratic and I am questioning.  I am abundant and I am real.  I am loving and I am true.  I am here now, and all I want is you.  All I want is you.  All I want is you.

All I want is you to be near.  All I want is you to be real.  All I want is for the words that utter from your lips to be decent and unassuming.  All I want is for your faith in me to translate into my faith in me.  I want you to begin where I end, I want you to be eternal.  I want nothing more than you.  It is so simple at times.  All I want is nothing more than you, whoever you are.

There is no ending, nor suggestion;
to the meaning, that
it was the right thing to do:
after all, I was just on the lam

©Dean J. Baker

March 1976
Athens, Greece

Anyhow, the whole point is that I am going to post it, bear with me if it's weak, applaud me if you like it or even just blankly read it and accept it's novice spirit.  Word.

me duele tu amor ya intransitable
la presunción de la infidelidad
y que elijas tu realidad sin utopías

http://fernando-sabido.blogspot.com

*

Galway's reading last night was indeed packed, and in fact we had to turn people away at the door because we'd reached our maximum capacity. Some folks had wisely come very early to stand in line, but the tardy were out of luck. The Collected Poets Series committee works really hard to present these free poetry readings, so while we're sad anybody missed out, I think it's great when an overflow crowd shows up for poetry!

Galway read wonderfully, of course, and shared the "stage" with his 2 grandchildren for one poem as they provided the refrain -- "Ha ha! Ha ha!" I think it was. They did a great job. He took a break about halfway through to take questions, preferring that a reading end on poetry, not poetry chatter. He was funny, self-deprecating, and once again displayed his proclivity for endless revision: as he read one poem, he stopped, trying to decide which version to read, the one on the page or the one in the margins. He decided, when he was done, that he probably had read us the lesser "revisioning." I can't imagine many writers confessing that!

He closed, as I will this post, with this short poem:

Prayer

Whatever happens. Whatever
what is is what
I want. Only that. But that.

.............

Today My Mother Died

July 28, 2008 by Maynard G. Krebs

“Today my mother died. I love that line. Camus. The Outsider. He doesn’t sound too upset. Like him and his mother were on some kind of formal relationship. Who calls their mother – mother? Shouldn’t it be mom? Or if you were really upset – mommy? Like you’ve reverted to some infantile emotional state. Like I don’t think Camus had to write the rest of his book. It was an afterthought. Could have just been that one line. Like who was Mrs. Krebs? How would I know? Maynard is a fictional character. From a television show. I don’t know who I really am. Don’t get me wrong. I like being Maynard. He has a kind of nerdy innocent charm about him. But he has no history. And without a history, are you really a human being? Like if you don’t have a memory. Are Alzheimer patients human beings? They are like characters on television shows. Never changing. Never affected by their surroundings. Never changed by the ongoing events of their lives. Always caught in the present. Like flies on sticky paper. My shrink knows who I am. He’s told me a thousand times. But I don’t listen. Doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s like he picked out a name in the telephone book. What difference does it make? Maynard pleases me. Except the mommy business. I miss her. She was my best friend. For so long. I can still remember her smell. Lilacs. And it bothers me that I will die some day. And not really remember her. Not remember her dieing. Not remember saying goodbye. Like she never existed. Like I never existed. Which in fact is true. I hate that. That expression, which in fact. Like the bible. Politicians love to use it.”

Reading my verses, I liked them so well,
Self-love did make my judgment to rebel.
Thinking them so good, I thought more to write;
Considering not how others would them like.
I writ so fast, I thought, if I lived long,
A pyramid of fame to build thereon.
Reason observing which way I was bent,
Did stay my hand, and asked me what I meant;
Will you, said she, thus waste your time in vain,
On that which in the world small praise shall gain?
For shame, leave off, said she, the printer spare,
He'll lose by your ill poetry, I fear.
Besides the world hath already such a weight
Of useless books, as it is overfraught.
Then pity take, do the world a good turn,
And all you write cast in the fire, and burn.
Angry I was, and Reason struck away,
When I did hear, what she to me did say.
Then all in haste I to the press it sent,
Fearing persuasion might my book prevent.
But now ’tis done, with grief repent do I,
Hang down my head with shame, blush, sigh, and cry.
Take pity, and my drooping spirits raise,
Wipe off my tears with handkerchiefs of praise.

~ Margaret Cavendish

The Pie and I

Conversations at a sidewalk café---
Pieces of sentences, disparate syllables,
Lives I'll never know.
People breeze past, seeming purposeful---
Friday night,
On their way somewhere,
Having waited all week
For this brief moment that is almost certain to disappoint.
I smell their liberally applied perfumes and colognes
And my warmed strawberry pie.
A small flower bed on the corner
Offers a sweet, organic fragrance
As the wind sweeps over it.
I am vaguely aware of
Glasses clinking, forks hitting plates,
Cars passing, birds whistling.
A laugh from inside the café,
The loud rumble of a motorcycle.
A cell phone chirps.
A woman's voice sings on the radio,
Barely perceptible,
Then gone,
As a convertible passes.
Car tires squeal in an absurd hurry.
To go where?
I wonder, in this little town
With so little culture.
This place, I think, is likely the best part of it,
As the night invents itself.
The show is that
There is no show.
The entertainment is that
Life is happening
And we get to hear it, smell it and even taste it,
Though the strawberry pie
Is just a memory now.

*To "see" the poem, as visually interpreted by a friend, go here: http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&VideoID=13198294

Pillow tucked, and laid back on unwashed sheets.

Expectant.

I’ve rowed seas and oceans just to be here tonight.

Then you let me down, with your badly drawn face.

Pillow tucked, and the light is dimmed.

Expectant.

I’ve moved mountains just to see your skin.

Then you let me down, with your lipstick smear.

Pillow tucked, and I change position.

Expectant.

I’ve crossed deserts just to kiss your face.

Then you let me down, with your sticky mascara.

Pillow tucked, and I change position.

Expectant.

But I’ve done too much already, surely.

Then you let me down, gently.

I paused when I saw you there

And thought you were unique,

Lipping a scented  lilac bush

Along Old Willow Creek.

Your spotted fawn was suckling then,

Milk staining one small cheek --

A lasting portrait in my mind,

Along Old Willow Creek.

What karma led me to that spot

When everything seemed bleak?

For the day then shouted beauty

Along Old Willow Creek.

I knew I did not dare intrude

And surely should not speak,

But I yearned to stroke you gently,

Along Old Willow Creek.

I watched until your tiny fawn

Bedded down in sleep,

And then I slowly backed away,

Along Old Willow Creek.

9/10/93  -   Phyllis DeWitt -VanVleck

4'th ... Arkansas NPD 1993

5'th ... Sparrowgrass 1994

I will not play at tug o'war.
I'd rather play at hug o'war,
Where everyone hugs
Instead of tugs,
Where everyone giggles
And rolls on the rug,
Where everyone kisses,
And everyone grins,
And everyone cuddles,
And everyone wins.

by Shel Silverstein from Where the Sidewalk Ends

Written 7/7/08
© 2008 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.

Stumble It!

Effort 1:
No thoughts to think
No eyes to blink
No prayers to pray
No words to say
No tears to cry
No air to sigh
Nothing to be said
Everything just feels so dead

And then also this one:

I heard the blade
Too late she prayed
Didn't turn around
It's song was sung
The damage done
Not enough time to run

And btw, in case someone was actually interested, the girl I was fighting with and I made peace. Thankfully.

How this life ends in the split of a second
no time we get, our mistakes to mend.

How unaware are we of our mortality
lost are we in this wold's virtuality.

How much do we really care about our hereafter
we are lost in the creations of our Creator

How amused by this perishing world are we
we have to learn to steadfast and believe

Oh Allah (SWT) my eyes are wet and heart sore
help me Oh Allah (SWT) my faith to restore

********~~~~~~~~~~~~******************