December 8th, 2003
11:42 am - i forgot about it here...sometimes i forget alot
so....what happens now?
here i am....myself again. almost at an instant.
got off the plane and greeted by a shocking amount of voicemail and phone calls.
got here safe>?
home yet?
when do i see you?
how do you like the snow?
ive missed you.
smiles and smiles and smiles. more smiles as i stepped into puddles and slipped and slid all over the sidewalks.
almost forgot how to walk in the snow. almost forgot how to cross the streets and on what street cinderella falafel was on.
almost forgot how beautiful it is this time...and how amazing the people look.
the smell of the subway..and the little mice found crawling in and out of the tracks.
forgot the feeling of being crowded...always...but then you finding yourself on some cold and lonely street..and you are alone again...a walk through the park.
a phone call saying he will be late....so where do you go? the L always takes a while. he is coming from greenpoint...i give him 30 mins.
easy...that little bar on 7th st and 1st ave. the one by the market and the neon lights.
she wasnt surprised to see me.
her hair had gotten longer. she gave me that face she always does and took my hands. warmed them up real good.
and kept on talking to that man. she is always talking to someone. and its always something interesting. and i just stood there looking at her the way i do.
finally...i get to have my jojo.
then a good kiss on the forehead and some talk.
what will you be drinking.
cranberry juice
no way..i see san francisco has changed my lil susu
no. im just trying not to drink too much..and its early jo.
that face.
asmile.
and more talk.
just move back.just move back. justmove back.
damn it all...i dont know what to do.
Current Mood: confused
Current Music: brian eno...
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
KP Poetry Journal Volume 1
Kunstprojects "Oh, Don't Get Carried Away" is first of a series of Berlin Based Journals, compiled and edited by artist Declan Rooney and featuring commissioned work from:
Are Blytt
http://www.areblytt.org
Stefano Calligaro
http://www.hardfolk.it
Hsiao Chen
http://www.worksfromthebalcony.com
Sujey Lee Colon
http://powdersofgold.blogspot.com/
Drawing Guts
http://www.myspace.com/drawingguts
Edward Eke
http://www.edwardeke.com
Edvine Larssen
Thurston Moore
http://www.ecstaticpeace.com
http://www.sonicyouth.com
Donata Rigg
Ama Saru
http://www.worksfromthebalcony.com
Antonio Serna
http://www.resource.muserna.org
Susanne Winterling
http://www.susannewinterling.de
Limited Edition of 200
Black and White Photocopied Zine
29.5 x 21cms
5.00 euros (excluding postage and packaging)
To order please contact: info@kunstprojects.com
Are Blytt
http://www.areblytt.org
Stefano Calligaro
http://www.hardfolk.it
Hsiao Chen
http://www.worksfromthebalcony.com
Sujey Lee Colon
http://powdersofgold.blogspot.com/
Drawing Guts
http://www.myspace.com/drawingguts
Edward Eke
http://www.edwardeke.com
Edvine Larssen
Thurston Moore
http://www.ecstaticpeace.com
http://www.sonicyouth.com
Donata Rigg
Ama Saru
http://www.worksfromthebalcony.com
Antonio Serna
http://www.resource.muserna.org
Susanne Winterling
http://www.susannewinterling.de
Limited Edition of 200
Black and White Photocopied Zine
29.5 x 21cms
5.00 euros (excluding postage and packaging)
To order please contact: info@kunstprojects.com
Friday, May 1, 2009
Cocaine Lil and..
Cocaine Lil and Morphine Sue by W. H. Auden
Did you ever hear about Cocaine Lil?
She lived in Cocaine town on Cocaine hill,
She had a cocaine dog and a cocaine cat,
They fought all night with a cocaine rat.
She had cocaine hair on her cocaine head.
She had a cocaine dress that was poppy red:
She wore a snowbird hat and sleigh-riding clothes,
On her coat she wore a crimson, cocaine rose.
Big gold chariots on the Milky Way,
Snakes and elephants silver and gray.
Oh the cocaine blues they make me sad,
Oh the cocaine blues make me feel bad.
Lil went to a snow party one cold night,
And the way she sniffed was sure a fright.
There was Hophead Mag with Dopey Slim,
Kankakee Liz and Yen Shee Jim.
There was Morphine Sue and the Poppy Face Kid,
Climbed up snow ladders and down they skid;
There was the Stepladder Kit, a good six feet,
And the Sleigh-riding Sister who were hard to beat.
Along in the morning about half past three
They were all lit up like a Christmas tree;
Lil got home and started for bed,
Took another sniff and it knocked her dead.
They laid her out in her cocaine clothes:
She wore a snowbird hat with a crimson rose;
On her headstone you’ll find this refrain:
She died as she lived, sniffing cocaine
indeed.
Did you ever hear about Cocaine Lil?
She lived in Cocaine town on Cocaine hill,
She had a cocaine dog and a cocaine cat,
They fought all night with a cocaine rat.
She had cocaine hair on her cocaine head.
She had a cocaine dress that was poppy red:
She wore a snowbird hat and sleigh-riding clothes,
On her coat she wore a crimson, cocaine rose.
Big gold chariots on the Milky Way,
Snakes and elephants silver and gray.
Oh the cocaine blues they make me sad,
Oh the cocaine blues make me feel bad.
Lil went to a snow party one cold night,
And the way she sniffed was sure a fright.
There was Hophead Mag with Dopey Slim,
Kankakee Liz and Yen Shee Jim.
There was Morphine Sue and the Poppy Face Kid,
Climbed up snow ladders and down they skid;
There was the Stepladder Kit, a good six feet,
And the Sleigh-riding Sister who were hard to beat.
Along in the morning about half past three
They were all lit up like a Christmas tree;
Lil got home and started for bed,
Took another sniff and it knocked her dead.
They laid her out in her cocaine clothes:
She wore a snowbird hat with a crimson rose;
On her headstone you’ll find this refrain:
She died as she lived, sniffing cocaine
indeed.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Louise Bogan
Words For Departure
Nothing was remembered, nothing forgotten.
When we awoke, wagons were passing on the warm summer pavements,
The window-sills were wet from rain in the night,
Birds scattered and settled over chimneypots
As among grotesque trees.
Nothing was accepted, nothing looked beyond.
Slight-voiced bells separated hour from hour,
The afternoon sifted coolness
And people drew together in streets becoming deserted.
There was a moon, and light in a shop-front,
And dusk falling like precipitous water.
Hand clasped hand
Forehead still bowed to forehead--
Nothing was lost, nothing possessed
There was no gift nor denial.
2
I have remembered you.
You were not the town visited once,
Nor the road falling behind running feet.
You were as awkward as flesh
And lighter than frost or ashes.
You were the rind,
And the white-juiced apple,
The song, and the words waiting for music.
3
You have learned the beginning;
Go from mine to the other.
Be together; eat, dance, despair,
Sleep, be threatened, endure.
You will know the way of that.
But at the end, be insolent;
Be absurd--strike the thing short off;
Be mad--only do not let talk
Wear the bloom from silence.
And go away without fire or lantern
Let there be some uncertainty about your departure.
August 11, 1897 - February 4, 1970
Nothing was remembered, nothing forgotten.
When we awoke, wagons were passing on the warm summer pavements,
The window-sills were wet from rain in the night,
Birds scattered and settled over chimneypots
As among grotesque trees.
Nothing was accepted, nothing looked beyond.
Slight-voiced bells separated hour from hour,
The afternoon sifted coolness
And people drew together in streets becoming deserted.
There was a moon, and light in a shop-front,
And dusk falling like precipitous water.
Hand clasped hand
Forehead still bowed to forehead--
Nothing was lost, nothing possessed
There was no gift nor denial.
2
I have remembered you.
You were not the town visited once,
Nor the road falling behind running feet.
You were as awkward as flesh
And lighter than frost or ashes.
You were the rind,
And the white-juiced apple,
The song, and the words waiting for music.
3
You have learned the beginning;
Go from mine to the other.
Be together; eat, dance, despair,
Sleep, be threatened, endure.
You will know the way of that.
But at the end, be insolent;
Be absurd--strike the thing short off;
Be mad--only do not let talk
Wear the bloom from silence.
And go away without fire or lantern
Let there be some uncertainty about your departure.
August 11, 1897 - February 4, 1970
Friday, April 3, 2009
Walt Whitman
And now a little collection of poems by Walt Whitman........enjoy.
Hast Never Come to Thee an Hour.
HAST never come to thee an hour,
A sudden gleam divine, precipitating, bursting all these bubbles, fashions, wealth?
These eager business aims—books, politics, art, amours,
To utter nothingness?
Ah Poverties, Wincings and Sulky Retreats.
AH poverties, wincings, and sulky retreats!
Ah you foes that in conflict have overcome me!
(For what is my life, or any man’s life, but a conflict with foes—the old, the
incessant
war?)
You degradations—you tussle with passions and appetites;
You smarts from dissatisfied friendships, (ah wounds, the sharpest of all;)
You toil of painful and choked articulations—you meannesses;
You shallow tongue-talks at tables, (my tongue the shallowest of any;)
You broken resolutions, you racking angers, you smother’d ennuis;
Ah, think not you finally triumph—My real self has yet to come forth;
It shall yet march forth o’ermastering, till all lies beneath me;
It shall yet stand up the soldier of unquestion’d victory.
As At Thy Portals Also Death.
AS at thy portals also death,
Entering thy sovereign, dim, illimitable grounds,
To memories of my mother, to the divine blending, maternity,
To her, buried and gone, yet buried not, gone not from me,
(I see again the calm benignant face fresh and beautiful still,
I sit by the form in the coffin,
I kiss and kiss convulsively again the sweet old lips, the cheeks, the closed eyes in the
coffin;)
To her, the ideal woman, practical, spiritual, of all of earth, life, love, to me the
best,
I grave a monumental line, before I go, amid these songs,
And set a tombstone here.
Whoever You are, Holding Me now in Hand.
WHOEVER you are, holding me now in hand,
Without one thing, all will be useless,
I give you fair warning, before you attempt me further,
I am not what you supposed, but far different.
Who is he that would become my follower?
Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?
The way is suspicious—the result uncertain, perhaps destructive;
You would have to give up all else—I alone would expect to be your God, sole and
exclusive,
Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting,
The whole past theory of your life, and all conformity to the lives around you, would have
to
be
abandon’d;
Therefore release me now, before troubling yourself any further—Let go your hand from my
shoulders,
Put me down, and depart on your way.
Or else, by stealth, in some wood, for trial,
Or back of a rock, in the open air,
(For in any roof’d room of a house I emerge not—nor in company,
And in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or dead,)
But just possibly with you on a high hill—first watching lest any person, for miles
around,
approach unawares,
Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea, or some quiet island,
Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you,
With the comrade’s long-dwelling kiss, or the new husband’s kiss,
For I am the new husband, and I am the comrade.
Or, if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing,
Where I may feel the throbs of your heart, or rest upon your hip,
Carry me when you go forth over land or sea;
For thus, merely touching you, is enough—is best,
And thus, touching you, would I silently sleep and be carried eternally.
But these leaves conning, you con at peril,
For these leaves, and me, you will not understand,
They will elude you at first, and still more afterward—I will certainly elude you,
Even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold!
Already you see I have escaped from you.
For it is not for what I have put into it that I have written this book,
Nor is it by reading it you will acquire it,
Nor do those know me best who admire me, and vauntingly praise me,
Nor will the candidates for my love, (unless at most a very few,) prove victorious,
Nor will my poems do good only—they will do just as much evil, perhaps more;
For all is useless without that which you may guess at many times and not hit—that which I
hinted
at;
Therefore release me, and depart on your way.
For Him I Sing.
FOR him I sing,
(As some perennial tree, out of its roots, the present on the past:)
With time and space I him dilate—and fuse the immortal laws,
To make himself, by them, the law unto himself.
Walter Whitman (May 31, 1819 – March 26, 1892
Hast Never Come to Thee an Hour.
HAST never come to thee an hour,
A sudden gleam divine, precipitating, bursting all these bubbles, fashions, wealth?
These eager business aims—books, politics, art, amours,
To utter nothingness?
Ah Poverties, Wincings and Sulky Retreats.
AH poverties, wincings, and sulky retreats!
Ah you foes that in conflict have overcome me!
(For what is my life, or any man’s life, but a conflict with foes—the old, the
incessant
war?)
You degradations—you tussle with passions and appetites;
You smarts from dissatisfied friendships, (ah wounds, the sharpest of all;)
You toil of painful and choked articulations—you meannesses;
You shallow tongue-talks at tables, (my tongue the shallowest of any;)
You broken resolutions, you racking angers, you smother’d ennuis;
Ah, think not you finally triumph—My real self has yet to come forth;
It shall yet march forth o’ermastering, till all lies beneath me;
It shall yet stand up the soldier of unquestion’d victory.
As At Thy Portals Also Death.
AS at thy portals also death,
Entering thy sovereign, dim, illimitable grounds,
To memories of my mother, to the divine blending, maternity,
To her, buried and gone, yet buried not, gone not from me,
(I see again the calm benignant face fresh and beautiful still,
I sit by the form in the coffin,
I kiss and kiss convulsively again the sweet old lips, the cheeks, the closed eyes in the
coffin;)
To her, the ideal woman, practical, spiritual, of all of earth, life, love, to me the
best,
I grave a monumental line, before I go, amid these songs,
And set a tombstone here.
Whoever You are, Holding Me now in Hand.
WHOEVER you are, holding me now in hand,
Without one thing, all will be useless,
I give you fair warning, before you attempt me further,
I am not what you supposed, but far different.
Who is he that would become my follower?
Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?
The way is suspicious—the result uncertain, perhaps destructive;
You would have to give up all else—I alone would expect to be your God, sole and
exclusive,
Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting,
The whole past theory of your life, and all conformity to the lives around you, would have
to
be
abandon’d;
Therefore release me now, before troubling yourself any further—Let go your hand from my
shoulders,
Put me down, and depart on your way.
Or else, by stealth, in some wood, for trial,
Or back of a rock, in the open air,
(For in any roof’d room of a house I emerge not—nor in company,
And in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or dead,)
But just possibly with you on a high hill—first watching lest any person, for miles
around,
approach unawares,
Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea, or some quiet island,
Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you,
With the comrade’s long-dwelling kiss, or the new husband’s kiss,
For I am the new husband, and I am the comrade.
Or, if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing,
Where I may feel the throbs of your heart, or rest upon your hip,
Carry me when you go forth over land or sea;
For thus, merely touching you, is enough—is best,
And thus, touching you, would I silently sleep and be carried eternally.
But these leaves conning, you con at peril,
For these leaves, and me, you will not understand,
They will elude you at first, and still more afterward—I will certainly elude you,
Even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold!
Already you see I have escaped from you.
For it is not for what I have put into it that I have written this book,
Nor is it by reading it you will acquire it,
Nor do those know me best who admire me, and vauntingly praise me,
Nor will the candidates for my love, (unless at most a very few,) prove victorious,
Nor will my poems do good only—they will do just as much evil, perhaps more;
For all is useless without that which you may guess at many times and not hit—that which I
hinted
at;
Therefore release me, and depart on your way.
For Him I Sing.
FOR him I sing,
(As some perennial tree, out of its roots, the present on the past:)
With time and space I him dilate—and fuse the immortal laws,
To make himself, by them, the law unto himself.
Walter Whitman (May 31, 1819 – March 26, 1892
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Rumi
We Three
My love wanders the rooms, melodious,
flute notes, plucked wires,
full of wine the Magi drank
on the way to Bethlehem.
We are three. The moon comes
from its quiet corner, puts a pitcher of water
down in the center. The circle
of surface flames.
One of us knees to kiss the threshold.
One drinks, with the wine-flames playing over his face.
One watches the gathering, and says to any cold onlookers,
This dance is the joy of existence.
I am filled with you.
Skin, blood, bones, brain, and soul.
There's no room for lack of trust, or trust.
Nothing in this existence but that existence.
Mawlānā Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Balkhī (مولانا جلال الدین محمد بلخى), also known as Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī (جلالالدین محمد رومی), but known as Rumi.
(30 September 1207 – 17 December 1273)
My love wanders the rooms, melodious,
flute notes, plucked wires,
full of wine the Magi drank
on the way to Bethlehem.
We are three. The moon comes
from its quiet corner, puts a pitcher of water
down in the center. The circle
of surface flames.
One of us knees to kiss the threshold.
One drinks, with the wine-flames playing over his face.
One watches the gathering, and says to any cold onlookers,
This dance is the joy of existence.
I am filled with you.
Skin, blood, bones, brain, and soul.
There's no room for lack of trust, or trust.
Nothing in this existence but that existence.
Mawlānā Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Balkhī (مولانا جلال الدین محمد بلخى), also known as Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī (جلالالدین محمد رومی), but known as Rumi.
(30 September 1207 – 17 December 1273)
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