Posts tagged with ‘instagram’

Cruel

You are cruel,
bad-looking,
equally painful /

and the autumn air,
can’t undertake to work
from subsequent and more cruel occurrences—

enough material 
without the thought.

seed text: The Turn of the Screw and Other Short Novels, by Henry James
art by d0125

Cruel

You are cruel,
bad-looking,
equally painful /

and the autumn air,
can’t undertake to work
from subsequent and more cruel occurrences—

enough material
without the thought.

seed text: The Turn of the Screw and Other Short Novels, by Henry James
art by d0125

Almost Go On

What he gave them
wouldn’t almost go on.

She told him
that his house is poisoned
and modesty
anything 
conferred
by the 
the smooth hard floor.

His poetry
still passed:
a sort of sense of looking
in simplified, intensified essence.

I will go
about my absence
a new person:

the matter
going off there

inveterate,
afraid.

seed text: The Turn of the Screw and Other Short Novels, by Henry James
art by d0125

Almost Go On

What he gave them
wouldn’t almost go on.

She told him
that his house is poisoned
and modesty
anything
conferred
by the
the smooth hard floor.

His poetry
still passed:
a sort of sense of looking
in simplified, intensified essence.

I will go
about my absence
a new person:

the matter
going off there

inveterate,
afraid.

seed text: The Turn of the Screw and Other Short Novels, by Henry James
art by d0125

Mining the Buried

Brian Beatty

Your jewel-dark blue, green and brown 
work shirts weighed down
cold wire hangers 
in the closet in the corner 
of the garage for years 
after you were gone— haunting me. 
I hurried to grow into them
for what felt like forever. At the time, anyway. 
When they did finally fit,
nobody else in my junior high
had their own low-hanging cloud 
of coal dust, diesel fumes and dry rot 
following them through the cruel, crowded halls between bells. 
Not even the secret smokers barking up lungs 
out in the alley behind the school 
in that old local tradition.

art by Christian Watson

Mining the Buried

Brian Beatty

Your jewel-dark blue, green and brown
work shirts weighed down
cold wire hangers

in the closet in the corner
of the garage for years
after you were gone
— haunting me.

I hurried to grow into them
for what felt like forever. At the time, anyway.

When they did finally fit,
nobody else in my junior high
had their own low-hanging cloud
of coal dust, diesel fumes and dry rot

following them through the cruel, crowded halls between bells.

Not even the secret smokers barking up lungs
out in the alley behind the school
in that old local tradition.

art by Christian Watson

The Stars

The stars—
where did they take you?

Into themselves.

Their black mouths
wrapped in silence.

The iron
nakedness.

There is only one subject:
the blind man
at the windows

the eighty-third room
the blue the green
the shadow
and the sea.

seed text: The Second Four Books of Poems, W.S. Merwin
art by cimek

The Stars

The stars—
where did they take you?

Into themselves.

Their black mouths
wrapped in silence.

The iron
nakedness.

There is only one subject:
the blind man
at the windows

the eighty-third room
the blue the green
the shadow
and the sea.

seed text: The Second Four Books of Poems, W.S. Merwin
art by cimek

of what use

of what use is
the ex-inner sanctum

to live in
says the universe

yellow pink light
of a fractured Heaven

the memory of something 
we dream

a long, soaking rain
bonytoungued

part of a swarm
awkwardly on top of itself

its specificity
inverted

among the xylophone-flora
I could have hatched

as others have
atonal though rhythmic

a kind of finesse
of being

seed text: The Arcadia Project: North American Postmodern Pastoral
art by aci2

of what use

of what use is
the ex-inner sanctum

to live in
says the universe

yellow pink light
of a fractured Heaven

the memory of something
we dream

a long, soaking rain
bonytoungued

part of a swarm
awkwardly on top of itself

its specificity
inverted

among the xylophone-flora
I could have hatched

as others have
atonal though rhythmic

a kind of finesse
of being

seed text: The Arcadia Project: North American Postmodern Pastoral
art by aci2

where love resists

so much rain
in the mind’s
soundless azure:

night’s improbable snake
with his voluptuously swept
single feather

fanning out,
a dense powder
of good acts

ghost of lillith,
the volcano they called the “phonograph”

/

leaning on the broken column
I find my impossible cigarette

but that’s life
unless I surrender
to the face,

a music of whimpers
within your watery brow

between two chiseled
enormous indigo flowers



seed text: Captive of the Vision of Paradise, by Ivan Arguelles
art by zenoiii

where love resists

so much rain
in the mind’s
soundless azure:

night’s improbable snake
with his voluptuously swept
single feather

fanning out,
a dense powder
of good acts

ghost of lillith,
the volcano they called the “phonograph”

/

leaning on the broken column
I find my impossible cigarette

but that’s life
unless I surrender
to the face,

a music of whimpers
within your watery brow

between two chiseled
enormous indigo flowers


seed text: Captive of the Vision of Paradise, by Ivan Arguelles
art by zenoiii

December 9

schitzophrenic winter mix
in long criss-crossing strands
on the expansive glass
of my head

against which the saints lean
beyond which is the world
wet and green-cold

while melancholy concrete
displays its benevolent hair
beside the grey smoke
pluming toward
the disguise of
grey sky

art by spathumpa

December 9

schitzophrenic winter mix
in long criss-crossing strands
on the expansive glass
of my head

against which the saints lean
beyond which is the world
wet and green-cold

while melancholy concrete
displays its benevolent hair
beside the grey smoke
pluming toward
the disguise of
grey sky

art by spathumpa

over it

it was nice just being
over it
one might say

sudden reversal
on its hinges

like serious implications
of the sparse
though pure
flag
stricken with the power of the floor

its truly sensitive surface
all but unreadable
in the new financial age

losing permanently
the orchard that was right for you
in the new climate
you thought your life had been

seed text: Flow Chart, by John Ashbery
art by jccssd

over it

it was nice just being
over it
one might say

sudden reversal
on its hinges

like serious implications
of the sparse
though pure
flag
stricken with the power of the floor

its truly sensitive surface
all but unreadable
in the new financial age

losing permanently
the orchard that was right for you
in the new climate
you thought your life had been


seed text: Flow Chart, by John Ashbery
art by jccssd

in general

We should have pleased each other
in general,
a single human being.

The force of 
abstemioussness
without preparation.

The contemplation of truth—
a description of 
what scripture tells us is certain.

A privilege torn by power
and the common question
in a strange dress.

At once 
a convenience that 
attacks upon him,

a sufficient specimen
that will grow in the open air.

seed text: Boswell’s Life of Johnson
art by rudydesouza

in general

We should have pleased each other
in general,
a single human being.

The force of
abstemioussness
without preparation.

The contemplation of truth—
a description of
what scripture tells us is certain.

A privilege torn by power
and the common question
in a strange dress.

At once
a convenience that
attacks upon him,

a sufficient specimen
that will grow in the open air.

seed text: Boswell’s Life of Johnson
art by rudydesouza

Away

They took away those
odors of morning

afraid of the long glide
in all our worlds.

All the denizens of the deep
suffer such
in the soughings of egos.

To be respected
in one direction.

It is
at work grinding
toward graveyard

is equivalent to
a fast-aging chorus

belying
bodiless form
with a simple surface

barely good enough
to empty the ocean—

something lustreless
that produces paradise.

seed text: The Animals, by Richard Grossman
art by minehost

Away

They took away those
odors of morning

afraid of the long glide
in all our worlds.

All the denizens of the deep
suffer such
in the soughings of egos.

To be respected
in one direction.

It is
at work grinding
toward graveyard

is equivalent to
a fast-aging chorus

belying
bodiless form
with a simple surface

barely good enough
to empty the ocean—

something lustreless
that produces paradise.

seed text: The Animals, by Richard Grossman
art by minehost

Low Noon

Dalton Day:

As he bled the horses ran by the window.
The grey patched horses, old
and stumbling like an avalanche while his heart came
unstitched. That slow gallop matched his pulse.

And then the power went out. 
Typical, he thought. The weatherwoman had mentioned
rain, but he was hearing her voice without
listening. Either way, it wasn’t raining, and he bled.

He saw the grocery list on the counter. From where
he stood (next to the window) he couldn’t 
make out what it read. Was it, lightbulbs?
The horses were gone.

Washing his hands, now rusty, a knock at the door.
He placed his heart in the drainer, and went to answer it. 
He was distracted. As was I. 
He thought he saw a flash of something in the dark.

As did I.


__________

art by minehost

Ego


It is a mist
disclosing another place

with no knowledge of
a particular.

The people
leading me now

dragging you after
to make you

open up
at its feet.

There roses
devoured us all.

Yet the eyes
in the air, surely,

as sun
forgotten sits

to keep its own
toward impulse.

seed text: The Collected Poems of Robert Creeley, 1945-1975art by wagicmagic

Ego


It is a mist
disclosing another place

with no knowledge of
a particular.

The people
leading me now

dragging you after
to make you

open up
at its feet.

There roses
devoured us all.

Yet the eyes
in the air, surely,

as sun
forgotten sits

to keep its own
toward impulse.


seed text: The Collected Poems of Robert Creeley, 1945-1975
art by wagicmagic

Wave Land


The light of hemp urges
when I turn on the bulb

sealed
across the page
by withering statement

as if
in loafish glare
at the high ice
of summer solids.

Can a steeple
fuse
a mildness
from their noses?

Those locks are scald
in the greenery
of conduits—

oils gone earthen
in Wave Land.

seed text: Solution Passage, by Clark Coolidgeart by 1924us

Wave Land


The light of hemp urges
when I turn on the bulb

sealed
across the page
by withering statement

as if
in loafish glare
at the high ice
of summer solids.

Can a steeple
fuse
a mildness
from their noses?

Those locks are scald
in the greenery
of conduits—

oils gone earthen
in Wave Land.


seed text: Solution Passage, by Clark Coolidge
art by 1924us

uttered


I part thick curtains
of love itself.
A gentle combing out,
stages of purgation
the happy atheist could not accept.

The possibility of going out
to observe that it strikes
in the early part
of constant self-digestion,

the ultimate human value
never without self-consciousness
such as a death or a civil war.

Miscellaneous
emotional weight
fills
his tonal horizon—

irruption of the visionary
uttered from the dry well.

seed text: Finders Keepers, by Seamus Heaneyart by so_may

uttered


I part thick curtains
of love itself.
A gentle combing out,
stages of purgation
the happy atheist could not accept.

The possibility of going out
to observe that it strikes
in the early part
of constant self-digestion,

the ultimate human value
never without self-consciousness
such as a death or a civil war.

Miscellaneous
emotional weight
fills
his tonal horizon—

irruption of the visionary
uttered from the dry well.


seed text: Finders Keepers, by Seamus Heaney
art by so_may

The Expanding Eyes of Man Behold the Depths of Wondrous Worlds


Intergalatic Eno, aged, in battles
seeking the turbulence of Premeditation
with knees locked in increased
sleeping & traps & wheels & pit-falls
& railroad juxtaposition

until
the gongs
or a Couch of Gold

and every Space that a Man views
intercedes on the hat
of post-superpositional Qualities
& Substance clothed.

I rend these caverns,
rain in the fathomless Abyss,
heavenly climes, an endless maze.

This swan is silken fires
thrilling joys of sense,
vales of Americans
partitioning the worm
of our own Abstracted philosophy
and Kaiser’s pride.

Chugs and chugs of folly
are measur’d and giv’n into the hands
of my own Selfhood
unveiled

for every human heart has eyes
from which we drink light
& pots that clang in new born terror.

Focus groups know
that the Accuser’s chief desire
is to Forgive Pollution
with an affectionate touch of the tongue.

seed text: The Portable Blake, by William Blakeart by Cerebral Lust

The Expanding Eyes of Man Behold the Depths of Wondrous Worlds


Intergalatic Eno, aged, in battles
seeking the turbulence of Premeditation
with knees locked in increased
sleeping & traps & wheels & pit-falls
& railroad juxtaposition

until
the gongs
or a Couch of Gold

and every Space that a Man views
intercedes on the hat
of post-superpositional Qualities
& Substance clothed.

I rend these caverns,
rain in the fathomless Abyss,
heavenly climes, an endless maze.

This swan is silken fires
thrilling joys of sense,
vales of Americans
partitioning the worm
of our own Abstracted philosophy
and Kaiser’s pride.

Chugs and chugs of folly
are measur’d and giv’n into the hands
of my own Selfhood
unveiled

for every human heart has eyes
from which we drink light
& pots that clang in new born terror.

Focus groups know
that the Accuser’s chief desire
is to Forgive Pollution
with an affectionate touch of the tongue.


seed text: The Portable Blake, by William Blake
art by Cerebral Lust