There's this air in South France
So alive you can almost touch it
Soft enough, it blows away the candles
Numbered seats, train wagons, I wish I had taken with you

Warm hands on my frozen nose
a memory in red burning
Your arms, your hair, my cheeks

There's this air they call it Mistral
So loud and you can almost hold it
Light enough, it carries the grains of sand
Kaleidoscope films, sad endings, I wish you'd wipes away my tears

A stolen kiss in a forgotten dream
A wheel in Marseille, spinning
My scarf, my gloves, your lips

it's a torched wind rushing into my arms
like a dreary pale leaf that wants an embrace
in dusty minuscules of sullen, sultry soil
i step out, open my heart to the sun-dried soul

glutinously holding back to me in sunk roars
the wind drinks every drop of my fluid state
i shiver in languor, i bear up with strength
and thus is revived the breeze everyday

A contest twixt reasons to be

Con test ants take your po
si shun

push sush slow n stedya

There's a being, I once thought fellow who needs this test
to pass,
he has studied with masters and knows near as muchas Faustus
but he is scared there could be hell to pay,
some day.
(Catholic maybe, but he believes some lies about what he doesn't
believe for a good reason, maybe boomers with non-hero dads,
them and priests imagined some hellish **** make Loyola nuts.)

just breathe and be wit
be wit me
meinthee'n'theeinme and this ain't ***, kid.

This ain't ceasing for a moment to be me meditation, this
is Sisyphus being happy out loud

in a crowd, you know how that feels everybody
shouting hallelujah like it means everything

and it does again and not everybody, but many bits
of everybody, knows that I don't know what. I don't

know what Hallelujah is supposed
as meaning,
you ax me glory must first be defined,
compared to what
Hallelu?

Jah, right tuff won, the Name, Ha Shem

but glory, what is glory?
What's it weigh?
Worth-y or light?
Air or stone, or iron, or silver, or allah those and gold?

Time,
value that. Why?
Navigation needs a clock, for the test,
minus the lag as the rock rolls free from time to time
        Looky
        here, the alchemy guy say:
Uranium to lead for a clock to find, or
the missing helium that implies, to the wise.

A word's enough,

fu'few,

Loser vibe. Phone rings. It's a robotic femaivoice saying
power may be cut to me due to high fire danger

Are hopes prayers? I hope so,
and wishes could be I think, if they were in this realm

no evil imagined here makes it past the third and final
in sane un sane in cip I sent sentient cons eee ince

test. So, know, dear reader, we mere words,
weal build worlds witcha
but we won't lie.

Book of Life, first chapter, look it up.

The Jails burn around my kind,
minstrels in the woods still sing of men like me.
mistrals, the winds, wrap the world
and, listen,
you know
mistral whispers to sirocco as they

send swirls of spirational science-eance to form

ideal angels dancing
pirouette on the point of my pen.
2 per angstrom.

----
Those winds are in a mind I manage mine,
I make right use of them by
responding to the signals,
the prods, needles'n'pins, now

Rock and roll saved my rubber sole,
my mnemonic savior rescued me

Sisyphus, ah, we all think you happy and

hallelujah, too. To you, Mr. Cohen,
thank you. You got me through a few...

Contention only comes from pride,

and momma don'low no pride in heeyah

Stick that in yer ear, and smoke it.
Here we get along
or we ain't,
see.

Crazy guy with the dog collar, remember him?
He's gone. Outa here.

Don't fret, he is one of the first in every cycle to recall
Nietzsche thought God dead and Sisyphus happy.

Was he mad or sad?
Sad I say. Sad to say he never knew a great
god almighty that he liked enough to get caught
up in a joy explosion of hallelujahs and such,
he never dared

e=motions you know where those go.

I do.
They go to the fuzzy edge of everything ever realized yet.

But no one, so far, has realized that all at once, in time

the rock stops rolling and we, if you imagine
happy ever after is re-alivable,

spiritually, you know, in your dreams or such,
not religion
bad word,
whoa puppy, did somebody beat you for your own good?
Poor idle word, abuse of such a strong idea
a bandaid on reality,
who could hate
your idea?
re-connect, better, okeh?
not religion.
Just made a connection. Okeh.

we live here, feel at home

Well, jus as well we rest and see if we agree with what we just,
just always means everything it ever does now,
tis ne're an idle word here nomo. Nor discouragin' ones.

Just now. Perfect oh, that which

concerns you. How would that be if it were perfected?

Say, you know? no, me neither. true, rest. smunchemup= trust
trust me. You lost? Hell?

Every body sing with the Kachinas

Nobody knows the trouble I seen,
nobody knows but jee ee ee sus

as they fade…
so there. amen. and the sunshine's in and we are seeing
novel mercies never thought,
new in every detail,
no lie. Life wins.
Death is in on it.

It's fixed, it can go on as long as you may imagine you can.

There is a choir and an orchestra
and I talk less
when I know they're there,
somewhere an accordion plays, a busker,
me
in other days would prefer to hear
the street performer,
the troubadour,
the wanderer with his songs wrapped up and on his heart, trapped in the keys, he plays the accordion, at ease with all,
a penny for the guy.

Each note, a wave that reaches land, and slowly waits, almost hesitates to touch on ears and the ocean in his tunes fill me with something only I can see,
others hear and see so differently, but that is fine,
he becomes the metaphor for wine, the wind red cheeks of time, the autumn when the leaves turn green, the Northern lights, a postcard scene but others hear and see it differently than me and that is fine.

No less a choir and an orchestra, the wanderer who roams at will to fill me one again with the pain of never,
in the tunes
I
will be
forever
lost.

write with the ambition: no one is going to write a book about me... i might as well write a book about myself - Hollywood vanity, the ones who can't write out the mundane with ferocious appetite to excite have hardly put a chunk of meat in their mouths, anaemic vegetarians, mantra chanters - well, anaemic vegans - the great debate about abortions, women's rights and the clinics condensed into an egg: is it a chicken? is it a chicken chow mein? no! it's a runny yum yoke boiled in 5 minutes! it's a completely different entity! what with the half-formed fetus that hasn't been ***** trained and hasn't developed **** or bladder muscles - is awake but is practically asleep - consciousness develops after the two precursor developments, it's not walking, it's still finding it easier to suggest onomatopoeia from words: it sounds like the great equation of putting an algorithmic-like interchange of vowels and consonants is creeping, but when it's there, there's nothing, a blank, no concepts stemming from the second other-worldly impregnation from the so called "imaginary" being, how long does a fully mature fetus spend time in the dark? 3 weeks? 2? the cut-off point from full maturity to: get me the **** out of here! i'm not an aquatic creature, i'm part amφiβiaν part cross-dressed monkey - or something like that.

i could be an entertainer after i stop being a monkish
poet, recluse and a father of the black wood
(since i don't have the desert like St. Augustine
the Penitent-Self-Reformist - a bit like Edward the Confessor, me),
the sober me doesn't like the idea of forgetting my
role as a poet-optometrist, still drilling out
the slightest differentiation into memory
between ν and υ - from now on - just so i don't stand
a 1950s style trial due to McCarthyism - i'll be
writing it as: θυκ - but wait... take the northern monkey's
perspective, a southern fairy picked it up with
upsilon - it's more like app Saigon - well, a salon -
so the alt. variation would be the northern θωκ -
but still the three letter aesthetic problem -
the missing c - **** you Byzantium! i haven't read enough
Greek to find an aesthetic pair where one acts as a surd
in pronunciation but not in the optics -
there's no equivalent kappa double to add - and i just
can't put in υω - but i guess i'll have to - what is
the de-digital format of contemplating such a feat?
handwriting - how easily could you write
microsoft equivalent typography of *mistral θυωκ?
i guess quiet easily - much of "ancient" orthography
(20th century) has changed, letters (due to the digital
adventure) have come akin to numbers, we can write
large sums of them because of the lost art of handwriting,
it's lost, i mean you can still practice some sort of
fancy typography, but i guess you wouldn't write
a book with a style like mistral, more like Coca Cola
or: beware of the dog. what is this leading to?
i admire, oddly enough, writers like J. D. Salinger
and Harper Lee, i wouldn't exactly call them constipated
writers like Bukowski would, or A. Dumas,
i just don't get the idea about how they treated writing
without any addictive tendencies, i have two worlds:
one things, indian spices, televisions, sun, moon,
clouds (which i kinda find as beautiful as a pile of ****)
and a world of encryption - symbols - silence and symbols,
the roots of all thinking being spared a constant daily
narrative, a moment to take something back, much
akin to programming, although, given the status of language
as the earliest way of making children see and recollect
and respond on a gravity-prone-pivot of balance
(modus primo - anti-Cartesian res absorbuit, a sponge
like thing, not a fully mature res cogitans / thinking thing) -
with those authors, i can't see how they could write
a book like that, and not even tread a mediocre path
of writing, i can't spend a day without looking at these
symbols... oh, and by the way, if Arabic will not punctuate
in a digital format its users will not find peace, mandarin
and hebrew are already cut up - the Latin users already
did away with the "painful" act of cutting up letters and
losing handwriting, Arabic should do likewise,
otherwise all they'll post online are jihadi beheading videos
as proof of their so called Islamic civilisation -
and for that part of inventing numbers? look,
the only thing akin to punctuation comes with the dizzy
heights of 1,000,000 (that's a billion), otherwise you
have the spiral π - and i am being condescending and sarcastic,
given the Koranic ref. to Jews: children of Israel...
well... kindergarten of Saudi Arabia.

09/09/10 13.26
Just eaten the last of your figs x
End
 
There is just so much to know about the fig.
Andre Gidé, D.H.Lawrence,
Gabriela Mistral
Poets all
Have tried
To decode
Its secret enclosed form.
 
Since nothing escapes
the smell becomes succulence and taste.
A blossom without beauty, yet a fruit of delights...
 
A year ago
When I brought autumn to your table
I tried to explain
The fig’s ****** nature . . .
and failed.
I was too shy
And mumbled something about
Its gynaecological aspect.
 
Now I know you better
And your hand has cupped
My testicles
Can you not
Appreciate the similarity?
The size and shape is
. . .  similar
 
It seems male
This secretive fruit
But when you come to know it better,
You’ll agree with Catullus,
It is female.
 
Oh fig, fruit of female mystery where everything happens  invisible flowering and fertilization,and fruiting in the inwardsness of your you that eye will never see till its finished and you’re over-ripe and you burst to give up your ghost.
 
Yesterday
(After we had eaten figs
From the blue bowl
Bathing in the golden light
Of your September garden)
I felt that ripe and secret cleft
Open to my ***** touch
And kiss and kiss
Kiss and kiss
 
*Touch me: it is softness of good satin, and when you open me, what an unexpected rose! Poets have not known the colour of night, nor the figs of Palestine. We are both the most ancient blue, a passionate blue, richly concentrating itself because of its ardor. I spill my pressed flowers into your hand. I create a deaf meadow for your pleasure. I shower you with the meadow's bouquet until covering your feet.

undecipherable loss
  • [it's steeper near the roses]

attenuation
  • [the mystery in the trees
  and the mistral sound of your breathing]

dreams of perfection: floral dress summer
  • [the apnea and the scream]

a touch of labyrinth to this world
  • [in the fair and harmless light]

imagine somewhere close by
  • [imagine him waving as you say goodbye]

All your squid limbs
shake the leaves
off the mast of your
maple in this whirlwind
reaching skyward
with your last life~
Yet you scorn the storm,
and in uncertain lulls talk
your mind into soft
chimes of knowing

Written by Sara Fielder © Oct 2016

Having just climbed
  through ages
up what seemed an endless flight
of narrow winding gothic spiral stairs
I step out
right into the wind's brute force
   instinctively
my arms grasp for a hold
fearful lest I blend suddenly
with the white horses
and the fields of the Camargue
far down below

Wedged safely
in a nook of stone
a hefty tourist
leans out wide between the walls
toward the setting sun

her summer skirt is blown waisthigh
revealing
unexpectedly delicate lace
above sturdy thighs

her body opens
to the strong soft touch
of the Mistral

A little later
she walks past me
clothes gathered
level gaze calm  
and self-assured

and leaves me wondering
whether the mighty abbot
on his solitary tower
and his exclusive brotherhood of men
had ever understood
the wind that blew
and still blows
through two feet of stone
  like they were silk
and thrills a woman
to her bone

* * *
                                                              ­                        © Walter W. Hoelbling

I have in me a bit of Tuscan sun
The wildness of mistral
The calmness of a Cezanne village
I often walk around the countryside of Pissaro
And see the colors, still abundant, undefeated
I stroll around the lilies and the harbor of France where Manet painted being thrown out of his house, not able to pay the rent
I dance with the beautiful girls in high society Parisian parties of whom from Zola to Maugham spoke about
I learn art in silence, in the bright orange color of the day drawing the French young girl
Whose face is like Madonna
Her innocence, her laughter, her flawless body
Excite me, breaks me, creates me
I walk with clean head and red wine in the streets of Montmartre
Searching the gone and dusted studio of Renoir, Picasso, Monet
I stand exactly there where there is nothing old except the moon
And the Sacre Couer
In the morning I take the first train to Auvers Sur Oise
And walk into the cemetery
Where lie in the gorgeous French sun
Vincent and Theo Van Gogh
I utter to them, "Can dream ever be false?"
It is when I heard the footsteps
I turned
The girl in the yellow dress stands at the gate of the cemetery
Whom I draw every day but never captured her beauty
The French girl
We both stand there as it is
As if 
framed
paused 
Frozen
We, the Impressionists!