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st64 Mar 2014
Upon this beautiful web of lies
I sleep and rest my head
Unbeknownst to all the others
That the me they knew is dead
He died nearly five years ago
In the exact spot that I lay
And the last words he uttered were
I shall find peace upon this day

Vasto Grom
st64 Mar 2014
journey slow
and so we go

donkey carriage over cobblestone
cool morning air, crisp in purpose

head-cap on driver, huddling on whip
daisies on open field, bright faces up

sky still closed ere the eye of dawn
hot perils on heels towards that spot

baker shakes apron.. tiny particles
chemistry bursts into a rolling sun

I swear it feels familiar
have you been here before?
only wish I could recall
what comes next..*

(hark.. nematoblast-pain!)

but how can one remember that
which....?


st - 22 march 2014
never mind.. need to go away.
just.. thank heavens for nature.
face of daisy, petals fall...... head of daisy, full of seeds :)






sub-entrée: paisley-town

I dream of a town
I must've been before
once, so long ago

my feet carry me places
they don't feel strange
I must've been here

this town with faceless owl-calls
sends contours, hoots my name
in a tongue my cells ken poorly

I forget of centuries we shared
they melted into many an hour
you're so beautiful to me.. always

a sweeping maze floors me and then, it
opens up a begging-corridor downward
I follow crumbs left by your residual-fire

onto another level
another level of you
to discover well-hid..

sweet.. I can't wait to feel wordless
keep all the paisley-riddles high
slide your repertoire in my pocket

you twist my synapse into knots
and turn me outside of galaxies
and I reel away.. floating until..

your next coming
on a wave so wild
ruddy implosion

my hands grip your ankles, um tight
releasing milk into your svelte way
torn effortless open, redirected sun
st64 Mar 2014
When she was seven, my grandmother suffered from fever and swollen glands. The doctors believed her tonsils were inflamed, that she needed surgery. Instead, she went to a curandera. The curandera divined that a jealous relative had cast a curse on her and, now, her language of kindness was bound to her throat, the unspoken swelling her glands.

As a child my grandmother spoke to santitos with a voice like a chestnut: ruddy and warm, seeds dropping from her mouth. The santitos would take her words into themselves, her voice growing within them like grapevines.

During the tonsillitis, when the words no longer fell like seeds from her lips, the santito's vineyards of accent and voice grew vapid, dry as a parched mouth. They went to her tongue and asked why silence imprisoned the words of the child, why lumps were present under her chin, why tears drew channels down her cheeks.

I asked my grandmother how her tongue replied. After touching my cheek, she told me she had a dream that night: She was within her lungs and she rose like breath through the moist of her throat. She remembered her tonsils swinging before her like fleshy apples, then a hand taking them into a fist, harvesting their sound. She told me her throat opened in two spots like insect eyes and the names of her children came flying through her wounds like peacocks.

Patting my thigh, she said, "That is why the name of your mother is Maria, because she is a prayer, a song of praise to the Holy Mother."
She told me this, then showed me two scars on her throat—tiny scars, like two eyelids stitched closed.


st - 20 mar 14
what a day for grapes in the sun.. to aspire to be raisin' a merry storm (later)..
pecans but not almonds.. will do.



sub-bent-tree: full two trie


how liberating.. wen a hart passes in the woulds
here, can the ****** of attempts be crack'd?

a wholly marvellous case of the best
full to trie.. drink it slow.
st64 Mar 2014
Pack, clouds away! and welcome day!
    With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air, blow soft, mount larks aloft
    To give my love good-morrow!
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
    Notes from the lark I’ll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,
    To give my love good-morrow;
    To give my love good-morrow;
    Notes from them both I’ll borrow.


Wake from thy nest, Robin Redbreast,
    Sing birds in every furrow;
And from each hill, let music shrill
    Give my fair love good-morrow!
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
    Stare, linnet, and ****-sparrow!
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
    Sing my fair love good-morrow;
    To give my love good-morrow,
    Sing birds in every furrow.
Thomas Heywood (early 1570s – 16 August 1641) was a prominent English playwright, actor, and author whose peak period of activity falls between late Elizabethan and early Jacobean theatre.

He wrote for the stage, and (perhaps disingenuously) protested against the printing of his works, saying he had no time to revise them.
Johann Ludwig Tieck called him the "model of a light and rare talent", and Charles Lamb wrote that he was a "prose Shakespeare"; Professor Ward, one of Heywood's most sympathetic editors, pointed out that Heywood had a keen eye for dramatic situations and great constructive skill, but his powers of characterization were not on a par with his stagecraft.
He delighted in what he called "merry accidents", that is, in coarse, broad farce; his fancy and invention were inexhaustible.

Heywood's best known plays are his domestic tragedies and comedies (plays set among the English middle classes); his masterpiece is generally considered to be A Woman Killed with Kindness (acted 1603; printed 1607), a domestic tragedy about an adulterous wife.
Also, a widely admired Plautine farce The English Traveller (acted approximately 1627; printed 15 July 1633), which is also known for its informative "Preface", giving Heywood an opportunity to inform the reader about his prolific creative output.
His citizen comedies are noteworthy because of their physicality and energy. They provide a ******-geography of the sights, smells, and sounds of London's wharfs, markets, shops, and streets which contrasts with the more conventional generalisations about the sites of commerce, which are satirised in city comedies.


sub-entry: bird in the hand

(open the furrow --------------)

and let loose
bird in the hand

(close to flying)

to measure what's worth of sharing
desire in a play on a midnight-watch

(all familiar with the adage)

good love on the wing of morrow
unpunctuated, leaves option wide open

(let bird sing you sweet-song.. love)
st64 Mar 2014
Herr Stimmung—purblind—moves in corporeal time.

    Think how many, by now, have escape the world's memory.

    Think, how all his wandering is only thought. Having once tried to
live in the quasi-stupor of sensation, now he picks his way through
areas of spilth, seeking the least among infinite evils.

    His hope: intermittent.

    To a person so little conscious, what would it mean to die? Though
he feels, true enough, death's wither-clench. Thinking always of
something permanent, watching the while how everything goes on
changing.

    He has seen where Speed is buried. Eyes exorbitant.

    He has the tension of male and female: active, divided. Anger and
lust. What he eats tastes exactly like real food.

    He would search out interphenomena, if he could decipher the
interstices. The broken line. Immediate havoc. Circular heaven.
Square earth. He cries world world, and there is no world.

    He claims superiority over the other animals, being the only one
who can talk, the only one to have doubts.

    Herr Stimmung knows a whale is big. Its skeleton might shelter a
dozen men.

    Not existing, not subsisting—insisting. Not object, not subject—
eject. (He works within opposed systems, every one of them opposed
to system.)

    "Fillette"—in confusion he addresses himself—"n'allez pas au bois
seulette."

    He knows who is allowed to wear what kinds of beads. He knows
how fruit trees are inherited. All his self-objects lie in the inoperative
past.

    Herr Stimmung springs from a long undocumented ancestry.

    He has a special attitude towards terror.
Keith Waldrop
b. 1932

Keith Waldrop, who was awarded the 2009 National Book Award for poetry for Transcendental Studies: A Trilogy, has been a prominent voice in American poetry for over forty years.  He is the author of over a dozen books of poetry, prose, and translations.

Waldrop was born in Emporia, Kansas in 1932. He enrolled in the pre-med program at Kansas State Teacher’s College, but his studies were interrupted in 1953 when he was drafted into the US Army.
While stationed in Germany during the 1950s, Waldrop met his wife, the poet and translator Rosmarie Waldrop. He earned a PhD in comparative literature in 1964 from the University of Michigan and has taught at Brown University since 1968.  

In addition to being an internationally celebrated poet, Waldrop is a respected translator of French literature.
Waldrop’s poetry navigates concerns that are at once personal and philosophical by representing a world that is endlessly strange and fascinating.
There is, in Waldrop's work, a steady thought directed to the way that we make our way in the world by thinking and speaking. Where Wallace Stevens gave us the portrait of a man bothered by the march of ants through his shadow, Waldrop gives us the disturbances of the world in its representations.

Upon receiving the National Book Award, the judges said of Waldrop’s poetry: “If transcendental immanence were possible, it would be because Keith Waldrop had invented it; he’s the only one who could—and in Transcendental Studies he has.
These three linked series achieve a fusion arcing from the Romantic to the Postmodern that demonstrates language’s capacity to go to extremes—and to haul daily lived experience right along with it: life imitates language, and when language becomes these poems, life itself gets more various, more volatile, more vital.”
st64 Mar 2014
This morning, between two branches of a tree  
Beside the door, epeira once again
Has spun and signed his tapestry and trap.  

I test his early-warning system and
It works, he scrambles forth in sable with  
The yellow hieroglyph that no one knows  
The meaning of. And I remember now
How yesterday at dusk the nighthawks came  
Back as they do about this time each year,
Grey squadrons with the slashes white on wings  
Cruising for bugs beneath the bellied cloud.  

Now soon the monarchs will be drifting south,  
And then the geese will go, and then one day  
The little garden birds will not be here.  

See how many leaves already have
Withered and turned; a few have fallen, too.  

Change is continuous on the seamless web,  
Yet moments come like this one, when you feel  
Upon your heart a signal to attend
The definite announcement of an end
Where one thing ceases and another starts;  
When like the spider waiting on the web  

You know the intricate dependencies  
Spreading in secret through the fabric vast  
Of heaven and earth, sending their messages  
Ciphered in chemistry to all the kinds,
The whisper down the bloodstream: it is time.
Howard Nemerov
1920–1991



Howard Nemerov was a highly acclaimed poet often cited for the range of his capabilities and subject matter, "from the profound to the poignant to the comic," James Billington remarked in his frequently quoted announcement of Nemerov's appointment to the post of United States poet laureate.
A distinguished professor at Washington University in St. Louis from 1969 to 1990, Nemerov wrote poetry and fiction that managed to engage the reader's mind without becoming academic, many reviewers reported. Though his works showed a consistent emphasis on thought—the process of thinking and ideas themselves—his poems related a broad spectrum of emotion and a variety of concerns.

As Joyce Carol Oates remarked in the New Republic, "Romantic, realist, comedian, satirist, relentless and indefatigable brooder upon the most ancient mysteries—Nemerov is not to be classified."
Writing in the study Howard Nemerov, Peter Meinke stated that these contrasting qualities are due to Nemerov's "deeply divided personality."
st64 Mar 2014
step this side..
no, you.. that side!
in a line, in a line.. quiet now – get ready for fire.. no miss!
please line up the children in neat rows, get them ready…………………..


1.
eyes are misted over – something happened in the gap
hooking-up strangely with estranged sons lost in custodial-wrangles
alienated values;
family-core defunct like a super-shiny apple with putrescent-flesh
long-beard wants a son after so many daughters, sits unwashed in the smoke
gender-penalty –  sorry, sister.. you chose the wrong straw
you remain in that cage till we say come out


2.
bread-basket filled with stealth-grenades
rights and benefits squirm in slick-oil of rules
peasant skirting the limits of the city; even rats fare better
cloak of goat-skin, the shield hides serpents beneath
the hunter will aim for the head, land in the centre..
                           yet an inch or two too high
sentry, close the gates and bar the window-frames!


3.
inadvertent greed and control; aggressive power
news-man dies for feed that’s untrue, anyway
picture-man twists an image to suit the viewer
all kinds of lines disappear so quick – ******, jokes, theatre, life, even poems
and if you’ve never had the sad combo of sick and homeless,
                                                                ­           famished and cold,
                                                                ­           tired with sores
oh, war will be courteous enough to bring you all these, *on a platter

and more..



there is no border when we all roam in hunger and in fear
like the orphans in crowded-camps
high-rankers sit far away.. ominously "well-off"
                                               chew on hard-cheese
                                               gulp down red wine
but the throat still feels parched, and that bayonet is too short
its fear will kick in.. on a day least anticipated
would you be shocked if it is a child who will drive that wedge-stick home?







st – 14 march 2014
oh, politrix, politrix….man, we're messing up this globe!

something amiss in the vision.. all so acquisitive -- my land, my car, my this, my that.. aahh, we miss the grand pic of all ---------- OUR Earth??
nay, friend.. we must leave here, in any case, one day.. what and how we do here, is the grand-query!


sub-entry: mess-up
always mess up things
with that big mouth - shudup!
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