"mimetic" poems
I've always been in place,
in situ
Maybe (just maybe) ...
I'm sui generis?
When my lifeline intersected with spacetime on this continuum
I found myself moving toward a collision course with duality and non-duality
Moving towards a zero-point
What are we talking about?
Nothing (Rafelski & Muller, 1985)
As a geographer, the mimetic expression was dualistic
As one plane flowed through another;
as fiat lux flowed through Medicine Rock
I found wisdom
I further explored the duality @ this place
(also known as University of Lethbridge)
The U of L is an interesting duck
It walks like an Albertan university
It talks like an Albertan university
But one of these things is certainly not like the other
The U of L got its chops as a house of learning for the Liberal Arts
Follow those roots and you'll see conduits to another spacetime known as UCBerkley
U of L memetics share material memories from the birth of the Free Speech Movement (1964)
And as Arthur Erickson drafted up his plans for Canada's centennial gift to the Province of Alberta, I'm sure he would have been partaking in the pleasures of this particular spacetime
I'm sure at the very least that he was listening to Hendrix wax on about Castles
As Erickson designed this modernistic monolith called University Hall
There were influences such as Arthur C. Clarke and his novel 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
He was certainly knowledgeable of the Blackfoot stories of the Old Man
And of course as an architect he would be versed in gravity and how built structures on a slope tend to creep toward base-level
Strange but true, Erickson's first degree was in foreign languages
So what I see is Canada's premier architect wrote a poem for us in 1968
In a foreign language
And that poem would be expressed over the next forty to fifty years
Some of those primary poetic elements were:
Berkley, California
Hippie Movement
Creep (or gravity)
Base level
Blackfoot creation stories of the Old Man
Jimi Hendrix poetry and his savage musical genius
"and so castle's made of sand melt into the sea, eventually."
So let's reinterpret that line to be more U of L centric
(through my glossy apertures)
"and so monolith's made by man melt back into god eventually."
........ ....... ...... ..... ..... .... ... .. . zero~point . .. ... .... ..... ...... ....... ........
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
some waves just pass through me
I let them touch other surfaces
they got carried away by the breeze
or the lament of seaguls
my architecture or the scripture
no wonder the receptivity
but only if you feel the field
to understand the predator
merge with one
to understand a bird
feel the weightless air
to understand a flower
dream its sensitivity
to understand the ******** of dawn
let yourself be devoured
there is empty space
in the great chain of being
oh, how mimetic everything is
lust doesn't last, it isn't so obvious
nor the craving for shining surfaces
as an empty screaming in raw beats
it tastes like sand in the eyes to me
I can see more and more
the spinning of burned eyes
I won't let myself be
devoured by a false premise
no, no need no worries
beauty is the mother of
the night when
every wall shouts
our name
leave the door open
leave the seduction
to me
let your skin
surrender
to the labyrinth
untranslatable
let me be in love
with the sunstone
you'll find the right
melody
to leave beauty
unharmed
Feb 10, 2023
Feb 10, 2023 at 1:59 PM UTC
"my identification lies in the hopeless psychedelic absurdities of ninety year old existentialists and the macabre **** trails of industrialized ghosts
Slaying scissor handed dragons of whirlwind dimensions from plain abject boredom
Smashed with broken Knuckled collisions against walls of mimetic iron and steel
as territorial **** measuring fanatics play out semiotic fantasies of heroic rigor mortis but i don't want to get political
because the cosmic play is of the ancient masters repeatedly tripping over each other
and i don't claim to know the rules if there are any
So for now i will bash my brains and hair against this black holed vacuum of being in itself
and try to remember that the uncertainty principle doesn't allow us to know position and velocity simultaneously
and that by observing the world it is irrevocably changed by the power of Schrodinger's Cat
I would tear that ******* ******* to shreds if I looked in the box
So next time around i'll mechanically saw off my arms and see if they will grow back
and burn gasoline in a shovel mesmerized by the blue flames and melted animal ecstasies connecting all to the light of infinite unknowing"
Said the dog with the bone in his mouth. I asked him
"how can you talk with food in your mouth like that? it's dreadful"
He did not reply.
I pondered his speech on the train home and filled a balloon with nitrous,
tide it off and began to punch it while holding the rubber band attached.
a man with knuckle tattoos next to me popped it with a pen
I miss my nitrous balloon
But i didn't have time to think about it because a Hottentot venus in yoga pants with that *** like bow! just walked past
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
1
In the year Victoria
came to the throne,
on 9 acres by a river’s bend,
(bought for £490)
Joseph Dover built his mill.
yarn
to weave,
wool to knit,
the raw fleece
washed, carded,
scribbled, tentered, dyed,
spun and woven
(back parlour or
mill shed)
finished,
sold.
Today the fleeces are
burnt at the farm,
and the sheds and lofts
display colourful crafts.
The past is collected in
sepia photographs,
strange heritaged tools.
The present hides in
figures on the footfall,
those costings for the café.
In an August
of grey cloud
and persistent rain,
the sun on occasion
shakes the building into life;
it filters through the tall riverside trees,
makes swathes of coloured light
swim across the wooden floors.
2
The studio, cool
on the hottest day,
is graced with garden flowers,
and the business of making everywhere.
Days fold work into the pleasure
of small gestures of care,
Satie’s tenderest song
a litany under the breath.
When toes meet
beneath a table shared,
this touch registers
the slow wonder of it all;
that ‘being here’
in this expansive place
of stone and wood,
textured always
with the white noised
rush of water.
At night we steal back in
to sit together by a single lamp:
to decipher Henry’s mimetic prose
of estuary, moor and river;
ponder Robert’s quartets in A,
every phrase singing Clara, Clara . . .
Later, lights extinguished
we move in the pitch of darkness
through the long galleries,
carefully down the invisible stairs.
Outside, in the
coloured silence
of the river’s run,
the hills carry the sky
cloud-haunted, star-strewn.
moon-lit.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 1:30 AM UTC
Tobacco tar
stuck like the scars
from my tattoos:
pain elective
and
permanent
like we like the
mimetic representational
citations of Bryson Tiller
and Drake,
what hails so merrily
your unsaid name?
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
Identity facilitates a lense for which makes us capable of opinions.
Identity is what I've lacked in my attempts to connect with the world.
Identity helps to emphasize with others. To build a community through shared values and beliefs.
I am an earthing I have no identity beyond this.
Who I am has been erased from a lifetime of isomorphism.
Does this erase you to?
To collide the world into one being.
One consiousness.
One struggle, sameness to our differences?
Does this erase you?
Culture washed away, clensing my skin.
Scrubbing away at me until I am white.
"Clean".
While cradling my head and whispering mimetic kindness.
Cleansing me of who I could be.
Cleansing me of my ancestors values.
I have been erased.
Just a physical embodiement of what Im allowed to be.
I am human.
Sep 20, 2019
Sep 20, 2019 at 4:36 PM UTC
Of every death
Preceding this moment in time
As I stand before a painting
Of a young woman hanging drowned
In a scene inlayed
With thoughtless flowers,
Which death is it,
Exactly,
That renders Millais' Ophelia
With its beauty?
The work alone has form:
Flora, depth, the colour of minute lights
And the image has concept:
A woman, dead in water.
Ophelia lives in an image and a play:
One moment, one story
Resting on the temporal slopes
Of this painted pinnacle of signs.
Why did Shakespeare write
About a woman pushed to suicide
By the death of her father,
At the hands of a heroic lover feigning Spiritual vacancy
At the request of his own undead parent?
Does every woman share this fate,
Or is it fantasy -
Attaining psychic substance
Through a kind of impossible insanity?
In other words:
Is Ophelia's death,
So chosen by Millais
And Shakespeare in turn
(Whose names are poetry)
A mimetic echo of a million mortal moments?
Or is it the prophecy of a time yet to come
For which death has been moulded
In a looping narrative cast,
Made into a word describing
Some sacred foreseen feature -
Which is it:
Does meaning sink into the past
Or fly into the future?
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 1:02 PM UTC
Three syllables should roll easy,
yet sear acidic the tongue,
refusing formation
of empty expression.
The sun shines no brighter
than the struggling bedside light,
and rivers flow no fresher
than saliva leaked in sleep.
The malodour of rank roses
drifts from every kitchen,
where flies **** on dishes
of all the dinners not savoured.
Inside we search for desire; in drains,
under beds, between stale sheets.
The arid well resists fornication
as we ***** for absent frisson,
the floral miasma lingering,
as if to scoff.
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 3:30 AM UTC
I've been toiling with the concept of temperance, and these are my thoughts today.
Practicing the allowance of loosening my grasp, and exploring the wonderment of fear.
Acceptance that everything is fluid and a mess of interpretation.
Rhetorical verbiage cannot console me.
Words are just an interpretation that is perceived individually.
A philosophical debate in every meaning.
Everyone is right, and everyone is wrong.
Explore narratives. Explore experiences that differentiate us. Explore.
I'm juggling complex emotions while grappling with my needs for stability and freedom.
The limitation of mimetic expression, and the fear of uncertainty and loss of control.
The earth tries to explain this to us at a young age as seasons change.
We have no control, and change is inevitable but beautiful if you see the positive.
I'm overcome with fear and excitement for this world that I've only just discovered.
Before it lay hidden behind distortion, expectation, and self-regulation.
To experience and love is the only goal.
We are no one, just beings of the same symbiotic consciousness experiencing ourselves through one another.
I don't have control over this.
I can try my best by the people I love, but by the end of the day, nothing will go my way.
Deconstruct nurture, and explore nature.
Limitations through perceived expectations.
We are performing instead of living.
Constantly under fear of judgment for not acting well to the roles we have been given.
We forget that we are siblings and reinforce this idea of fault when trauma and perception are the true separators between us.
We don’t see one another anymore.
We see status and expectation.
We need to step back and wipe away who we should be and discover who we are.
Temporary beings born to love, inspire and share.
Nov 23, 2019
Nov 23, 2019 at 3:40 PM UTC
Time pantomime charades the masquerade to entity acquiescence
Misty wistful wispish shrouds of ephemerally opulent quiescence
Evoke the mystic myriad with subliminally subjunctive quintessence
Enigmatically adrenergic anecdote concatenational analogs the essence
Evocative emulation scenarios ecstatic
Intriguingly intrepid verve fanatic
Exuberant veracious audacity emphatic
Endergonically protensive integrations eidetic
Translucent transitive effulgence mimetic
Numinous noumenal ***** aesthetic
Mnemonic’s nostalgic allusions pathetic
Opaque obdurate emissions copasetic
Heuristic pantheism paradigm epistemologically metamorphic psychokinesis personification
Probity avaricious semantics inherently indigenous endemics edification
Satiation indulgence intrinsic virilities fertility inherency gratification
Vicarious recalcitrance adumbrates obdurately suborn temerities mortification
Irrefragable felicities tenacious intransigent taubla tapestry rectification
Erudite vexatious obstreperous existentialize venial corruptness
Diabolically maniacal dementia brusque macabre abruptness
Psychic regalia panaceas astral projection seductress
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 1:52 AM UTC
We (as far as I can remember)
Started out to recreate a sane conversation
In which facts of all shades and shapes would
Simply emerge and connect themselves into
Acting structures.
There was a phase in which
Burgeoning ways and means of
Unearthing and spreading these bits
Occupied and riveted most attention;
Followed by something – Fear? Sense? –
Expressing as allergens to ungrounded factoids
And structures acting not from meaning
But obviously from the hindbrain.
After who knows how many rounds of
Lunge feint riposte I found my little self in a
Small drifting group which seems mostly set on
Maintaining through and despite all that something
Uniquely value-added – esthetic, mimetic, cosmogenic or
In any case fertile in cross-breeding ways – is going to fly
On be nurtured and eventually cover the terraqueous globe.
But there seems to be a tacit condition set in this local world,
That the “novel factoid” stream from ongoing earth-21st century
Goings on be ignored. Which begs the question of why do we need
1,200 geosynchronous satellites to do this.
Or –
Was that my drift?
Mar 8, 2020
Mar 8, 2020 at 1:48 PM UTC