"reorienting" poems
In a strange mood - see/write art
in a strange way, disorganized but straight on,
light tinted magenta, issuing, in frothy large pours, from my mouth,
knowing what to say, and the meaning too,
I can more than walk, can write, on water,
where all can read weeping, Mary-miracles of seeing, living words,
themselves, on light waves lapping in a
shifting rotunda vision, color reorienting spatial senses.^
in a strange, strange stitch, seasonal spirits and witches,
Chagall, Baez, Dylan Thomas, Donovan, Richie Havens
doing their knitting in my brain, from Montmartre to the Midwest to Monterey,
painters and poets in lockstep head-messing with me,
imperfect clarity but still one voice,
see/write art,
so went and caught the wind, going gently into night
to banish the hodgepodge of uncertainty from inside out.
knowing well you don't understand fully, but jumbling tumbling
verses are sliding off my rusted tongue as fiddlers fly above,
roughened words, hewn from a paper cup, spilling diamonds uncut, imported from Sarajevo, Montparnasse, the Lower East Side.
wretched me, in the hour I first believed, this amalgamated conception conceded,
seceded from my mind into your palate for a tasting,
tho neither drugged, nor deaf and dumb, just slammed poetical-like, this write is
all I have to portend is your affections, your attentions, to yours, am beholden.
a ***** well respected man in daylight,
the hidden references accuse,
woke up to see Wednes-day Caesarian born,
askance glanced at the prior passages of the night before,
when my palate clefted,
when eyes chose not to distinguish
between right and lefted,
in the nightlight,
a ***** man disrespects language convection/convention,
and lays before you activating stanzas and his mind, prone,
but always the truth, speaking,
the visions, leaking, mind to eye,
recombinant, into our minds eye.
^ http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/exhibitions/on-view/james-turrell
Rather than write extensive notes on the many references, inspirations in this poem, if there is a line that intrigues, ask me
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
got it
up packed...
cold at the
blaze.
cobra hoody.
fang-fulls of
elephants lumbering
rooms.
getting fat off slow
death.
straight sippy-cups
brimmed with
reorienting brew.
i watch Ganesha
remove his own
obstacle.
i blow his
shadow off.
code blue on lock...
Shiva~
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 12:35 AM UTC
We stand on our Quarters
Larger than Life
Submitting our twenty-five cents
We lift one foot
Anticipating a walk
Towards the edge,
Towards the grooved rim of the sliver circle
We reach the edge,
Within one step, not far,
We have not the freedom to step off our Quarters
Silver stability must remain our foundation
And a retreat backwards
Makes constant cowards, so
Changing our direction is the only Truth.
Reorienting, 180 degrees, facing a new path
We have Liberty to walk again.
**** us if we don’t walk again.
But soon we have reached the other edge.
No different than the first.
It keeps us from leaping, frozen on our funds.
Yet, we also know not the deprivation
Of falling off our coins,
The black abyss.
Is True freedom Complete freedom?
It makes no difference how we walk on our Quarters,
To walk, perambulate around their boarders,
One constant remains:
We are always on the edge of change.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
Deep meaning fills my sorrow and makes my love cool.
I never thought truth would act this way. Beyond perceptions, it's participatory affection.
I never thought truth would act this way.
Deep meaning fills my sorrow and turns love into tool.
I never thought I'd work this way.
With hands on deck, steering out of my mess.
I never thought I'd get away.
Deep meaning fills my hallow and glues me in to revelations.
Watching cryptic worlds undress, removing the stress.
I never thought I'd be okay again.
Deep meaning fills my soul, and my thoughts align.
Reorienting my passion alive.
I never thought I'd love again.
Aug 16, 2022
Aug 16, 2022 at 7:49 PM UTC