To my truest friends in the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson:

Whoso goes to walk alone, accuses the whole world; he declareth all to be unfit to be his companions; it is very uncivil, nay, insulting; Society will retaliate. Meantime, this retirement does not proceed from any whim on the part of these separators; but if any one will take pains to talk with them, he will find that this part is chosen both from temperament and from principle; with some unwillingness, too, and as a choice of the less of two evils; for these persons are not by nature melancholy, sour, and unsocial, — they are not stockish or brute, — but joyous; susceptible, affectionate; they have even more than others a great wish to be loved. Like the young Mozart, they are rather ready to cry ten times a day, "But are you sure you love me?" Nay, if they tell you their whole thought, they will own that love seems to them the last and highest gift of nature; that there are persons whom in their hearts they daily thank for existing, — persons whose faces are perhaps unknown to them, but whose fame and spirit have penetrated their solitude, — and for whose sake they wish to exist. To behold the beauty of another character, which inspires a new interest in our own; to behold the beauty lodged in a human being, with such vivacity of apprehension, that I am instantly forced home to inquire if I am not deformity itself: to behold in another the expression of a love so high that it assures itself, — assures itself also to me against every possible casualty except my unworthiness; — these are degrees on the scale of human happiness, to which they have ascended; and it is a fidelity to this sentiment which has made common association distasteful to them. They wish a just and even fellowship, or none. They cannot gossip with you, and they do not wish, as they are sincere and religious, to gratify any mere curiosity which you may entertain. Like fairies, they do not wish to be spoken of. Love me, they say, but do not ask who is my cousin and my uncle. If you do not need to hear my thought, because you can read it in my face and behavior, then I will tell it you from sunrise to sunset. If you cannot divine it, you would not understand what I say. I will not molest myself for you. I do not wish to be profaned.

I have pickled my brain in this formaldehyde jar which is the skull.

When your dream became mine,
it was a sunday morning,
and we were all there with you
and you were quieter than usual.
Then at your lounge chair,
hands clasped at the knuckles,
old, indestructible knuckles
like the knots of trees,
you began to tell
a dream.
Back in the cockpit of a B57 bomber
flying low,
so low you nearly clipped the tops of the trees
of a thinly wooded tundra.
I knew exactly what it looked like.
But, Grandfather, it was so silent,
there was no sound,
you and I were sailing in the sky.
I could see every detail below me
and as far as possible in the distance.
I was listening far more closely
than you could imagine.
For I could hear the images
across the boundaries of time and memory.
God, that thing just hovered there.
No wind, no turbulence
no sound.
The silence of understanding.

Remembering The Clientele

I started listening to this group as I was finishing high school in Evansville, IN. Their provocative, poetic lyrics will absolutely immerse the listener. The vocals themselves are just louder than a wisper and have this beautiful distant haziness like early mornings. I was reminded of them when they came up on my iTunes again. I still can't get over them and would highly suggest checking them out.

Porcelain - The Clientele

The most brilliant work of cinematic a cinematic auteur I have ever seen

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1JBY_owStc

Heart Attack Food

I keep finding myself eating at places
that I consider to serve heart attack food.
Faithfully the paramedics arrive on time.
I hold the sides of my face,
should I do something to help?
The paramedics leave without a gurney.
They must have been too late.
It is always a sad story
where they serve heart attack food.
Exept for the paramedics who decide to grab lunch.
These are the only places I see them.
The enigma of shameful diet.
I don't care what the numbers say,
heart attack food is a tragic killer.
Bodies of fathers, mothers, sons and daughters
disappear before they can get the electrodes
through the front door.
My patty melt and o-rings deceivingly smile up at me.
I want to ask the boyish cashier
how many he has seen walk in the door and never leave.
But he has seen too much already.
And laments that he must watch it all for his wage.

There I am. Alone with man's greatest problems.
Dreaming out the window with my food.
As we insist upon eating heart attack food,
we will continue to die this deplorable death.
The paramedics will become mentally unstable,
from all of the life that they see disappear,
lunch break after lunch break.
We might as well start calling ambulences hurses,
and marriages divorces.
These civil servants come winged
and down on my knees I am in awe.
Fighting the nations greatest domestic enemies,
They continue on in the face of defeat.
But I, plagued by human weakness,
continue to where they serve heart attack food.
And the paramedics always come.
Now I see them leave, coke and bag in hand.
Preciously, I trail behind.
Still struck, I utter a hopeful
Thank you

Like a photograph periodically revisited,
a subtle sign
never before seen
appears only
when it is sought.
To others
it is invisible.
For memory is not
like a photograph.
Reflections upon memories
yield images
limited to what is perceived
necessary at the time.

We are the blind.
Perceiving only
what we have been educated
to hold important.

Denying the intuition.
Forsaking subjectivity.

We live on a mystery plane
made of lies.
made of memories.
we are all ghosts
of our own forgotten past.

Back here again.
total pain.
goodness.
Abyss.

As the hymnal book says
It is meet and right so to do.
As we are meat so to suffer.
Bound to the failing ego.

worship pain for its dividing signs.
It alone creates will
so that the well-meaning, optimistic subject
may ask why.

I was sitting on a curb somewhere
the air was pressing down on my shoulders.
I had nearly burnt the house down.
trying to ready myself for the employers.
back at home
the one I live with
was going to kill me.
out there somewhere
she couldn't care less
if the house stood
or if the mean eyed killer
had got to me.
A lone dove walked out
onto the gravel drive.
How emotive
but unforgivably trite I thought to myself.
Senselessly it pecked
at the dust between the gravel.
It was probably telling itself to stay busy.
To stay busy
to keep its mind off of things.
It said to itself
If I keep pecking at this gravel,
this pile of rocks,
it will deliver me from these woes of mine.
To numb the pain in the scrotum.
This must be why we have jobs,
a wall to talk to,
an honorary,
official,
gilded,
holy,
recoco block for the ramming of the frontal lobe.

In the morning, to myself

It's been windy and cold
he said to forget.
All so simple and secure.
No doubt about it.
It's windy
and its cold outside.

You and Me

City Streets will be
Darkened, sophisticated
Flower gardens for you and I
To see.

Worthwhile Film #1

Night on Earth


Jarmusch film seen inside taxi cabs around the world. Fucking brilliant.

Wothwhile Film #2

Stranger Than Paradise

Another beautifully minimalist film by Jarmusch. A perfect view of the relationship of men and women in and out of friendship.

Worthwhile Film #3

If...

A sultry film about sexually repressed colleged students imagining hypothetical rebellions.

Dorm Time Spent

I discovered a secret
far back
back into the reaches of my room.

A Burgundy sofa
under my clothes
and filth

Coarse and wooly
but smart and vivacious
with the unchallenged age of lovers
discomfort.

Inviting cleansing air
to be aquainted
with the stale heat of the radiator.

but yet

Something lovely,
altogether nostalgic
the swirling of hot and cold

Fellowship of men around a campfire,
seeking solace from natures harshness,
only to find what poets call
the entry into ones self.

Laying on the couch without care,
I hope that I am some place real.
A freight train lost in siberia despite its
tracks

The crew praying to an open
steam engine.

Hello World

I read these words by Cid Corman today and found them a modest fit for the beginning of a personal blog. Maybe even hinting at why we blog.



Living with is not
mere proximity

Nor is it a vow
or philosophy

It is finding one
self losing one self

in the one of all
-each one all in all

Learn to live
with yourself

most
never do

Then learn to live
with one another

even fewer
manage this

Then - if you ever
live long enough -

learn to live
with everything else

When you have
nothing to
lose - only

then have you
every
thing to gain.