Literary Exercise #29: To be Continued...

I begin more unfinished poems than I end finished ones. If my polished pieces are trophies on the shelf, my unwieldy warbles are like dust accruing. Dust or dust bunnies, because if you sweep them up, they don't easily detach from the broom. You have to pull them free by hand. No use trying to organizes dust bunnies. They have a great homogeneity to them--even in their difference.

If you stack a bunch of half-written blurbs together, and you stand on top, can you reach higher than before?

This post's continuity is also unfinished, but it's farther than it was before.

Literary Exercise #28: Babe, Lovely

Babe, Lovely:

Babe,
I'm a new man,
when we hang together,
I'm new and young.

Gone are
old fears,
when I would only tell you,
half of what
I meant,
and only half
the time,
when the risk was manageable,
come alive.

You were so confident,
but also scared,
you wanted someone that
would do more than care,
you wanted them to continue,
with no signs of halting.

You didn't know it,
but what I couldn't tell you,
when I only answered questions
with half my heart,
was that you were scared
you'd be left alone,
and I was alone already,
hoping to get out.

Babe, you wake me up,
you make me want to
turn, and flee,
back to normal life.
(you're what I've never
figured out)

I didn't plan on
life
being so sweet,
so soon,
and kind.

Literary Exercise #27: Babe, Wildy

Babe, Wildly:

Listen baby,
there's two things to be said,
either you're from heaven
or I'm from hell,
either way,
I dread it.

(I've been dreaming of you
for years,
I get no sleep)

You want to know
why I'm afraid,
of you,
of being freed by you?

You want to know
I'm scared,
of how damn much
I want you?
(and as scared
you don't)

You want to know this drought,
these coarse grains,
sunken heart
and flat veins,
from hiding out
in ditches,
from keeping under rocks
and from the sun?

By heaven and hallowed Father,
I had it said,
we'll be one,
but made it bigger,
the moment,
than would allow.
(for wouldn't the hallowed and heavenly
have me not hold us to them?)

And anyway I've crossed
those moments,
where I've crossed myself;
kicking up clouds of dust,
caught up in thoughts of rain.

But you make me
want to run,
you make me want to
dance baby,
to crawl out
and train my legs,
sway my hips,
and since you make me,
do you know you do?

Sometimes, I wonder,
what do I gain,
by this,
by being sad and silent,
what can be had?

This poem,
this desert.

So I'll just face it,
the inexplicable,
because of you --
stride into the night,
toughen,
eat glass and gravel,
square off,
stretch muscle,
so my gut can get knocked in,
(you fancy an evening drive)
fast-approaching lights,
dazzling mist, dampened,
obliterated organs,
this.

Literary Excercise #26: Anticipation [Lately]

A poem I wrote not too long ago. In separate news, I'm reading Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand, which is quite the evocative novel. Likely another poem will be in the works.

Anticipation [Lately]

“Much to cast down, much to build, much to restore” ~ Choruses from “The Rock”

There’s much to, too much living,
to do and be, and to create,
to breathe it in,
in one evening
(scent of river dusk)
is more
(and mayflies meeting)
and less,
than we’d admit.

Adulterate,
authenticate,
get it in, get it
on, get on
with it, or over.

Accentuation of our annals,
in our locales, of our times,
exactly the moment,
before after, after before,
when the judgment can be done.

But by what?
If indeed we are to follow,
our shadows in the morning,
and our footfalls in the night.

What to make of this
information and confession?
Point and counterpoint,
undulation.

The odd Anglican with
his beakish nose and
misplaced hate of Jews
already,
has surveyed the symmetry,
and unbalanced,
an underwhelming question—
the way we seem.

Yet more than these
wounds and wanderings,
more than things I say
and then forget,
is what you meant to me—
which was nothing,
and thus everything.

I didn’t give one damn
(and wished to give you
all)
that was, and is, of me,
and is yet to come.

And yet,
bottles empty,
firelight flaring,
hand near hand,
I can pretend this evening,
with all its sights and sounds,
will lead me to your heart
(whose beat I am in step with).

Loving both the thought
and the desire,
overlooking your
well-keeping and well-being
(and well-loved by those
who love you).

Even now the flames
are writhing,
bellowed outwards on
these shoreside rocks,
and ready,
for the breaking.

Musical Exercise #1: Hesitation

If I ever get around to ever getting around, I'm gonna rename this song "I'm With You," which I think makes more sense, and rewrite the verses. A friend gave them to me, and no offense to the friend, but it's not my lyrical style. Anyway, enjoy--for being recorded on Audacity with a cheap $5 mic, the quality is pretty good:

http://www.myspace.com/bloodplum/music/songs/Hesitation-21535167

Btw, I don't really play slide, so that was an accomplishment.

Literary Excercise #25: Say That's a Nice Frame!

Well, I'm supposed to be searching for grad school scholarships right now, so I'll keep this brief.

Do you ever notice a thing of beauty, say an image of the earth, and think about the outside limits imposed upon you without your consent? You're looking at the winter night sky--you see Orion with his bold bow and hunter's belt--but you cannot simultaneously pivot and see Canis Major at the same time. Or, you're looking at the horizon--it's dusk--and the sun is shooting off gorgeous amber and scarlet flares--you can only see X degrees, and then, my friend, you are a subject to the curvature of the earth. You can't take it all in. Pick from your own experience--the one that drives the point home for me is walking into someone's house and they have one of those, you know, nondescript but pretty pictures--you know--it has flowers or birds or butterflies in it, or maybe a stream with ducks, or an eagle soaring, or some materials that got thrown into the microwave and came out "abstract." Whatever--you say, "Say, that's a nice picture! Where'd you get that frame?"

Or do you? It doesn't really matter, there's no profound teaching point to be made. We are all of us, different, every one. But yeah, I'm curious--do you ask about the frame?

How often do we go through life looking at beauty, or thinking about questions, without asking, who frames them?

I'll give you a couple options--I suppose you can ignore them if you want. Whoever or whatever frames our beauty or questions is what we should put our faith in. Reasonable enough for you? I mean, if something frames reality, who are we to question it?

Being an artist, for the longest time, I thought that answer was me. Haha, didn't all of you? You just know not of the monochromes I can paint in, or create with Merriam-Webster's Thesaurus easel. Ha, that should be enough to disclaim me for the present.

Who do you think does? I've heard an interesting song by "Of Montreal" called Gronlandic Edit with a line that goes, "physics makes us all its bitches." Do you believe that? I mean, aside from the absurd anthropomorphism, is it sound?

It's a good question huh? I find it to be a driving force in my life, that beauty-framer, that question-framer. Or extend it--that truth-framer, that justice-framer, that framer of peace.

I'm gonna give it to you straight, from my experience, and as my uncle says, this might get a bit hairy-chested. We'll see. Two options as far as I'm concerned: faith in God or faith in man. Actually, this is a different question. Because let's say God frames the beauty, the questions, the truth, the justice, the peace. We can still choose to place our faith in man. It's short-sighted, when you think about it, but it's easy to do. Of course, one could argue that it is the other way around. But the matter revolves around a) possible sources who frame us b) who we trust as if they frame us, even if they don't.

Third option? Is there a third (some will say there are many thirds, a circle of fifths with this one). We could trust in evil--doesn't evil--hurt, death, disease, war--frame enough of our life? Okay, so I'm gonna give evil another name--Satan.

Ha, that'll put some cream in your coffee huh? A bit of a mind trip, really.

Ok--so three questions, and more variables, faith in God, Man, or Satan, and either a God-framer, or Man-framer, or a Satan-framer. Or if you prefer, a Good-framer, an Organic, Existential-Framer, or an Evil-framer. Haha, did you know I'm gonna teach your kids someday? Gosh that sounds sadistic but isn't meant as such--but I do intend to be a professor. Did you notice I'm talking about agency? One of the deficiencies with scientists who think they're philosophers these days--they don't seem to get this idea. Motion is not the same as action. Motion is just movement according to physical laws. Action involves a choice, free will, a mind to choose what the brain does.

Here's the deal--I'm really talking about metaphysics--i.e. what is real, what is not, what is reality, and who says so? These are important questions no matter what you do. Did you know people will control you by these very things? I'll give you an example from my "right-leaning" background, so you can freely call it biased and the methodology skubullah.

In Marxism, the working class will awaken to a "class consciousness" that will allow them to see the inhuman and uncreative treatment they receive from the bourgeoisie, unbeknownst to them. As the theory goes, if you're a laborer, and you're happy, but you haven't awakened to your "class consciousness," you're not happy. You're a schmuck. You're a sucker. You think you know what to feel, how to respond emotionally to situations in your life, but your defunct, your "broken"--and you need to be fixed. You're really unhappy. And you didn't know it until now. But you are.

Now while in all fairness this can occur at times in our lives--we certainly are not free from the binders and fetters that fall upon us--the point is to see whose framing the question here. Obviously the issue is vocation and what gives man his value--among a host of other assumptions--but look--I just gave you an example of a framing issue that controls nations. Or what do you call the history of the 20th century?

Alright, enough for now I imagine. What a great adventure we live! I am excited to move closer to the framer of my life, my reality, and your lives, your realities. Aren't you when it comes down to it? I've said it before, I'll say it again, living life involves a few things about living yourself, your own unique identity, and if involves some cyberthinking--some blogging and community--well let it be so.

Haha, and let me pull a Charles Olson.

"Thus thou."

Literary Excercise #24: Winter, 1997

Well I suppose I should have put this piece up a while ago, but the thought hadn't crossed my mind until now. So enjoy your piece of providence on 2/11/2011 ha. Please no copying to other sites--this bad baby is my intellectual copyright.

Winter, 1997:

Laying at your bed's cleft,
listening to your tales, I remember,
they were wondrous, every one,
with fairies golden-eyed, boyish and youthful,
and the meadow nymphs, delicate, graceful,
with the scent of violet streaming past their curls.

And your father, listening through the lintel,
chuckled, for tonight
you too held a flower that he had plucked,
and set gently on your pillow.

You twirled it slowly for dramatic effect,
and I wondered what visions I could have
if I gazed with the fire of twin suns,
or if it would be too holy and I unfaithful,
but you, seeing that I was worried,
brushed my face, bringing me back to the meadow.

“All endings are happy, even better in the summer!
Just think! Mud pies! Adventures!”
And then you were off again and I grinning,
“That time of year they're special,” you stated knowingly,
“With real balm from Gilead, daddy tells me,”
and you dabbed my nose and rubbed my palms together,
indicating the spots that would cure any passing trouble:
“What fun! And what warm weather!”

But from where I sat,
there was also the frost pressing
down against your window,
and beyond that the hard-packed snow,
where I would cross the tracks at nine, every night,
(though there was no expected time for me to leave)
and tuck myself in –
for a fitful sleep, my blankets a week
too long without wash
and too soon with wear,
and the stale air and the staring shadows –
of a wearied habit.

Yet mud flakes are fun to pick at
and stack (two by two's the going rate,
except when the wind bargains one for one),
but deep down, I had my theories
and doubts: that either you or I
would ever figure out the terms
that we would come to
live or die for, rout or ruin,
but then again, there was the winter,
and our 'good' behavior.

“It's the eve of Christmas,” you gushed,
and as your toes touched mine they teased awake
the long-forgotten animus of my soul,
but when you drew them back
I searched my depths and only matter, matter.

“Isn't it incredible? Imagine! Three weeks
of no school!” And there were three,
long, arduous, like the magi's path to the planet
that emanated light, yes, and words.

You sang your first Noels
and fell in the snow,
with the perfect posture of an irresponsible angel,
and I thickened the walls of my fortress
and planned my escape routes,
with a store of weapons but no room
for holiday lore.

When it was over and I no longer
could spend my afternoons in innocence
or with you, we left for school
and you embraced my tiny frame,
but the magic had grown frigid
with the year's passing
and I stiffened,
at your touch,
and such unsubstantiated adoration.

You do not question, how can you know?
You must have forgotten, hadn't you,
the lessons of the season:
you with your makeup kit
and I with my set of weights,
Aphrodite and Achilles ™,
but without the power to lure or change our fates.
Do you not wonder what it means to be
capable and culpable?

I listened to your tales,
and I remember:
a thousand Edens now buried
beneath the graveyards of our Babels,
and over the ruins,
blossoms bursting in the midday sun:
But where is your loving father?
And the logos of Bethlehem?