Wednesday, October 27, 2010

A Blue(s) Mask

When I knew I couldn't be happy for you
Until I realized my triumph,
I saw the writing on the wall:

How could Art not reveal ourselves?

There is no one mask that can be wholly true.

And that's all there is
When it comes to Art:


So now that I've given you up
To give up on Truth,
I'm hopelessly amused and endlessly tired.

Considering This/Our Odyssey

"That, to me, Good Sir, is a phenomenon so infrequently observable that its existence hardly renders itself worthy of a name..."

Ah, the Poetry of Language for Music's sake.

"...Their connection to The Odyssey tenuous at best."

Unforgivable--simply put--is how I find this dreck; and, we're off to my place of Thought Recreation where I make realizations about your changings of color and we're swept up in New Meteorological Omens.

I posited: "After any sufficient consideration from any capacious mind, one's product should this enlightenment be: To consider one's self as principally demanding is no mean thing."

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Thought-Prompts of the 1985

Tonight we named a meal: The 1985.

Fish filets--frozen & sealed--along with broccoli and macaroni and cheese
Stole their ways back out of our memories like the prototypes of the first mini-vans whose door exteriors were adorned with faux wood paneling.

A "Manifest Banquet!" feast before us...

Heartily authentic and individualized in its plasticity.

Our Collective Memory Prism is working overtime:

The New UnIronical!  The Competently Sufficient!

A blandness that smacks of the adjectival equivalent of "Home."

Imagine the possibility of choosing what sticks with us...
The reconstructions of society and mass hysterias...
All frontiers rendered irrelevant--nay, wholly unknown--as we orbit our blisses (never revealed to us in their fullest blossom of mundanity).

Somewhere there is a marketing researcher struggling to sell us a station wagon that gels with our middle-class notions of Tasteful Art.

Monday, October 25, 2010

It was midnight in the rain.  All symbolic interpretation begin/began!

The uninhabitable space between drops so fine--where winging, clinging words that ring so true were suffocating Muse's Pyre's Blues--was learning to burn its burial shroud and reconstruct itself in the New Phoenixian style.

This day was new and quite profound: The space between Time's Movement's hands became a place to hatch our plans: We couldn't eclipse the infinite.

But we died trying.

The Way Young Lovers Do (and Do Not)

Young lovers try always to recognize the genius of the moment.

Encroaching stability brings contentment, and so all solids waste to Quiver.

One eternal remains: The length and breadth of Memory Immaculate.

We recognize the inevitability and sudden death of Tragic Hope;

And, where Grim Acceptance becomes Achievement, Love soldiers on.

Sonnet Nouveau

The Sonnet as Process is borne out tonight;
Concerning these Verse Worlds, our Quatrains delight:
The first of Existence: Its court is corrupt!
Its Nature of Fairness upon Us is thrust.
We shrink from the terrors of Uncertain Night,
And welcome our Prison's familiar frights.
The second of Reason: So quick is the sound
Of our ideals crashing and buried our proud
Methods, and logic, and practice so wound
In fabrics of thought--some lost and some found.
The last is High Treason: To suspect the selfe
With fragment of conscience--our wrist watch in Hell.
Continuous passage through tortures divine...
Innate, their constuction--with flawless design.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

The New Genesis Came (...and Went)

Back then--even in the culture of the suburbs--winning seemed important.

The weather was arranged to suit red wine and black t-shirts.

The only thing more important than family was infidelity,

And I was hot-to-trot and distanced from all obscene gardens; freed from the expectations of TeenAged Dreams.

I was overwhelmed by the varying terrain of the emotional landscapes--and lost in them, too.

And so I began to write at night.  One's always alone best with one's thoughts at night.

So, how to convey the sweet with disaster became my theme in its most serpentine--

A love song to all the Steely Dan commandos.

Their waking hours became newer births and sadder truths.

And you were just in time to see my New, I swear:

Poisons--in their youth--still can kill (and tend never miss their timely cues).

On the Eve of Our Third Anniversary: October 19th, 2010

"I'm too busy writing to drink,"
I belched to the Wife
As at table I sat
Contemplating delights--

--Intellect'll, of course;
No sensual style
Will prevent my Muse:
She smiles all this while.

As at table I sat
--at table so fat--
With ideas strange
And foreign unmasked,

Becoming the King,
After dinner I sat
And loosened my belt
And readied for bed.