Among my peers

October 12, 2009 at 7:01 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 9 Comments
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Before you insult me yet again with red hot prods, please allow myself to explain.
Take one moment to see my work he said breathing dirt
and holding out an open hand tis true one develops
a heart of stone when one sleeps rarely
and only in certain uncouth company, yesterday
a gilded cage
then under bridges
fallen

Reverse psychopomp.

September 19, 2008 at 5:59 pm | Posted in antihaiku, blogging, links, podcast, poetry, prosepoemthingy, tshirt | 22 Comments
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Roll up roll up says the old priest staring into the mirror
and wiping away the teardrop tattoo again,
just another Friday night,
play that reverse

  • psychopomp
  • again,
    exu,

    If I Was (1)

    August 19, 2008 at 6:30 pm | Posted in music | 21 Comments
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    Penn and Teller, well I’ld make my own links, backwards. Writing a novel’s not hard. I’ld start with an ending and being me, a happy one, why not, it’s a fifty fifty shot from here and if I’m choosing my destiny instead of being blown about by any tide into whatsoever whirlpool I would choose at least to be a little happier coming out. So now who would I have to be, to be that man happy to have been, those qualities I will find in him, a story of becoming and because he is not saving the world, merely exercising his fundamental right to the pursuit of happiness, he will not need to be a superhero. Now if I become that man and write that story it will end with me sitting on a balcony next to a most beautiful woman who I may not even have seen, since how she looks becomes fundamentally unimportant when I am blinded by the light of the sun reflecting from the ocean spiralling up through the valley alive with energy, some sleeping and others laughing, some dancing and many merely pondering the miracle of existence, exu, I would tell that story backwards as did you,

    ’tis a gift to simple (2)

    August 15, 2008 at 7:11 pm | Posted in pictures, tshirt, writing | 16 Comments
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    existence itself is a miracle

    (at my age)

    gingaTao!

    Brazilian Invisibility Spell

    August 14, 2008 at 6:31 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 13 Comments
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    the essential anonymity of the artist in
    Sao Paolo streetart done with stencils sure
    but such passion that black and red,
    white and blue leap from the wall
    and assert liberation into the image,
    the artists are Hieronymous not from ‘umility
    but from a belief in the power and freedom
    in anonymity behind the image, Exu. You cannot assert that you
    know Picasso nor Matisse all their remains
    are mere images and endless interpretations burned
    blurred into the retina and the bus smells
    faintly of magnolia thinks Saudade
    looking blankly at the back of her nails,

    To take an actual busride and look at the streetart of Sao Paolo go here…

    starlight tattoo

    July 29, 2008 at 6:44 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 19 Comments
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    one pope’s in as one pops out
    each moment eternal
    radiates
    once again confabulates.
    star light is real, boy, he said
    it left before you were here
    and after you are gone
    it continues
    one pope’s in
    and one pops out,
    some they sing
    and some just shout,

    something

    May 16, 2008 at 7:19 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 15 Comments
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    given to you which will never be yours, wandering around looking at yourselves in various dazes, now is the time to reunite common cultures, soon the privileges into which you were born will no longer exist, that is the way of civilizations, of humans, now is the time to find common myths which will require you to exercise your gift in some cause not your own says F. slamming his glass down but i hold the right hand high, he said, and the bastards ignored me again,

    but i hold the right hand together as the piano has been drinking not me, doffs his hat, (play an old folk tune, Ry Cooder style, that crossroads song Exu),

    ‘trane rattles round bend
    pick a card any card,
    them days are done, son, long gone
    now it’s all plastic Paris and painted Helen,
    where is she who shot a man in Reno
    he sang soon you will see
    the cattleyards of Roma

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