sweet street toothy

lost 21: sweet street toothy
do not… sense of morality bone chill rent cigarettes ponies a pizza de-emphasize ethical ode translate to cypher text code… store or keep inside your car bucket of chicken elephants a babyfood jar filled with gasoline a set of rubber cockroaches a slice of smelly cheese the treasured 45 (sing out your new belief in oils and acrylics pastels 6b pencils charcoal scratch the nude into copper) twenty-four cans of soft drinks or a small bouquet of trumpet lilies, (your hair the way it curls, now grey) nor leave in the trunk your own wedding cake a small bag of doggie waste or fine Belgian chocolates for your local buddhist priest. not even the barbecue chip ice cream rescued from the rhythm of the chemical sports outlet. think flying fish bumping principia mathematica off the production lines godwottery gazump fartlek gongoozle gadzooks! – you, my sister, say my mother lied, that what/ she said was sand that fell between the slats// of sidewalks made of planks no systems fever, laws of motion or gravity no peace or utter depravity mccavity. well there you are, the gesture said, worship carves a data port in a jackson pollock painting, pumps it full of how honey is sweet, raiment of gold, cloud barred by an insistent breeze. random data misinformation feeds on misinformation but you’d be happy living inside a cuckoo clock Baurusuchia tall as you are, your huge teeth, your dog face, talk to me oh  long-legged one. those six-inch heels. head anatomical athletic training regime, duddy, stare. kibitz with outdated unreasonable positions on that sweet street of pensioners, cupboards of sugar and salt, coke. neurocity of mesoeucrocodylians: paint ink paper added removed, scraped added again scraped off, just where are we/growing my little one, little one/ where are we growing my loodle my love –

I’m out of breath after that one…but at the top, the gift of a shahai to ynklings, by poet/photographer Grant D. Savage. Thank you Grant! Photo from: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2018534/Pissarrachampsa-sera-The-70million-year-old-crocodile-huge-teeth-dogs-head.html, and you my sister said… from ‘her light blue dress’, Claudia Radmore

From Grant another extraordinary Juxtaposition:

X

fat/thin
or rounded conversation

words
horizontal

vertical
vital statistics

breeding/conjugating
in the dictionaries

or the rock
declining

reclining on silk
or silver screens

tomorrow my bride’s gonna come
…are we going to fly

down into my easy chair
perfect mandala

will the circle
be unbroken

my form
inserted

sand grains
the brighter

and fainter stars
that many

times … is/in yours
freud/jung letters

the only
my shrink ever enjoyed

the personal
and the collective

unconscious
cymbals clash/and gongs

i enter/ great mother
virgin/soror mystica

you leaven
in my mouth

… likewise i’m sure
the buddha’s wife

breasts etc dragging
not on the back of

but fathered/he
by an elephant

you initiated an elephant?
the scent of

the dung of
bells/digs/dugs

white dogs/scarlet woman
from india in my dream

she tried to insist
she be on my left

fixed my infinite
out of control electricty

i had been tearing out the wires
poetry synapses/you said

and i smiled
placed my mouth

on your voice
tongue-shock spilling

tongue/french kiss on french/you loudly toast
insisting you’re Quebecois/father/mother?/land

Terre de nos aïeux… (however you spell that)
sung/accented … English soprano

Too beautiful not to be passed on:

Nothing to do with writing, but I’m entranced by this photo. Those blues, those blue scallops over the yellow band, that sweep of blue from its back that slides onto the branch of brain coral. Maybe it’s because I’m terrified of water; that might lend an aura of wonder to my perception of this goby. I don’t like to look at fish or many other underwater creatures. They give me nightmares, but this goby won’t do that. It might inspire a new career, that of clothing designer – look out Betsy! It’s the first-place winner, macro-photography category, in an annual contest put on by the University of Miami Rosenstiel School of Marine & Atmospheric Science. The photographer is Canadian (yeaaay!!!!) Todd Mintz’s who photocaptured this cute-as-can-be yellownose goby (Elacatinus randalli) peering out from brain coral in Bonaire, Dutch Caribbean.

http://news.yahoo.com/sea-creatures-true-beauty-revealed-winning-underwater-photos-174404076.html (Maybe there’s a poem in Goby for someone…)

The discussion continued: Shai Ben-Shalom

I greatly enjoyed the discussion that Pearl initiated. Reading what people wrote was an eye-opener. I was particularly interested in those comments that described how poems are entities that have independent lives, disconnected from the author or from the reader. Sadly, I am yet to see my own poems having such lives. None of them was written for the sake of it, but rather to reach a specific target – the reader’s eye. Without a reader, my poems don’t really have a life.
Indeed, when drafting a poem I may not necessarily know who the reader might be, but he is there, somewhere. There always seems to be ‘someone’ in my mind, vague as he may be, who will eventually read my lines (or listen to me reading them) at some point in the future. The poem is written for that person. I just don’t feel secure enough in my skills to write ‘for myself’. I don’t consider my ideas to be all that important, or my poems to be all that good, to sustain their inner quality when no one is reading. Without a two-way communication, the drive to hold a pen would have evaporated. But the thought that someone would read any of my poems, react to it, offer a feedback, initiate a discussion, perhaps even reciprocate by sharing a poem of his own – now that is a reason to write!

One day, when I get comfortable with the language and become familiar with the art of writing, I may see some internal beauty in my poems, a built-in spark that gives them life of their own (perhaps in the spirit of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah, ‘there is a blaze of light on every word’). Until then, you, who may read my lines, may offer a listening ear at Tree Reading and may introduce me to your own poems – you are my motivation to write!

Shai, I think it is you who are the inspiration here, and the others in the conversation… Thank you!

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