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Saturday, April 10, 2010

The Floating figures are by Michael Sowa but I don't think the pig in the soup is by him.


A drifting in the heart. Long

Sounds that find no solace. No matter

Where they go they remain wanderers.

We will find them on the shores of the lake

After storms that rip the lining of the night

Easily from its darling moon.

Someone must have seen where the careful

Touch has gone, where the sandals cut

The crust of the morning away from the bread

And no hand, oh pretty creatures they are,

could move move as brutally, tearing the stars

Down from the black lion of night,

All kindness gone, its blue cart tipped

On its side in the crowded streets.

No one wonders any longer

Dammit all anyway all they ever

Wanted were blankets to keep warm

And just a touch of a hand,

Someone to say, “Do not be afraid at all.”

Friday, April 9, 2010

Pigeon: Impossible - try this out. It is excellent.

Pigeon: Impossible

Water and Ice - always in my mind


We came here before the storm came, before

The big waves began to form

Toward the sea wall, rolling

And capping, white teeth,

All teeth, no brains.

Figures on small inflatable rafts

Bob up and down

At the very top of the sea wall.

They are close enough to speak with.,

Over against us, like angels.

They ply their rafts like dreamers.

We are tricked by visions.

They break the stars

Apart and make rooms of them

Where we can walk,

Remembering friends, travels

To sweet smelling shores,

The taste of a lover's mouth

Before the big waves come,

Before the sea itself embraces

All weather, washing over us

Day after day, night after night,

Leaving messages in our bones,

Washing those same bones away.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010


(Angels Playing Cards)

There is too much light

In the room for anything irreconcilable

To happen. It will be recorded

Inside the caves, on the battlefields,

Across the purple moors and darker prairies.

The cards are flipped down upon

The table, voiceless like generations

Forced to speak to each other

Through the dark

Doors of time.

For each card is unforgiven, unforeseen

With traces in its skin of the stillness

Before birth, The Ascent of Mount Carmel,

The Olympian crucifix with its living

Christus smelling like wars and collapse

Through fire of great empires.

There is no betting at all. All blows away,

Just the open-mouthed angels constantly

Surprised at how the cards fall

As if by chance.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

I've been working on this tale for a long time now. Hope it reads well.


Now long before Tellan was known by that name, before the time of Talan, called the elder, long and wise the ruler of the lands beyond the cusp of the hundred forests, there dwelt a race of people in that place. Handsome they were, to be sure, fair of face and limb, courageous in all endevours and wily in their understanding of the forests and the myriad of creatures in it.

They knew the dwelling place of the great bears and often sang songs to them in the Spring of the year, just before they awoke from their white sleep. They told them of the bushes near Marlee, close against the sea, where the gooseberries were green as buds and sweeter than the honey trees distilling high above the forest floor, full of heady buzzing and the making of dances that named the summer. They sang of streams, cold from the snow, that bristled with the cool white flesh of fish eager for the taking, leaping high into the air, silver sides reflecting rainbows to the morning.

All these things they said in their songs and not one word to any one of them. All noises like the wind, their mouths, streams of water sounds and squealing in the great hallways that divide the shadows from the light, the elder trees from copses of saplings in their fresh and green regalia.

These songs became most popular and their singers were renowned among the creatures of the forest of Marlee. Even to the bears, the best of caves were those that bordered close to the villages where these singers dwelt so that their waking in the Spring would be a kind of blessed, secret, news that moved within their bones and made the waking to the world a magic thing. Indeed, it was the cubs of these great beasts who heard these songs upon their birthing; often days before the mother of the cubs could rouse herself enough to sniff the air to know the temper of the season. Their young bear hearts were filled with these sweet noises and likewise filled their newborn hearts with knowledge of these forests long before they would know them through their other senses.

And of these singers the greatest of them was Reman, son of Jaben and of Carth, who soothed by birds and who could dance the tempers of the winds. His songs were full of every stream and brook and indeed, the rivers flat and steely flow could also be his song as were plays of light along the banks of each and every bend and eddy of each stream. He knew the days and of the ways of clouds, how they flew and what messages they carried through this place. “I am full of rain”, said one and Remar danced this bliss. “I am from the south and sweet upon the breath the scent of roses are the diamonds on your fur this morning.” said another. It was liquid on the skin of Remar; he danced the roses, became diamonds. These were the gifts of this greatest of singers. For these songs all the gods of the seasons gathered about him.

Then one time, it was in the Spring, after Marlee was awash with the fine cloak of new green and the brightest of whites and pinks, aglow beneath the coursing of the clouds, Remar made a sound within his throat that raced between the dance and the color of the eyes of a female bear he had seen in the autumn of the failing year, just before the long sleep was to begin. From somewhere deep within the coils that gathered together to make Remar and his knowing, came a sound that was not of the dance. It was a name, a thing unknown until this time. He made this name loud in Marlee and from all the camps and growing kingdoms fraught with their own dreamings of the Spring, this sound was heard. And once this sound was made and took its course across the being that was Remar it was single thing, for as long as Tellan was separated from the seas that were the realm of Szooh, this sound came without a cloak, rushing from the mouth of Remar and all was changed. All sounds that came from his dancing had things attached to them, places and actions that had had no sound in the place of the great beasts who sat long, once at the feet of this teller of dances and tales. The sounds of the wood dissolved and speech came into this ancient world and Remar and Marlee and all that followed after were no longer understood by the beasts who dwelt there and in strong and unrecoverable sounds, this speech to all the animals was lost, and has dwelt forever in the bosom of a goddess chosen for this singular purpose, long before the dancing came into Tellan and long before the great kings of this land could know the machinations of the eldest of the gods.

Bernini for Easter

The lovely portrait of death writing is from the tomb of Pope Urban VIII (1627-1647) in the Vatican. Death is writing Urban's name. I cribbed this from Doug Blanchard's blog. Doug is an artist living in New York City.

here's a poem and an image i made


The cities abandoned. I saw you

Walking there long after the others

Had left. It was as if a huge

Truth stretched out in front of you.

It glowed and had teeth, sparkling

Pointed and sure to find flesh

Before feeling. Great winds

Filled with lightning moved

Throughout its body.

Could this be the same place

Where we had made love together?

Could this shower of glow discharging

Ether be the same feelings

That once were tender in our hearts.

Oh poor mankind, to be caught so far

From harbor on this night,

Slouched and desperate far from

Arms that love you.

“Come home.”, I said

But none could hear angel music

In this place, save animals

And the pure of heart.