if one were to have the moment of human weakness and commit suicide on paper, how would it look, how would it translate, what textures would there be in the final pulped granularity of college ruled 3M standard line?
and I sought the answer, or at least one answer. Tomorrow who knows?
And that really is the point. That there is a tomorrow, despite the ionization and atomization of any given mind. Despite these vortices that whirl us about in unsuspecting ways.
See you all soon, eh?
perhaps perhaps perhaps.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
this is my tag on to buttersidedown's tremendous piece on page one... though I suppose this will take all this right back to that page as well. If I could add to this without getting into everyone's way, I would. I am sorry about that.
seta
BARREN
indeed chess matches set with blade
their games over before they're bade
good day to you, sir, madam, take the spade
we'll bury our bones, our love, our sensual shade
take them all, packed up, paid.
no burial at sea more than flotation
the earth's edge serration rotation
with all false, I say FALSE, martyrs preaching location, location, location
sully the elocution of the thought
bring about the execution and the sieving of the soul
settle your anticipation and your burdened cot
counter and demand and counter and parlay and counter and ripost
the sword and defamation, the castration of the prostrate blindsided and sideswiped before the bowl.
beckon with torn tears
bring the hand in the come to me defiance
salute, tap that blade to forehead,
and begin your twin bladed enchant
meant to prove and to bend
to move and to rend
to tear apart all who may satiate your fears
and if your ferocity and your passion may be swayed by a pierced lung
air escaping from two places and blood the one
may your operatic cry splinter wood, crack the glass and send their minds reeling
fractured and unknowing heatstroked in the ovening sun.
there will lie the hero, the martyr,
remains in pieces, in whole, upon the fertilized loam
fossilization, mineralization, your face will turn to stone.
may it be an opal that sets your eyes
and may it be the gypsum that stole your breath
and may the silver that flees your veins keep the werewolves at bay
while within the last secret room within the heart, the sapphire is kept.
strange how love appears so human when clad in armor while splayed in the shade of the waxing evening, leaking its innards into the mound
I shall take up the sword, the shield, and tenderly foot this softening ground
and one day I shall catch up to those who committed this act upon my love
my blade shall flit and fly, my shield, my dove...
one by one they will fall without a cry
without sense, without fire
and without a sound.
Bound.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Very nice seta! I think you should throw one in (or copy and paste) to the April thread. If we could get BE, Radar, CranM and a few others to join in, it would almost be like old times.
See the car
as it barrels on past Feel this wave
of roadmuck and rainwash as it causes you to cower,
this bus stop post tempest with chipped paint and settled concrete Hear the hiss
as the second home pulls up and delivers a stream of replacements Watch them
as they never look up around nowhere but the ground Consider
that they never make a sound until they arrive home Turn your head
and gaze at the one with the slight limp and the paper bag Narrow your vision
to understand the gait and the carriage and the rolling lilt in her voice Step off the bus
again to find yourself suddenly beside this stumbling creature Carry her load
without pride, in silence, with honor Understand
that these 26 blocks upon which she walks spell adventure and pain Where she goes
in all this stormy weather and down this grated walk in the slashing rain And when her azure eyes
look upon you, the sole time within which you are noticed beyond your feet, Widened and dilated in this dampening light
the evening dimming beneath the oppressive outlet of nature's depression's leavings See the streetlamps cut
the only swaths of luz drenched gape And tear at
the ever deepening shadows. The both of you
consider the other, a stranger, momentarily So warm
with a sudden embrace and secret shared So alone
this chance meeting parts its way, somebody's care set to sift in the sheets... So home
bound and determined to make the day and its singular pace seem kept Please it you
to sleep within the rain To see your own way
to tilt thy head to drink and to take that one look Back to the intersection
where you met, barely believing Crossing the ever roving parkway
with its fleeting reds and whites and oncoming roars... on and on and on Evaporating into the caressed and satin urban night
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
fingers knuckled
under fisted
eyes cut
chin down
away
to say
this day
equate may
to here's impending
pounding yet
comprehension
steadfast staid
held
promising
each so deep
vats twisted
soft serve
choiced forward
to face
this day's equation
to stay faith
I will be the first on the doorstep with a stick of wheatgrass in my mouth, the mountain dew on one hand and my laptop in the other.
I will have flowers for her and the rest of you in my car now covered in road wear and dragonflies. Their wings may even glisten.
I will bring my words and my wariness and my philosophy and my love and my beckoning dreaming; of the shaman kind.
Aloft, we shall sally forward sucking chloroform and mineral water to cure our insomnia and other social ills, these things that cause our lack of dream and flexibility.
Sighing, gasping cloth and it would seem that our lives go quietly in between as, during our first few tentative days, we eye each other at close distances wondering at these corporeal ghosts that have touched us before we had the chance to count fingers and who now appear to sudden tangibility, living and breathing as colorful as we had once foreseen.
If a parasite does its deeds out of compassion and for love and because of the things they'd seen, well, let it be called poetry then. Let it be called precognition, the foretold, the a priori of infinitum concluded... the means that brings upon us the end, here at the beginning of all things.
The house windows will fly open as released doves.
Witness the glass as it vibrates under the force of freedom, the air that home may breathe after so long in asphyxiation.
To whomever may take the basement and to whomsoever may discover the attic: it matters not to me for I claim the roof as mine. Consider it my helipad from which I intend to soar at a moments notice, though my hovering skills are still very much under instruction. You may visit upon your leisure, upon your pleasure, within your measured mind.
I have noticed that the grass grows shorter as it approaches the road and wonder upon its care as I sip my spice tea.
Every sunset is surprising anymore as time appears to increase its pace day after day: I believe that by the time I pass the earth will then rotate about the sun at an hourly rate.
Over dinner, wine, and a grasp of the minds we may all finally meet, this odd matrix of mixed psyche. And it shall come to pass that all that has been laid on this table board shall become rasa, in fact as clear and cold as ice, as pure as a single sheet of mica. There will be those who mutter their adorations and adulations under their breath while others will stand atop the chair waving merlot, painting the rest of us with their carelessly given heart's mix. The stains are not permanent but they carry heat, scent and sadness... I will not forget them. There may be calls for speeches as many times as there will be calls for silence upon silence to listen to the wisest of the crickets under the stove. Their orchestrations will perhaps serenade our toast and our solitude in togetherness and our quest for the true poet's commune. Perhaps we will learn.
Capote, Kerouac, Lorca, Kinsbury, Plath, Frost, Angelou, Longfellow, the rest of you... with respect: we have arrived. And we appreciate you having set this table before us, for having built this house within which we have the temerity to live, for having planted the seeds that have allowed us to become the shimmering and fragile willows that we are. May we deepen the canyons you have worn into this green earth, the sediments and layers of your epic floods apparent and readable, tactile and osmotic hieroglyphics. May we begin new trails and trials for others to follow long after we have departed, making sure that the silver was properly polished and that the cobwebs of an age have been swept away.
As we ready for departure after this eternal weekend, the blade shall be brought forth and we must all decide the parts of us that must needs be cut away to store in this forever house, the ones that will bring us back, the ones that will keep us kin with ourselves, each other, the ancestral starlight and the future intrinsic. It will be bloodless but not without pain for it is with humility that all things must be left behind. It is with openness and the bared chest that sacred and holy things must be shared. It is with supplication and thanks that all must bow heads and receive each gift as if it were the last we were to ever receive, or the first of all wonders we have perceived. Without such ritual, without such honor, our brand of proetic love would never exist. All poets bleed, it has been said before, and indeed it is up to the rest of us, the participants and the watchers of such internal/external revelations, yes we must have our chalice at the ready to catch what we may from the air before the earth has sucked its last from the lot.
I shall drink this wine of life, the cup salute of forehead, lips, chest, and the ever closing of eyes savoring all of you upon my tongue, running my mouth and my mind. My tears will mingle with the salt and sweet of it. Tipping back, my mind will escape the hatch and seek others with which to become one, at last finding its lost abilities, May having finally arrived.
Our circle of footsteps will become indelible.
Our ink will smear many pages before our books are closed, one by one, and dusted to shelf in the libraries of mankind.
Who will be the last? Who will be our final guardian?
And will the heavens remember us as who we were, these physical creatures... or will they remember us as the living ethereal, pasting our true selves to a piece of pulped and mercuric wood to be glued, pressed and thrown upon the wind from the highest of heights?
The last that may be seen of us will be the grass arising from our language and our words as the page upon which we have continued to breathe breaks down and mingles once again with the earth wherein we birthed and where, whether in flame or in lane, we have retired so many centuries past.
it is through this, and through each other... we shall live unto the end of the earth. Here, at the beginning of all things, and at the end of all our hands.
may the ink never run dry.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
tenthousand hugs to you, seta... thank you so incredibly much for sharing so much of yourself here... you've wound up a bit overexposed it would appear, to people sans consciousness, self-awareness, and yet, have managed somehow to continue speaking...
kerouac asks, "daddy? what's a trooper?"
these words, every piece of works you've decided to let be seen, are amazing... your pen, indelible, indeed... follow the ink to where it takes you, sharpie fine blue, the page jumps at the suggestion of being read or written on by you
the kevlar, nit-free
the bridge, passable and without harass
Originally posted by setaside2 This one was written back in April and was the first to finally be squeezed from the muse after about 2 years of writer's block.
RETURN/of the left hand
I’m totally hated, and my Sumerian face is bruised.
She hit me as hard as she could,
The floodwaters rushing the gates,
And in supplication
I bowed out to the better movement.
With trepidation my tiptoed serenity is compromised;
The trembling of the earth the foreboding of yet another sunset unnamed.
The infallibility of the future and the waves of the new tide…
I have watched the moonrise
In awe,
The youngest of children revisited (and never fully understood).
The wonder and fear of it all
Bleached and smattered,
Dried like conch shells on a shelf,
Remnants of what was an evolution left upon the ears of the blind,
The last description a raspy voice lost the in the tempest finally arrived
And a postscript left alone.
so. hmmm... this one... posted seven months ago and now discovered (again) because I was looking for Textured to share with Of The Girl...
two years of writer's block held your length... makes sense (i hope i may be so bold as to assume... you know me) but i do wish to comment on it, now?
the first four words and the first two lines, and especially "she hit me as hard as she could" really touch me... those and the "Remnants of what was an evolution left upon the ears of the blind."...
i suppose we all have the ability to turn a blind eye on that which we do not wish to see or deal with
i contemplate climbing mount everest, but I am so out of shape I couldn't dare to dream... that's where i was with my blind eyes... i feel guilt for the length of time it took me to decide, (evolution's remnants) and the decision entailed nothing other than acknowledging my worth and realizing my potential. but i've said my Hail Mary's, Blessed Be the Tie That Binds, and.... it's okay.
I think it's facsinating how decanted your thoughts and words can be, Seta. Sometimes like those books where you don't want to leave one sentence for the next.
Originally posted by PastaNazi
who's next, coleen... you or me?
(fiddlefaddle and rot)
i've tried and failed a thousand times, i can't say it as well. so i guess that makes it your turn.
dear friend seta i am rendered speechless and awestruck and filled with all the positive forces of our poetic commune in days gone by. may that warmth and cohesion bless us all and sooner than later welcome our new friends to the fold.
so i pose a question to my lovely loves and poetry hut all-stars...if i build it, will you come? a place, our home, a community all our own?
*raises a glass in a toast and in hope to the kindred*
Originally posted by coleen i've tried and failed a thousand times, i can't say it as well. so i guess that makes it your turn.
dear friend seta i am rendered speechless and awestruck and filled with all the positive forces of our poetic commune in days gone by. may that warmth and cohesion bless us all and sooner than later welcome our new friends to the fold.
so i pose a question to my lovely loves and poetry hut all-stars...if i build it, will you come? a place, our home, a community all our own?
*raises a glass in a toast and in hope to the kindred*
I believe, my dearest of dear coleen type poetic princesses...
you know my answer to that question...
for some odd reason I think you all know... all we need is a good bottle of cherry wine.
may the ink never run dry.
*raises glass with miss coleen with a silent smile and a quiet inside*
who's next at this table? it is made of the finest polished driftwood that only the Atlantic coast can provide... and like those who sit around it, many stories lay within the finished grain.
drink with us this wine of life. you are welcome here.
seta
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
and while, admittedly that pome For the Proetic Gone to Peace was written as a goodbye, I have not left yet.
perhaps there is more to tell.
I just can't start another thread and let this one fall away. I just can't. If it's too long for people to decide to read, then so be it. I will continue adding to it as we go because it is the thread from which all of my stuff come and to where it all goes. Even the tags arrive here through various roundabout ways.
I guess a labor of love dies the hardest. If the mods can offer me a way of putting it to CD, then MAYBE I'll let it go and start another. Maybe. And if I do I will request this one deleted. I would need to start fresh.
I was considering posting the pomes individually and on their own to see what sort of reactions they would get being that much more accessible but that's just arrogant to the extreme. I did the long thread so it wouldn't get in everyone else's way LOL... ah well. Compromises and counterturns as they say. ah well.
perhaps its time to move on only because it's ME that's not fresh anymore LOL. I don't know. I ramble.
but that's the way of things, isn't it? I'm the wordy motherfucker. I at least appreciate the role. I would have preferred ethereal philosopher but hey, we take what we can get.
sigh
I should shut up about now.
seta
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Originally posted by coleen i've tried and failed a thousand times, i can't say it as well. so i guess that makes it your turn.
dear friend seta i am rendered speechless and awestruck and filled with all the positive forces of our poetic commune in days gone by. may that warmth and cohesion bless us all and sooner than later welcome our new friends to the fold.
so i pose a question to my lovely loves and poetry hut all-stars...if i build it, will you come? a place, our home, a community all our own?
*raises a glass in a toast and in hope to the kindred*
i've tried, too, but i'm hesitant to call it a failing... for now, anyway..
what's the general locale, miss c? i could certainly make a four day weekend, and besides... I LOVE com...munity
Originally posted by PastaNazi i've tried, too, but i'm hesitant to call it a failing... for now, anyway..
what's the general locale, miss c? i could certainly make a four day weekend, and besides... I LOVE com...munity
incorigible..
later, yo
if wishing made it so, i'd say where the mountains meet the ocean. sounds like an inspiring locale but i'm not too particular when it comes to locations. anwhere but here is always my motto. i'd happily leave it to the general concensus, i'm more interested in the community than the axis of lattitudes and longitudes.
Originally posted by setaside2
perhaps its time to move on only because it's ME that's not fresh anymore LOL. I don't know. I ramble.
but that's the way of things, isn't it? I'm the wordy motherfucker. I at least appreciate the role. I would have preferred ethereal philosopher but hey, we take what we can get.
sigh
I should shut up about now.
seta
never.
never.
and i say please...never.
upon our first exchange, it was our shared penchant for verbosity that made me smile so. please don't leave me to myself to be the only loquacious one in the bunch....we two are of the chattering order (a nod to our dear friend mr gaiman )and it is certainly no fun chattering to one's self.
Originally posted by PastaNazi i'd totally be willing to host it at my house
in fact, all y'all can just come and stay
there's nearly one third of an acre of land and i promise not to put any of the women to work in the yard
kidding, you know?
theres a few weeds to pull LOL...
i'm serious, btw...
perhaps an blanket email or somesuch... september is LOVELY here
colorado springs is the farthest west i've ever been. and at that i was only allowed to kiss the tiny toes of the rockies, it is a sadness that i have yet to remedy.
i don't mind pulling weeds, shovelling, cleaning...what have you. name it and i could never refuse.
I've heard that Alamosa is nice this time of year...
but I'd go anywhere to get all these blokes up in a singular space.
I was absolutely serious about it all those months back but no one took me up! Perhaps it is because I'm NOT the cute one, as I had originally supposed. dang.
but you ladies name the time and space and continuum place, I'll bring whatever it is you need me to bring.
And I reiterate. I get the roof. And a cup of really good tea.
that is all I ask.
seta
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Comments
if one were to have the moment of human weakness and commit suicide on paper, how would it look, how would it translate, what textures would there be in the final pulped granularity of college ruled 3M standard line?
and I sought the answer, or at least one answer. Tomorrow who knows?
And that really is the point. That there is a tomorrow, despite the ionization and atomization of any given mind. Despite these vortices that whirl us about in unsuspecting ways.
See you all soon, eh?
perhaps perhaps perhaps.
HI!!!
seta
BARREN
indeed chess matches set with blade
their games over before they're bade
good day to you, sir, madam, take the spade
we'll bury our bones, our love, our sensual shade
take them all, packed up, paid.
no burial at sea more than flotation
the earth's edge serration rotation
with all false, I say FALSE, martyrs preaching location, location, location
sully the elocution of the thought
bring about the execution and the sieving of the soul
settle your anticipation and your burdened cot
counter and demand and counter and parlay and counter and ripost
the sword and defamation, the castration of the prostrate blindsided and sideswiped before the bowl.
beckon with torn tears
bring the hand in the come to me defiance
salute, tap that blade to forehead,
and begin your twin bladed enchant
meant to prove and to bend
to move and to rend
to tear apart all who may satiate your fears
and if your ferocity and your passion may be swayed by a pierced lung
air escaping from two places and blood the one
may your operatic cry splinter wood, crack the glass and send their minds reeling
fractured and unknowing heatstroked in the ovening sun.
there will lie the hero, the martyr,
remains in pieces, in whole, upon the fertilized loam
fossilization, mineralization, your face will turn to stone.
may it be an opal that sets your eyes
and may it be the gypsum that stole your breath
and may the silver that flees your veins keep the werewolves at bay
while within the last secret room within the heart, the sapphire is kept.
strange how love appears so human when clad in armor while splayed in the shade of the waxing evening, leaking its innards into the mound
I shall take up the sword, the shield, and tenderly foot this softening ground
and one day I shall catch up to those who committed this act upon my love
my blade shall flit and fly, my shield, my dove...
one by one they will fall without a cry
without sense, without fire
and without a sound.
Bound.
thank you so much for sharing
directionless, mystified, timeless, desensitized: how to commit suicide on paper.
absolutely beautiful!!! Beautiful writing
Oh and I've given up on re-reading all your stuff, will have to wait to read them in your book when you publish one!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
See the car
as it barrels on past
Feel this wave
of roadmuck and rainwash as it causes you to cower,
this bus stop post tempest with chipped paint and settled concrete
Hear the hiss
as the second home pulls up and delivers a stream of replacements
Watch them
as they never look up around nowhere but the ground
Consider
that they never make a sound until they arrive home
Turn your head
and gaze at the one with the slight limp and the paper bag
Narrow your vision
to understand the gait and the carriage and the rolling lilt in her voice
Step off the bus
again to find yourself suddenly beside this stumbling creature
Carry her load
without pride, in silence, with honor
Understand
that these 26 blocks upon which she walks spell adventure and pain
Where she goes
in all this stormy weather and down this grated walk in the slashing rain
And when her azure eyes
look upon you, the sole time within which you are noticed beyond your feet,
Widened and dilated in this dampening light
the evening dimming beneath the oppressive outlet of nature's depression's leavings
See the streetlamps cut
the only swaths of luz drenched gape
And tear at
the ever deepening shadows.
The both of you
consider the other, a stranger, momentarily
So warm
with a sudden embrace and secret shared
So alone
this chance meeting parts its way, somebody's care set to sift in the sheets...
So home
bound and determined to make the day and its singular pace seem kept
Please it you
to sleep within the rain
To see your own way
to tilt thy head to drink and to take that one look
Back to the intersection
where you met, barely believing
Crossing the ever roving parkway
with its fleeting reds and whites and oncoming roars... on and on and on
Evaporating into the caressed and satin urban night
under fisted
eyes cut
chin down
away
to say
this day
equate may
to here's impending
pounding yet
comprehension
steadfast staid
held
promising
each so deep
vats twisted
soft serve
choiced forward
to face
this day's equation
to stay faith
"everybody like parfaits"
an excellent moving picture, seta
we ladies always appreciate a little hand with the baggage, these angels momentary or permanent, they are all blessings
peace to you
peace and a pen
you should be like 'hi i'm seta the fat fuck in colorado.heres my poetry,if you like,oh and btw,fuck you matt you fucking republican piece of shit.'
that'd be pretty sweet man.
-For the Proetic Gone to Peace-
I will be the first on the doorstep with a stick of wheatgrass in my mouth, the mountain dew on one hand and my laptop in the other.
I will have flowers for her and the rest of you in my car now covered in road wear and dragonflies. Their wings may even glisten.
I will bring my words and my wariness and my philosophy and my love and my beckoning dreaming; of the shaman kind.
Aloft, we shall sally forward sucking chloroform and mineral water to cure our insomnia and other social ills, these things that cause our lack of dream and flexibility.
Sighing, gasping cloth and it would seem that our lives go quietly in between as, during our first few tentative days, we eye each other at close distances wondering at these corporeal ghosts that have touched us before we had the chance to count fingers and who now appear to sudden tangibility, living and breathing as colorful as we had once foreseen.
If a parasite does its deeds out of compassion and for love and because of the things they'd seen, well, let it be called poetry then. Let it be called precognition, the foretold, the a priori of infinitum concluded... the means that brings upon us the end, here at the beginning of all things.
The house windows will fly open as released doves.
Witness the glass as it vibrates under the force of freedom, the air that home may breathe after so long in asphyxiation.
To whomever may take the basement and to whomsoever may discover the attic: it matters not to me for I claim the roof as mine. Consider it my helipad from which I intend to soar at a moments notice, though my hovering skills are still very much under instruction. You may visit upon your leisure, upon your pleasure, within your measured mind.
I have noticed that the grass grows shorter as it approaches the road and wonder upon its care as I sip my spice tea.
Every sunset is surprising anymore as time appears to increase its pace day after day: I believe that by the time I pass the earth will then rotate about the sun at an hourly rate.
Over dinner, wine, and a grasp of the minds we may all finally meet, this odd matrix of mixed psyche. And it shall come to pass that all that has been laid on this table board shall become rasa, in fact as clear and cold as ice, as pure as a single sheet of mica. There will be those who mutter their adorations and adulations under their breath while others will stand atop the chair waving merlot, painting the rest of us with their carelessly given heart's mix. The stains are not permanent but they carry heat, scent and sadness... I will not forget them. There may be calls for speeches as many times as there will be calls for silence upon silence to listen to the wisest of the crickets under the stove. Their orchestrations will perhaps serenade our toast and our solitude in togetherness and our quest for the true poet's commune. Perhaps we will learn.
Capote, Kerouac, Lorca, Kinsbury, Plath, Frost, Angelou, Longfellow, the rest of you... with respect: we have arrived. And we appreciate you having set this table before us, for having built this house within which we have the temerity to live, for having planted the seeds that have allowed us to become the shimmering and fragile willows that we are. May we deepen the canyons you have worn into this green earth, the sediments and layers of your epic floods apparent and readable, tactile and osmotic hieroglyphics. May we begin new trails and trials for others to follow long after we have departed, making sure that the silver was properly polished and that the cobwebs of an age have been swept away.
As we ready for departure after this eternal weekend, the blade shall be brought forth and we must all decide the parts of us that must needs be cut away to store in this forever house, the ones that will bring us back, the ones that will keep us kin with ourselves, each other, the ancestral starlight and the future intrinsic. It will be bloodless but not without pain for it is with humility that all things must be left behind. It is with openness and the bared chest that sacred and holy things must be shared. It is with supplication and thanks that all must bow heads and receive each gift as if it were the last we were to ever receive, or the first of all wonders we have perceived. Without such ritual, without such honor, our brand of proetic love would never exist. All poets bleed, it has been said before, and indeed it is up to the rest of us, the participants and the watchers of such internal/external revelations, yes we must have our chalice at the ready to catch what we may from the air before the earth has sucked its last from the lot.
I shall drink this wine of life, the cup salute of forehead, lips, chest, and the ever closing of eyes savoring all of you upon my tongue, running my mouth and my mind. My tears will mingle with the salt and sweet of it. Tipping back, my mind will escape the hatch and seek others with which to become one, at last finding its lost abilities, May having finally arrived.
Our circle of footsteps will become indelible.
Our ink will smear many pages before our books are closed, one by one, and dusted to shelf in the libraries of mankind.
Who will be the last? Who will be our final guardian?
And will the heavens remember us as who we were, these physical creatures... or will they remember us as the living ethereal, pasting our true selves to a piece of pulped and mercuric wood to be glued, pressed and thrown upon the wind from the highest of heights?
The last that may be seen of us will be the grass arising from our language and our words as the page upon which we have continued to breathe breaks down and mingles once again with the earth wherein we birthed and where, whether in flame or in lane, we have retired so many centuries past.
it is through this, and through each other... we shall live unto the end of the earth. Here, at the beginning of all things, and at the end of all our hands.
may the ink never run dry.
tenthousand hugs to you, seta... thank you so incredibly much for sharing so much of yourself here... you've wound up a bit overexposed it would appear, to people sans consciousness, self-awareness, and yet, have managed somehow to continue speaking...
kerouac asks, "daddy? what's a trooper?"
these words, every piece of works you've decided to let be seen, are amazing... your pen, indelible, indeed... follow the ink to where it takes you, sharpie fine blue, the page jumps at the suggestion of being read or written on by you
the kevlar, nit-free
the bridge, passable and without harass
who's next, coleen... you or me?
(fiddlefaddle and rot)
so. hmmm... this one... posted seven months ago and now discovered (again) because I was looking for Textured to share with Of The Girl...
two years of writer's block held your length... makes sense (i hope i may be so bold as to assume... you know me) but i do wish to comment on it, now?
the first four words and the first two lines, and especially "she hit me as hard as she could" really touch me... those and the "Remnants of what was an evolution left upon the ears of the blind."...
i suppose we all have the ability to turn a blind eye on that which we do not wish to see or deal with
i contemplate climbing mount everest, but I am so out of shape I couldn't dare to dream... that's where i was with my blind eyes... i feel guilt for the length of time it took me to decide, (evolution's remnants) and the decision entailed nothing other than acknowledging my worth and realizing my potential. but i've said my Hail Mary's, Blessed Be the Tie That Binds, and.... it's okay.
I think it's facsinating how decanted your thoughts and words can be, Seta. Sometimes like those books where you don't want to leave one sentence for the next.
ahh... I ramble
ciao
i've tried and failed a thousand times, i can't say it as well. so i guess that makes it your turn.
dear friend seta i am rendered speechless and awestruck and filled with all the positive forces of our poetic commune in days gone by. may that warmth and cohesion bless us all and sooner than later welcome our new friends to the fold.
so i pose a question to my lovely loves and poetry hut all-stars...if i build it, will you come? a place, our home, a community all our own?
*raises a glass in a toast and in hope to the kindred*
I believe, my dearest of dear coleen type poetic princesses...
you know my answer to that question...
for some odd reason I think you all know... all we need is a good bottle of cherry wine.
may the ink never run dry.
*raises glass with miss coleen with a silent smile and a quiet inside*
who's next at this table? it is made of the finest polished driftwood that only the Atlantic coast can provide... and like those who sit around it, many stories lay within the finished grain.
drink with us this wine of life. you are welcome here.
seta
perhaps there is more to tell.
I just can't start another thread and let this one fall away. I just can't. If it's too long for people to decide to read, then so be it. I will continue adding to it as we go because it is the thread from which all of my stuff come and to where it all goes. Even the tags arrive here through various roundabout ways.
I guess a labor of love dies the hardest. If the mods can offer me a way of putting it to CD, then MAYBE I'll let it go and start another. Maybe. And if I do I will request this one deleted. I would need to start fresh.
I was considering posting the pomes individually and on their own to see what sort of reactions they would get being that much more accessible but that's just arrogant to the extreme. I did the long thread so it wouldn't get in everyone else's way LOL... ah well. Compromises and counterturns as they say. ah well.
perhaps its time to move on only because it's ME that's not fresh anymore LOL. I don't know. I ramble.
but that's the way of things, isn't it? I'm the wordy motherfucker. I at least appreciate the role. I would have preferred ethereal philosopher but hey,
sigh
I should shut up about now.
seta
i've tried, too, but i'm hesitant to call it a failing... for now, anyway..
what's the general locale, miss c? i could certainly make a four day weekend, and besides... I LOVE com...munity
incorigible..
later, yo
if wishing made it so, i'd say where the mountains meet the ocean. sounds like an inspiring locale but i'm not too particular when it comes to locations. anwhere but here is always my motto.
in fact, all y'all can just come and stay
there's nearly one third of an acre of land and i promise not to put any of the women to work in the yard
kidding, you know?
theres a few weeds to pull LOL...
i'm serious, btw...
perhaps an blanket email or somesuch... september is LOVELY here
never.
never.
and i say please...never.
upon our first exchange, it was our shared penchant for verbosity that made me smile so. please don't leave me to myself to be the only loquacious one in the bunch....we two are of the chattering order (a nod to our dear friend mr gaiman
colorado springs is the farthest west i've ever been. and at that i was only allowed to kiss the tiny toes of the rockies, it is a sadness that i have yet to remedy.
i don't mind pulling weeds, shovelling, cleaning...what have you. name it and i could never refuse.
but I'd go anywhere to get all these blokes up in a singular space.
I was absolutely serious about it all those months back but no one took me up! Perhaps it is because I'm NOT the cute one, as I had originally supposed. dang.
but you ladies name the time and space and continuum place, I'll bring whatever it is you need me to bring.
And I reiterate. I get the roof. And a cup of really good tea.
that is all I ask.
seta
HOLY SHIT page nineteen?!?! wtf is this?!?! man it has been a lonnnnnnnnng ride
thanks for strolling along with your slightly bent and whacked out setaside.
he loves ya.
and seriously, thank you for sticking to it
And we him.