Here's one more and then I really gotta go. Thanks for reading all this stuff guys, I realize this thread is getting a little overlong. I hope you'll all keep bearing with me. Or at least letting me bare my soul.
Seta
REDSAND/marmalade
The sun burned orange marmalade in my hair
She sat astride
A stride
A ride
She sat away on a park bench
Contemplating white caps that weren’t to be
Or used to be
On a grassy and somewhat speckled knoll
I remembered this
Or did once
Twice
A fore or a score
Before my hair was clouded grey
And misty
By the stormy seas of memory
She sang a song to me back
When my head was filled with
Moths and butterflies
When restrictions went unlimited
Limits had no restrictions
And the world was somewhat newer
She was the happy princess
A statuette crying a jewel
For the little brown bird and I
And now my eyes
They shine silverintriplicate in
The pale and frosty stare that only
A winter bay window can provide
Double pained glass and I
Watch my eyes watching I
Tragedy:
For all those years on a park bench,
“The Uncaring,”
And we became acquainted in a book;
When my head was still moths and butterflies
And grassy knolls rolled like sinking ships off in the
coastal bay
I had understood the meaning of the word
Avoidance
What could I say
What can I say
Sometimes the pale green carpet of this world
Plush as it may seem
Still burns as redsand underfeet
Perhaps only because I prefer remaining shoeless in the sun
While in the midday elsewhere
There lies a park bench
Setting astride
Riding a ride going nowhere
For it is moored in concrete
God rest its weathered metal soul
God heal your orange marmalade heart
And help me change my eyes from the silverintriplicate
Of my reflection
Or of my reflection upon you
They used to be gold.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Okay, nobody liked the other one. LOL so I'm hoping this one fares better. So anyway here it is.... the next few will be a little different from my norm but still me.
DAYLIGHT SAVINGS/once
Dawn crawled up the shore like a drunken sailor
Smitten with love and persistent
He finds that he climbs cliffs with ease
They call this rotation, the morning life
Beginning again, the way it was
I walk amongst the aqua seafoam
Picking my way through the seashells and
Star
Fish
Much like an acoustic thread
A flamenco lament or praise
To what I’ve not necessarily surrounded myself with
But to where I may be
And I sigh a wisp of wind
Breath that is inhaled somewhere in Portugal later this fall
I hope I’m still alive then
In Lisbon perhaps I’ll catch my breath
Someday when I won’t catch a wink thrown to me
From a somewhat wayward side
Music clinks beneath my feet
As those shells
Metallic, plasticized, flaccid, concrete
They shift in accordance to my little earthquakes
And the pools of water shaped as the footsteps
I’m careless enough to leave behind
Are reminders only to be more careful
I tread my way up toward the boardwalk
Like a drunken sailor
Like the smitten heart I may be indeed
And find the climb up the stairs to be a flight of sorts
Rusted and stubborn with age and resistance
The nails that scream to be pulled out
Don’t bother me at all as they lie silent
I am not their prey this early morn
Perhaps dawn will spend the day with me
It wouldn’t be entirely unfaithful or ungrateful
To cheat upon the night
Would it now?
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Here's a piece that has taken me like 5 years to finish, LOL and I am not entirely sure that I am happy with it yet. I have spread it around some and a lot of people have said they like it, and a few have said that they don't. I never know who's being honest! Help me out here...
THE DAY AFTER/the day before (tom sawyer come again)
Tomorrow appeared on my doorstep yesterday
Shaken
Drunk
Confused
I stood naked and caught off guard
Tomorrow
Is never supposed to come
With her hair ragged
And dress shattered
Pieces of which still flutter and dance
In the wind sailing between
The whitewashed and fading
Pine slats of my front gate
Her litter affronts me
I asked her to leave
In frustration
She placed her head against my shoulder
Cheek upon my battered breast
The sun dipped for a moment
Stars flickered
The day began anew
And she cried because she still misunderstood
Her meaning of well-being
“Never have sex with Destiny,”
She said,
Making love as it was.
“He leaves you in the morning
Looking for brother Fate.”
I apologized for being rude
Perhaps humility is rare and
I’d been looking for her elusive
And ethereal beauty
She and I date now
A casual affair at a glance
And a kiss when necessary
As an insomniac I offer naught but support
And she
Nothing but her time
Occasionally her hands tremble
Wrought with the constant apprehension she shares so willingly…
As the sun sets
Tom Sawyer redoes my fence for an apple and
She sits on the front porch swing
Swaying as she is brought ever closer to her element
She’s brilliant after midnight
Tranquil before dawn
And she never sleeps
And she never sleeps.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Hey seta ... I gotta say that your poetry is pretty damn impressive. you seem to be able to flow with all these words .. and meanings ..... thoughts .... it's great. i really respect you for posting all this stuff, coz it can be pretty personal.
keep it up ....
So this one was written quite awhile back and was originally going to be called 90210, because it reminded me of an poem if it were to be (god forbid) produced by Aaron Spelling. No offense to you party of five, saved by the bell, 90210 watching folk out there... but seriously. WHY? I don't know.
To be honest, I have no place for television. I love movies, for certain, but TV sucks the lifeblood out of me. I have been TV free with 2 exceptions for 6 months now. I don't miss it one bit. Read a book, watch a good movie, have a conversation for crying out loud. Reality TV is a sure sign that if the apocalypse isn't upon is... it should be.
But enough of my preachy mouth. Here is a piece that was once 90210 and is now...
CALIFORNIA/over it
In the headlights
His eyes were wicker gold.
She drove with a hurry,
With a vengeance,
And then with grief.
The radio signaled 10:03 p.m.
It was the loss of love
And the loss of life
As the song sang the same for the two;
Her brake lights shone
Rays of blood in the filtered slivers of moonshine.
Her sliding building in intensity,
She realized the mistake she made.
The screech came from underneath
As her car cried out in desperation;
The art of the motionless mime
Reached a level of impossibility distant enough that
She reached for it,
Her hand grasping at the ricochet of her headlights
Detailing a forest she would try forever to forget.
There was an explosive sound
As her car jumped and sank in the rear.
Her headlights blew out.
She spun in the gravel like a dead flashlight
And slowed to a rather off tilt stop.
Still gritting her teeth,
She stepped out,
Bleeding from her left knee,
Tinting the dirt a gritty black
In the offset refraction of the domelit interior.
Dazed,
She touched the stillness that surrounded her
And was shocked enough that she flinched,
Pulled back,
Turning away from the disquieting silence
And the settling dust...
As an afterthought she shut her door
Thinking of her poor wasted battery.
She limped over to his body
Now shadowed red
In the dim watching of her parking lights.
Looking him over she sniffled a bit.
A blood mixed tear landed unceremoniously
And forgotten
On his blue green and black plaid flannel.
He was unconscious,
Living shallow,
But warm enough.
About facing she stumbled a bit and began to walk
Heading in an easterly direction.
After about a quarter of a mile
She felt a bit chilly
And her thumb cut a silhouette in the night sky.
Her ragged ponytail bounced
From shoulder to shoulder
As she faded into the haze.
In the distance
Sirens wailed tonelessly,
And outside
The temperature was a cool
56? Fahrenheit.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
setA!!
as said in Mr Radars area
im all over the place at the mo!
but your work is consistently great
ill comment more when the Sultry returns from being on stage!
its a hard life
Some people have to have the sultry evenings Cocktails in the blue, red and grey But I like every minute of the day.
INTER-FUCKING-MISSION!!!
Newcastle-Riverside 02/22/92!!!
E.rutherford New Jersey 01/06/06
Athens -Greece.survived !barely-
Wembley 18/06/07- no words- just smiles!
Certainly easier to follow than your others and very visual. I almost wanted it to be a short story. Continue it with her wandering through the woods until Jason Voorhees comes up and butchers her . . . yes, with a lightsaber.
Now that is a movie I would go see, no doubt. A true amalgamation movie. I think that people would flock to it in horrified fascination. The ultimate sci-fi blasphemy. LOL
A new, really really really short piece. You won't believe how short it is. And it is what it says it is, and I like it. So there.
REFRIGERATOR WORD ART
To witness:
Objects of desire
God’s pleasure pew
Flowers’ license hold
Anxious are wild voices
“Eternity?”
Pours like ice
Date
Time
Eyes on your wine
Sugar fills
Invitation
Powers blue
Delicious in the morning
Inspired shotgun peace
Sacred room…
Magic is for nothing
Does love elope on its own?
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
okay... another one... and I'll let this lie for a day or so...
words of a man walking slowly past
......my father once told me never to give of myself to anyone who offers the cursory handshake, the bit conversation or the obligatory wink of an eye no matter how forthright, nor daring, nor intriguing the individual may be. Now, it may seem that writing in and of itself is the barest of bare souls and may, therefore, be determined as a sign of vulnerability; at the very least it opposes my fathers advice. However, I have also heard it said that words were the devil’s greatest invention for they are the key notes in what symphony of lies we may chorus a part in. Henceforth, in your local library you shall most indubitably find a Fiction section amongst many of your Non-Fiction items (and, as of yet, a great many “Non”-Fictitious books are only based on an “honest” man’s opinion and may therefore be subject to bitter discussion concerning the percentage of truth involved). So perhaps it is giving much of oneself even to whisper a name or acknowledge that handshake with one of your own. After all, whose game are you playing?
My daughter is too young to have to deal with such things. She gives herself sweetly enough to anyone that offers the hand, the wave, or the smile. It may be that the wink is still too subtle a gesture for her to comprehend; also it may be too complex considering all a wink may imply.
My son is just old enough to know that a person (who may or may not know him well) can be manipulated by physical disposition. Beginning with a facial barrage of such horrible tragedy laced with wit and enough post-toddler cynic irony (for he knows when the goat’s gotten), and ending with any number of well choreographed and rehearsed psychological frequencies emitted, it seems, from the walls themselves.
Little does he know that I understand his plans (for I recall contriving them my self at his saintly age) and am determined to deviate from his propaganda.
I have found that many people use conversation as a power piece in an almost chess-esque struggle for continuing supremacy over others. Law and Debate are other matters entirely. However, everyone has the friend that must get above another in a game of conversational one-ups-man-ship that defies historical and logistical boundaries. The most serious issue of this dilemma to be pondered is that side B of this two part discussion will (almost always) allow themselves to get swept away by the hubris; and the fevered passion with which they deliver their colorful rebuttals is fit for a king before parliament.
Nay I write because I write and because I write soon truths will be forthcoming that my subconscious does not willingly let go (most certainly not in broad daylight lest these truths turn to ash and dirty the carpet). These vampires of the soul are generally petty creatures, self- absorbed and they hang around mostly due to their own ignorance of other issues only knowing when it’s their time to rise and when it is their time to have a seat and let someone else take over.
As they rise, they become all consuming. Psychiatrists call these anxieties or obsessions or (or) compulsions. It’s context sensitive. I care not. However, we all have them and sooner or later they must be dealt with, and when they are dealt with we must ask ourselves:
Have I lied?
Discovery brings questions. Ask any religious scholar fighting to believe. Or any scientist struggling for proof. And even they must ask:
Have I been lied to?
Truth is a colorful perspective and like those fabled issues of love, happiness, etc… I suspect that adding the word “true”(adj.) to such nouns causes them to become hypothetical gestures; things only attainable by degrees or measured by degrees, much like burning paper (urban fires are also rated by the amount of destruction they cause, as are tornadoes, but that is a whole other ball of wax)......
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Oh Radar, don't you know that all that matters to me is that we met? I no longer need to lure you in with my linguistic charms...
Oh who the hell..?
Ah. No, my dear MASHed droid, I don't have any medals to give. And you know, it's probably not very good anyway, perhaps I'm running out of new material...
You never have to read anything you don't want to, Radar dear. Remember that.
As it were, thanks for giving it a SHOT.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Henrik Ibsen is incredible. the Doll House is one of my favorite plays ever.
what am I judging? I could be honest and say that I'm judging everything, myself, the ethereal... I could be just as honest and tell you that I don't know.
No, my father never gave me that advice, it popped into my head.
I often wonder if my writing is really the result of me acting as some sort of medium as the spirits who wish so desperately to write and express once again take hold. I have a funny dream from time to time that they are lined up, jostling one another as if they are at the opening of some expansive life altering cinematic preview saying, ME! It's MY turn, I'm Next! and then literary fights break out and someone steals Tiny Tim's crutch and uses it to beat the shit out of Longfellow who was trying to bribe his way up the line with dandelion wine stolen from Chaucer. It all plays into it nicely. I wish I was so honored.
I judge myself constantly. I am guilty of not being innocent. I realize that we all are but I take the offense and the pride and the love and the atrocity of being human very personally.
I judge.
I am told by many folks on here that they admire my openness... well I have learned to be no other way. My life is open to those who wish to see it for the bland acid tested piece of sidewalk that it is... oh I've lived plenty between the cracks, because I have ever feared the cracks themselves and I have usually just been trying to protect myself from the blinding snowglare of sunshine off the concrete. I don't know what's ignorance and what's just hidden from me. I have a fair intuition for people and places... I think it comes to those of us in here who have such vivid imaginations. Avenues that appear obvious and mundane to us appear colorful and abstract to so many others. My dreams are so important to me that if I fail to dream for more than 4 nights in a row, I panic.
I now come to this board to share my dreams and visions with strangers who have had no previous knowledge of this wild mind in Colorado. perhaps the altitude finally got him, they'll say. He has to be stoned, others will shout.
Never did the green, I'm weird enough, don't you think? I tried it, I don't enjoy having my paranoia HEIGHTENED for me, HA, thanks. I don't need THAT, no sir. And the altitude only works in my favor.
I don't know radar, jeremy, all of you. I don't know. My heart aches these days. I have had dreams of a massive world war since I was 12. I had dreams of planes crashing into skyscrapers for 5 years before the WTC incident. I have dreams of Denver being leveled by tornadoes sometime in the next 10 - 20 years. I have dreams of the aftermath of the largest nuclear holocaust in existence.
I have dreamed that God has talked to me in a rainforest. I have dreamed that my head has been bitten off by a dragon and sewn back on by some faceless angel with a vast library and the fruit of youth and vibrance upon a silver platter. I have dreamed that I have drowned and that the same faceless angelica saved me again and dried me to softness in front of a gathering fire in the largest library hearth I've ever seen.. he had the throne chair in front of it you know...
And perhaps I've dreamed of you. I have met many people there. I often wonder who they were and why they were chosen to share with me or why I was chosen for their dreams. And I wish to know.
I don't know what I judge, Radar. I do know that we all need to live again. Because this life that humans have chosen for themselves, this epoch, is merely a shadowland.
Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night with your heart quickened as if someone long lost was calling your name and some quiet, subtle attraction made you turn to the window as a if you were a human compass? have you felt that attraction grow stronger and wane and grow in strength again? Do you ever look at a passing individual and find yourself smitten with them, no explanation needed? You must follow them home, you must know their life, you must... but of course you do not. The insane are locked up just as easily as the criminal. I feel these things constantly, every day, every quaking minute.
I am insane, I love, I judge, I dream. I am kind. Humankind. I suppose that's all I really should have said to answer your questions, but then :( that wouldn't be me, now would it?
love,
seta
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
LOL I pour my heart out to you and you want recognition for standing around waiting for it to end. hee hee. I'm sure I have a medal around here somewhere...
Maybe I'll make you one. Most Patient of Poetry Patrons.
Does that work?
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
I appreciate you pouring your poor soul out. That is commendable.
I have no such soul to drain, only stale phantom ale.
I am speechless to respond
breathless to gasp
As far as your responsibility as medium to the spirits, have your read Clive Barker's Book of Blood? Just hope nobody finds you naked in your room with tiny scrawlings of stories tattooed all over your body.
ok, so i've read this all. i'm officially updated. and i require no medal. i expect no special recognition. all i want is a hug (be it mental or actual).
oh yeah, and i still want to get you stoned. i assure you no paranoia with me. you'd feel nothing but relaxation in my presence.
I apologize for my self-deprecation, it cans me and ships me to grocery stores occasionally.
Hmmmm... a setaphor.
You know, that is yet another high compliment on this board that I do not deserve. But I LOVE it. LOL. Oh how COOL would that be?
And my dear 13PJ13. While you would really have to work hard to get me to agree to getting stoned, I will more than accept a hug.
And somehow I suspect that relaxation really isn't... hmm.... okay I get it.
Get me stoned and take advantage of the poor poet eh? Hmph. Well I don't suppose I'll be arguing about that.... LOL where's Being Enlightened? She seems to be all about taking advantage of oddball poets.
and PS where's Savannah66 and coleen of late? I miss them dearly.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Originally posted by setaside2 Annnnnnd one more for the time being. This one's a little older.
Say So...
While you were out
While
While you were out
Hey man, while you were out she called and lightning struck your tree outside the second floor window.
Hey. While you were out, man:
The big dipper is only half full but at least it’s full of something unlike some people I know:
While you were out…
The doorbell kept ringing and the answering machine kept erupting with messages for “Jill” and she hasn’t slept here for weeks…
While you were out…
Some guy who said he knew you in high school stopped by with an empty gas tank and crashed on the lawn and the world had the audacity to keep in its current pace of rotation even though you were gone…
While you were out…
The house said goodnight and its windows shut concealing any who may have passed and all who have just passed through like so many ghostly café patrons…
While you were out…
My crayons melted and all can read of the once proud Crayola is the O-L-A like some sort of Spanish hello and now I can’t draw…
the card table folded and put itself away if not only to protect me from memories of you, then only to protect my good hand
While you were out…
The champagne was gold, the water was silver, the earth a
greenish-blue. Maybe my crayons didn’t melt after all…
While you were out…
I left this message on the heritage dining table and explained a few things that made me cry to which the fish in the aquarium responded empathetically swimming around…
I packed up my crayons
While you were out…
The driveway tossed and turned under my troubled feet, the mailbox saluting with involuntary flag down…
While you were out…
My shadow faded down the sidewalk in the glitter glare of the streetlight…
This paper held my hand and…
While you were out…
This pen did me a favor by spilling its guts…
While you were out…
This pen did me a favor once again:
And told you goodbye
Originally posted by setaside2
And my dear 13PJ13. While you would really have to work hard to get me to agree to getting stoned, I will more than accept a hug.
And somehow I suspect that relaxation really isn't... hmm.... okay I get it.
Get me stoned and take advantage of the poor poet eh? Hmph. Well I don't suppose I'll be arguing about that.... LOL
ladies and gentlemen.....HE CAN BE TAUGHT!!
if you were in S.FL tonight, i can assure you that you'd be fully taken advantage of.
Justam... I am very very happy that somebody on here did. I am very fond of that piece myself and for some reason, i always picture this house in my mind that is an amalgamation of three houses that I have history with put together. It's always strange to me.
I wrote that whole piece on one of those While You Were Out... sticky pads. I think I still have the actual stickies around here somewhere.
But as it were I like it a lot too. I hope there are some other pieces that have moved a few of you out there!
Let me know!
seta
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
The pencil fell from my hand
Losing interest in what surrounded me
I lost myself in her beauty
Though outwardly unwanted
As I was too young to brag
I thought of a bright red apple
-a reward for this childish institution-
That I had brought in
And precisely how much I wanted to eat it
There was a butterfly outside the window
That distracted my peripheral sight
And I turned my head to avoid those
Mysteriously blue eyes
I guess it may have been an understanding
The monarch
The queen of metamorphosis
Flitted to and fro and then
Danced away
As a shout, an exclamation
Arose from what may have been an angel
But what turned out to be real authority
And while I hung my head
In false shame
For having been so easily caught
I let my eyes wander to the goddess in pink
An immersed my self in the blue
Once again
As the mistress continued to check my spelling.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Comments
http://www.myspace.com/alotalotbetweenus
Seta
REDSAND/marmalade
The sun burned orange marmalade in my hair
She sat astride
A stride
A ride
She sat away on a park bench
Contemplating white caps that weren’t to be
Or used to be
On a grassy and somewhat speckled knoll
I remembered this
Or did once
Twice
A fore or a score
Before my hair was clouded grey
And misty
By the stormy seas of memory
She sang a song to me back
When my head was filled with
Moths and butterflies
When restrictions went unlimited
Limits had no restrictions
And the world was somewhat newer
She was the happy princess
A statuette crying a jewel
For the little brown bird and I
And now my eyes
They shine silverintriplicate in
The pale and frosty stare that only
A winter bay window can provide
Double pained glass and I
Watch my eyes watching I
Tragedy:
For all those years on a park bench,
“The Uncaring,”
And we became acquainted in a book;
When my head was still moths and butterflies
And grassy knolls rolled like sinking ships off in the
coastal bay
I had understood the meaning of the word
Avoidance
What could I say
What can I say
Sometimes the pale green carpet of this world
Plush as it may seem
Still burns as redsand underfeet
Perhaps only because I prefer remaining shoeless in the sun
While in the midday elsewhere
There lies a park bench
Setting astride
Riding a ride going nowhere
For it is moored in concrete
God rest its weathered metal soul
God heal your orange marmalade heart
And help me change my eyes from the silverintriplicate
Of my reflection
Or of my reflection upon you
They used to be gold.
DAYLIGHT SAVINGS/once
Dawn crawled up the shore like a drunken sailor
Smitten with love and persistent
He finds that he climbs cliffs with ease
They call this rotation, the morning life
Beginning again, the way it was
I walk amongst the aqua seafoam
Picking my way through the seashells and
Star
Fish
Much like an acoustic thread
A flamenco lament or praise
To what I’ve not necessarily surrounded myself with
But to where I may be
And I sigh a wisp of wind
Breath that is inhaled somewhere in Portugal later this fall
I hope I’m still alive then
In Lisbon perhaps I’ll catch my breath
Someday when I won’t catch a wink thrown to me
From a somewhat wayward side
Music clinks beneath my feet
As those shells
Metallic, plasticized, flaccid, concrete
They shift in accordance to my little earthquakes
And the pools of water shaped as the footsteps
I’m careless enough to leave behind
Are reminders only to be more careful
I tread my way up toward the boardwalk
Like a drunken sailor
Like the smitten heart I may be indeed
And find the climb up the stairs to be a flight of sorts
Rusted and stubborn with age and resistance
The nails that scream to be pulled out
Don’t bother me at all as they lie silent
I am not their prey this early morn
Perhaps dawn will spend the day with me
It wouldn’t be entirely unfaithful or ungrateful
To cheat upon the night
Would it now?
I'm usually in awe of what to say.
I really do like all of your stuff!
I think it's just really great that you can express yourself that way! I look forward to more.:)
THE DAY AFTER/the day before (tom sawyer come again)
Tomorrow appeared on my doorstep yesterday
Shaken
Drunk
Confused
I stood naked and caught off guard
Tomorrow
Is never supposed to come
With her hair ragged
And dress shattered
Pieces of which still flutter and dance
In the wind sailing between
The whitewashed and fading
Pine slats of my front gate
Her litter affronts me
I asked her to leave
In frustration
She placed her head against my shoulder
Cheek upon my battered breast
The sun dipped for a moment
Stars flickered
The day began anew
And she cried because she still misunderstood
Her meaning of well-being
“Never have sex with Destiny,”
She said,
Making love as it was.
“He leaves you in the morning
Looking for brother Fate.”
I apologized for being rude
Perhaps humility is rare and
I’d been looking for her elusive
And ethereal beauty
She and I date now
A casual affair at a glance
And a kiss when necessary
As an insomniac I offer naught but support
And she
Nothing but her time
Occasionally her hands tremble
Wrought with the constant apprehension she shares so willingly…
As the sun sets
Tom Sawyer redoes my fence for an apple and
She sits on the front porch swing
Swaying as she is brought ever closer to her element
She’s brilliant after midnight
Tranquil before dawn
And she never sleeps
And she never sleeps.
I can't decide wheter it makes me feel happy or sad.
Dude, really, make a book. I will buy the first copy!:)
keep it up ....
I am grateful that you took the time to read any of it, truly. So thank you.
And thanks to all of you for putting up with my loquacious persona. It means a lot.
To be honest, I have no place for television. I love movies, for certain, but TV sucks the lifeblood out of me. I have been TV free with 2 exceptions for 6 months now. I don't miss it one bit. Read a book, watch a good movie, have a conversation for crying out loud. Reality TV is a sure sign that if the apocalypse isn't upon is... it should be.
But enough of my preachy mouth. Here is a piece that was once 90210 and is now...
CALIFORNIA/over it
In the headlights
His eyes were wicker gold.
She drove with a hurry,
With a vengeance,
And then with grief.
The radio signaled 10:03 p.m.
It was the loss of love
And the loss of life
As the song sang the same for the two;
Her brake lights shone
Rays of blood in the filtered slivers of moonshine.
Her sliding building in intensity,
She realized the mistake she made.
The screech came from underneath
As her car cried out in desperation;
The art of the motionless mime
Reached a level of impossibility distant enough that
She reached for it,
Her hand grasping at the ricochet of her headlights
Detailing a forest she would try forever to forget.
There was an explosive sound
As her car jumped and sank in the rear.
Her headlights blew out.
She spun in the gravel like a dead flashlight
And slowed to a rather off tilt stop.
Still gritting her teeth,
She stepped out,
Bleeding from her left knee,
Tinting the dirt a gritty black
In the offset refraction of the domelit interior.
Dazed,
She touched the stillness that surrounded her
And was shocked enough that she flinched,
Pulled back,
Turning away from the disquieting silence
And the settling dust...
As an afterthought she shut her door
Thinking of her poor wasted battery.
She limped over to his body
Now shadowed red
In the dim watching of her parking lights.
Looking him over she sniffled a bit.
A blood mixed tear landed unceremoniously
And forgotten
On his blue green and black plaid flannel.
He was unconscious,
Living shallow,
But warm enough.
About facing she stumbled a bit and began to walk
Heading in an easterly direction.
After about a quarter of a mile
She felt a bit chilly
And her thumb cut a silhouette in the night sky.
Her ragged ponytail bounced
From shoulder to shoulder
As she faded into the haze.
In the distance
Sirens wailed tonelessly,
And outside
The temperature was a cool
56? Fahrenheit.
as said in Mr Radars area
im all over the place at the mo!
but your work is consistently great
ill comment more when the Sultry returns from being on stage!
its a hard life
INTER-FUCKING-MISSION!!!
Newcastle-Riverside 02/22/92!!!
E.rutherford New Jersey 01/06/06
Athens -Greece.survived !barely-
Wembley 18/06/07- no words- just smiles!
oh, where
can my baby be . . .
Certainly easier to follow than your others
A new, really really really short piece. You won't believe how short it is. And it is what it says it is, and I like it. So there.
REFRIGERATOR WORD ART
To witness:
Objects of desire
God’s pleasure pew
Flowers’ license hold
Anxious are wild voices
“Eternity?”
Pours like ice
Date
Time
Eyes on your wine
Sugar fills
Invitation
Powers blue
Delicious in the morning
Inspired shotgun peace
Sacred room…
Magic is for nothing
Does love elope on its own?
words of a man walking slowly past
......my father once told me never to give of myself to anyone who offers the cursory handshake, the bit conversation or the obligatory wink of an eye no matter how forthright, nor daring, nor intriguing the individual may be. Now, it may seem that writing in and of itself is the barest of bare souls and may, therefore, be determined as a sign of vulnerability; at the very least it opposes my fathers advice. However, I have also heard it said that words were the devil’s greatest invention for they are the key notes in what symphony of lies we may chorus a part in. Henceforth, in your local library you shall most indubitably find a Fiction section amongst many of your Non-Fiction items (and, as of yet, a great many “Non”-Fictitious books are only based on an “honest” man’s opinion and may therefore be subject to bitter discussion concerning the percentage of truth involved). So perhaps it is giving much of oneself even to whisper a name or acknowledge that handshake with one of your own. After all, whose game are you playing?
My daughter is too young to have to deal with such things. She gives herself sweetly enough to anyone that offers the hand, the wave, or the smile. It may be that the wink is still too subtle a gesture for her to comprehend; also it may be too complex considering all a wink may imply.
My son is just old enough to know that a person (who may or may not know him well) can be manipulated by physical disposition. Beginning with a facial barrage of such horrible tragedy laced with wit and enough post-toddler cynic irony (for he knows when the goat’s gotten), and ending with any number of well choreographed and rehearsed psychological frequencies emitted, it seems, from the walls themselves.
Little does he know that I understand his plans (for I recall contriving them my self at his saintly age) and am determined to deviate from his propaganda.
I have found that many people use conversation as a power piece in an almost chess-esque struggle for continuing supremacy over others. Law and Debate are other matters entirely. However, everyone has the friend that must get above another in a game of conversational one-ups-man-ship that defies historical and logistical boundaries. The most serious issue of this dilemma to be pondered is that side B of this two part discussion will (almost always) allow themselves to get swept away by the hubris; and the fevered passion with which they deliver their colorful rebuttals is fit for a king before parliament.
Nay I write because I write and because I write soon truths will be forthcoming that my subconscious does not willingly let go (most certainly not in broad daylight lest these truths turn to ash and dirty the carpet). These vampires of the soul are generally petty creatures, self- absorbed and they hang around mostly due to their own ignorance of other issues only knowing when it’s their time to rise and when it is their time to have a seat and let someone else take over.
As they rise, they become all consuming. Psychiatrists call these anxieties or obsessions or (or) compulsions. It’s context sensitive. I care not. However, we all have them and sooner or later they must be dealt with, and when they are dealt with we must ask ourselves:
Have I lied?
Discovery brings questions. Ask any religious scholar fighting to believe. Or any scientist struggling for proof. And even they must ask:
Have I been lied to?
Truth is a colorful perspective and like those fabled issues of love, happiness, etc… I suspect that adding the word “true”(adj.) to such nouns causes them to become hypothetical gestures; things only attainable by degrees or measured by degrees, much like burning paper (urban fires are also rated by the amount of destruction they cause, as are tornadoes, but that is a whole other ball of wax)......
**holds nose, closes eyes, dives in**
Oh who the hell..?
Ah. No, my dear MASHed droid, I don't have any medals to give. And you know, it's probably not very good anyway, perhaps I'm running out of new material...
You never have to read anything you don't want to, Radar dear. Remember that.
As it were, thanks for giving it a SHOT.
Whoa.
Don't know if that was the greatest thing I've ever read
or a just deleted scene from Matrix Reloaded.
Is this nonfictitious advice that you received from your pops and passed on to your younguns? Or is this all fabricated?
As Henrik Ibsen wrote:
To write is to sit in judgement of oneself.
My dear seta, what are you judging?
It makes my heart flutter.
Don't worry about running out of new material. I haven't written anything new in months.
what am I judging? I could be honest and say that I'm judging everything, myself, the ethereal... I could be just as honest and tell you that I don't know.
No, my father never gave me that advice, it popped into my head.
I often wonder if my writing is really the result of me acting as some sort of medium as the spirits who wish so desperately to write and express once again take hold. I have a funny dream from time to time that they are lined up, jostling one another as if they are at the opening of some expansive life altering cinematic preview saying, ME! It's MY turn, I'm Next! and then literary fights break out and someone steals Tiny Tim's crutch and uses it to beat the shit out of Longfellow who was trying to bribe his way up the line with dandelion wine stolen from Chaucer. It all plays into it nicely. I wish I was so honored.
I judge myself constantly. I am guilty of not being innocent. I realize that we all are but I take the offense and the pride and the love and the atrocity of being human very personally.
I judge.
I am told by many folks on here that they admire my openness... well I have learned to be no other way. My life is open to those who wish to see it for the bland acid tested piece of sidewalk that it is... oh I've lived plenty between the cracks, because I have ever feared the cracks themselves and I have usually just been trying to protect myself from the blinding snowglare of sunshine off the concrete. I don't know what's ignorance and what's just hidden from me. I have a fair intuition for people and places... I think it comes to those of us in here who have such vivid imaginations. Avenues that appear obvious and mundane to us appear colorful and abstract to so many others. My dreams are so important to me that if I fail to dream for more than 4 nights in a row, I panic.
I now come to this board to share my dreams and visions with strangers who have had no previous knowledge of this wild mind in Colorado. perhaps the altitude finally got him, they'll say. He has to be stoned, others will shout.
Never did the green, I'm weird enough, don't you think? I tried it, I don't enjoy having my paranoia HEIGHTENED for me, HA, thanks. I don't need THAT, no sir. And the altitude only works in my favor.
I don't know radar, jeremy, all of you. I don't know. My heart aches these days. I have had dreams of a massive world war since I was 12. I had dreams of planes crashing into skyscrapers for 5 years before the WTC incident. I have dreams of Denver being leveled by tornadoes sometime in the next 10 - 20 years. I have dreams of the aftermath of the largest nuclear holocaust in existence.
I have dreamed that God has talked to me in a rainforest. I have dreamed that my head has been bitten off by a dragon and sewn back on by some faceless angel with a vast library and the fruit of youth and vibrance upon a silver platter. I have dreamed that I have drowned and that the same faceless angelica saved me again and dried me to softness in front of a gathering fire in the largest library hearth I've ever seen.. he had the throne chair in front of it you know...
And perhaps I've dreamed of you. I have met many people there. I often wonder who they were and why they were chosen to share with me or why I was chosen for their dreams. And I wish to know.
I don't know what I judge, Radar. I do know that we all need to live again. Because this life that humans have chosen for themselves, this epoch, is merely a shadowland.
Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night with your heart quickened as if someone long lost was calling your name and some quiet, subtle attraction made you turn to the window as a if you were a human compass? have you felt that attraction grow stronger and wane and grow in strength again? Do you ever look at a passing individual and find yourself smitten with them, no explanation needed? You must follow them home, you must know their life, you must... but of course you do not. The insane are locked up just as easily as the criminal. I feel these things constantly, every day, every quaking minute.
I am insane, I love, I judge, I dream. I am kind. Humankind. I suppose that's all I really should have said to answer your questions, but then
love,
seta
Where's my medal?
i am dragged
off to dream
i am gagged
when i scream
nighty night for me.
yes, there will be prayers.
Maybe I'll make you one. Most Patient of Poetry Patrons.
Does that work?
I have no such soul to drain, only stale phantom ale.
I am speechless to respond
breathless to gasp
As far as your responsibility as medium to the spirits, have your read Clive Barker's Book of Blood? Just hope nobody finds you naked in your room with tiny scrawlings of stories tattooed all over your body.
Personally, I think you have the Force.
oh yeah, and i still want to get you stoned. i assure you no paranoia with me. you'd feel nothing but relaxation in my presence.
hehe.
Forget metaphor,
how 'bout setaphor?
I apologize for my self-deprecation, it cans me and ships me to grocery stores occasionally.
Hmmmm... a setaphor.
You know, that is yet another high compliment on this board that I do not deserve. But I LOVE it. LOL. Oh how COOL would that be?
And my dear 13PJ13. While you would really have to work hard to get me to agree to getting stoned, I will more than accept a hug.
And somehow I suspect that relaxation really isn't... hmm.... okay I get it.
Get me stoned and take advantage of the poor poet eh? Hmph. Well I don't suppose I'll be arguing about that.... LOL where's Being Enlightened? She seems to be all about taking advantage of oddball poets.
and PS where's Savannah66 and coleen of late? I miss them dearly.
I liked this.
ladies and gentlemen.....HE CAN BE TAUGHT!!
if you were in S.FL tonight, i can assure you that you'd be fully taken advantage of.
Justam... I am very very happy that somebody on here did. I am very fond of that piece myself and for some reason, i always picture this house in my mind that is an amalgamation of three houses that I have history with put together. It's always strange to me.
I wrote that whole piece on one of those While You Were Out... sticky pads. I think I still have the actual stickies around here somewhere.
But as it were I like it a lot too. I hope there are some other pieces that have moved a few of you out there!
Let me know!
seta
CRUSHED WINGS
The pencil fell from my hand
Losing interest in what surrounded me
I lost myself in her beauty
Though outwardly unwanted
As I was too young to brag
I thought of a bright red apple
-a reward for this childish institution-
That I had brought in
And precisely how much I wanted to eat it
There was a butterfly outside the window
That distracted my peripheral sight
And I turned my head to avoid those
Mysteriously blue eyes
I guess it may have been an understanding
The monarch
The queen of metamorphosis
Flitted to and fro and then
Danced away
As a shout, an exclamation
Arose from what may have been an angel
But what turned out to be real authority
And while I hung my head
In false shame
For having been so easily caught
I let my eyes wander to the goddess in pink
An immersed my self in the blue
Once again
As the mistress continued to check my spelling.