Salmonberry Deconstruction
phishgod
Posts: 133
Salmonberry Deconstruction
Out by the marsh
dharma trains roar
as if orgasmic whistle bliss
and the sun sparks dazzling
on lakeview terraces, if only
we squint through trees, full
worshiped the pine maples, but
still through binocs the marsh
alive loosestrife
and see the spark
fired glow of sun
going down,
going down
over water,
Stevens glows
golden,
singed driving
hand on passenger side,
the cranberry dried, now
breakfast choice, chosen
and re-chosen,
the love of Beauty
and the prettiest,
combined=bliss &
Kalamazoids all know
the crane
folds wings,
tucks head,
slumbers, a
sparked lil
fire fairy
for all, for
all.
Ah! Yes! The nieces and nephews to Orville and Wilbur (first bats to ever fly)
are conversed, discoursed and deconstructed, probably the
critics consider this the mythos of the ruling classes, or anti-
proletarian drivel,
but
then, the bastahds never spoke to Orv or Wilbur, and they the ones are
batty--
and ok the
feminist interpretation: problem deconstructs as implying that Orville and
Wil never flew, they levitate in attempt to keep women barefoot, pregnant,
oh yeah,
the bitchas batty
too.
Ripe milkweed pods,
the sting of the mosquito dawn,
tiny flowers
examined and
sniffed: a little snake whipped across the boardwalk path, probably
not more than 6 inches long,
slithered into the marsh.
If we'd taken the correct trail--
hell, we'd have missed it.
So the path less chosen is chosen and re-chosen and we get lost
in each other,
ah!
Crystal bear sparks flaming rainbows in the hallways of the castle.
The Queen IS pleased.
The King IS delighted.
Deconstruct this:
to never have seen a cardinal flashing feathers through the fen,
would be worse than being politically correct to the very end.
Hummingbird flies by pine
of our house.
Who could have dreamed this new reality, which only the few will ever
understand, but: there it is, as if pre-ordained--think it and it
makes perfect reality.
Lichen and moss symbiotically sing profound truths about the whole big
shebang theorem and the fungi dance in the marsh muck.
Egads!
What would Lincoln Steffins have said about that? Mencken?
W.E.B. Dubois? Joe Hill? Big Bill Haywood?
Labor and the lumpen fellaheen shills for lichen?
The Rockefellers grabbing up the greenback moss & fern?
Let us tie Wallace Stevens to the train tracks.
Let us hear Neal counting ties dying beside them in the Mexican night.
We of the here/now -- spinning the dreams.
They become.
Nine more miners buried in the mineshaft. Well, the hills of Kentucky
and old W. Virginny (‘Bow knows!) have plenty of skeletons mourned in the
the hollows, but these boys all get 150K TV deals and lived!
Thank god.
Spin the pojo lojo blissjoy. Let the music flow from your golden throat.
Sing of Beauty. Write incomprehensibly dense Beauty so that
the poor editor's deconstructions become meaningless and only the Beauty
remains.
Crack the ugly shell with angry mallets!
Break down the poetic lovejoy into meterless diagrammatic dialectic
iambic.
Spin my lil,
spin my little
partner, spin,
salmonberry blissed, as the waves roll in Lincoln City, as the waves crash
on Cape Perpetua, as the tsunami warning signs shriek: “ in case of
earthquake seek high ground and run like hell, or yr ass will get
pruned and wrinkled in the jade sea.” O! Ecstasy!
Watching an ant at Defoe Bay a crowd of wealthy touristas gathers to
help. Do they even have a frigging clue?
Italian wizards on coffee cups discarded and found at a roadside
attraction trash container turn into the coffee bar our hostess owns
some 70 miles away and at Salmonberry discovery of symbols of wreath and
ribbon and magical mystery tour of O! God! (smile), as if our parents
really could hear above the crunch of the Pacifica plate against a
weathered shore and the sea lions, laying on their fatcat
aristocratic capitalistic bellies in the sand, do they know Beauty as you
do? Deconstruct that, he said formally and in his most critical
affectation. Do they even have a friggin' clue?
I am the walrus, coo-coo-kachew, let them eat cake, we goin' for the
puddin' gold! Way! Does the walrus have a friggin' clue?
I do,
as do you
(do you?).
Wow! Coo-coo-Kachew!
Deconstruct that, hee hee!
But this, this is Beauty:
--your eyes Cafe Ladro;
–fresh strawberry smoothie and peanut butter milkshakes in Detroit, OR
after the Santiam turns to jade green, emerald green the most majestic
green one could possibly imagine, after finally actually see see seeing
Three Fingered Jack tip his mountainous hand to the critics, and
deconstruct that, huh baby;
--or the sunstreamed silken miniature kites of Japan, of which one shaped
as bee which actually buzzes as it flies.
The peacock stone is still as if
the monolithic creative force
which unites
you with Kubrick,
with the greatest of architects,
rock and roll giants,
and this poem to
the work of all the greatest designers, builders, creator(s), source (s)
and imagineers the world has known, as if
you needed to be unified with Bill Gates or Steve Jobs, teehee, oh yeah!
Deconstruct that!
Whoo whoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo-la!
August 6, 2002
@pth
Out by the marsh
dharma trains roar
as if orgasmic whistle bliss
and the sun sparks dazzling
on lakeview terraces, if only
we squint through trees, full
worshiped the pine maples, but
still through binocs the marsh
alive loosestrife
and see the spark
fired glow of sun
going down,
going down
over water,
Stevens glows
golden,
singed driving
hand on passenger side,
the cranberry dried, now
breakfast choice, chosen
and re-chosen,
the love of Beauty
and the prettiest,
combined=bliss &
Kalamazoids all know
the crane
folds wings,
tucks head,
slumbers, a
sparked lil
fire fairy
for all, for
all.
Ah! Yes! The nieces and nephews to Orville and Wilbur (first bats to ever fly)
are conversed, discoursed and deconstructed, probably the
critics consider this the mythos of the ruling classes, or anti-
proletarian drivel,
but
then, the bastahds never spoke to Orv or Wilbur, and they the ones are
batty--
and ok the
feminist interpretation: problem deconstructs as implying that Orville and
Wil never flew, they levitate in attempt to keep women barefoot, pregnant,
oh yeah,
the bitchas batty
too.
Ripe milkweed pods,
the sting of the mosquito dawn,
tiny flowers
examined and
sniffed: a little snake whipped across the boardwalk path, probably
not more than 6 inches long,
slithered into the marsh.
If we'd taken the correct trail--
hell, we'd have missed it.
So the path less chosen is chosen and re-chosen and we get lost
in each other,
ah!
Crystal bear sparks flaming rainbows in the hallways of the castle.
The Queen IS pleased.
The King IS delighted.
Deconstruct this:
to never have seen a cardinal flashing feathers through the fen,
would be worse than being politically correct to the very end.
Hummingbird flies by pine
of our house.
Who could have dreamed this new reality, which only the few will ever
understand, but: there it is, as if pre-ordained--think it and it
makes perfect reality.
Lichen and moss symbiotically sing profound truths about the whole big
shebang theorem and the fungi dance in the marsh muck.
Egads!
What would Lincoln Steffins have said about that? Mencken?
W.E.B. Dubois? Joe Hill? Big Bill Haywood?
Labor and the lumpen fellaheen shills for lichen?
The Rockefellers grabbing up the greenback moss & fern?
Let us tie Wallace Stevens to the train tracks.
Let us hear Neal counting ties dying beside them in the Mexican night.
We of the here/now -- spinning the dreams.
They become.
Nine more miners buried in the mineshaft. Well, the hills of Kentucky
and old W. Virginny (‘Bow knows!) have plenty of skeletons mourned in the
the hollows, but these boys all get 150K TV deals and lived!
Thank god.
Spin the pojo lojo blissjoy. Let the music flow from your golden throat.
Sing of Beauty. Write incomprehensibly dense Beauty so that
the poor editor's deconstructions become meaningless and only the Beauty
remains.
Crack the ugly shell with angry mallets!
Break down the poetic lovejoy into meterless diagrammatic dialectic
iambic.
Spin my lil,
spin my little
partner, spin,
salmonberry blissed, as the waves roll in Lincoln City, as the waves crash
on Cape Perpetua, as the tsunami warning signs shriek: “ in case of
earthquake seek high ground and run like hell, or yr ass will get
pruned and wrinkled in the jade sea.” O! Ecstasy!
Watching an ant at Defoe Bay a crowd of wealthy touristas gathers to
help. Do they even have a frigging clue?
Italian wizards on coffee cups discarded and found at a roadside
attraction trash container turn into the coffee bar our hostess owns
some 70 miles away and at Salmonberry discovery of symbols of wreath and
ribbon and magical mystery tour of O! God! (smile), as if our parents
really could hear above the crunch of the Pacifica plate against a
weathered shore and the sea lions, laying on their fatcat
aristocratic capitalistic bellies in the sand, do they know Beauty as you
do? Deconstruct that, he said formally and in his most critical
affectation. Do they even have a friggin' clue?
I am the walrus, coo-coo-kachew, let them eat cake, we goin' for the
puddin' gold! Way! Does the walrus have a friggin' clue?
I do,
as do you
(do you?).
Wow! Coo-coo-Kachew!
Deconstruct that, hee hee!
But this, this is Beauty:
--your eyes Cafe Ladro;
–fresh strawberry smoothie and peanut butter milkshakes in Detroit, OR
after the Santiam turns to jade green, emerald green the most majestic
green one could possibly imagine, after finally actually see see seeing
Three Fingered Jack tip his mountainous hand to the critics, and
deconstruct that, huh baby;
--or the sunstreamed silken miniature kites of Japan, of which one shaped
as bee which actually buzzes as it flies.
The peacock stone is still as if
the monolithic creative force
which unites
you with Kubrick,
with the greatest of architects,
rock and roll giants,
and this poem to
the work of all the greatest designers, builders, creator(s), source (s)
and imagineers the world has known, as if
you needed to be unified with Bill Gates or Steve Jobs, teehee, oh yeah!
Deconstruct that!
Whoo whoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo-la!
August 6, 2002
@pth
rockon,
phishgod
phishgod
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watching ICE hockey on a double-reclining loveseat
OR
walking through a snowy wood At Night
mimicking the mating calls of Bard Owls
(my bard!)...
--spinmate, confidente, dreambeliever.
the queen is pleased. Kudos and more kudos
to those who wade through the BEAUTIFUL DENSITIES
while the noodles thicken.
Cornucopic pleasures, Abounding.
Oh, and kisses.
Replete with Everything yr little heart desires.
And (redundant?) really famous sex.
--tsunami central!
ps. thanks for the brownies, wink
if
you tie my guy, Wallace Stevens,
to the train tracks
i'ma gonna call
Dudley DoRight
otay
{{{no, no, YOU'RE the pretty one }}}}
for as you know, I do like Wally too,
but it is just so much fun to poke fun
at insurence salesmen, I just can't resist.
P. S.--Wow! Now, that was famous!
(Thanks for the doughnuts.)
Wink!
phishgod