This is topic The mirror is the fall, the trap, and the case. in forum Books, Films, Food and Culture at Hatrack River Forum.


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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Der Fall

and the eyes of the two of them were opened, and they knew that they were naked

Were their eyes closed before?
No, opened wide10:61. Staring outward.8:23 Like those of the kouros5:57 or stele2:66 at the gates5:11 of the dead.

they knew that they were naked

They knew that (ki). And there the fall, in the ki. It doesn't matter what, just that.

they knew that they
they knew that they

Not the they they were, but that they, over there, as in a mirror.
Propositional knowledge: knowing "what is put before".
Knowing-that falls like a mirror between they and they—it is the and:

they (knew that) they

A mirror falls, between Man and himself. Now he is here, a subject to an object, no longer the impossible edenic vocative, called into be-ing, subject without object.
This is the first declension.
He is here, and there, over there, an object in the mirror, and in the mirror, in the world.

Case, sb. [--L. casus fall, chance, occasion...]...
Grammar.
a. One of the forms of a noun, adjective, or pronoun, which express its relations to some other word, e.g. as subject, object, etc.
b. loosely, The relation itself.
(O.E.D.)

It is odd of course to inhabit the earth no more[...].
Odd
to see everything that was related fluttering
so loosely in the space.
(1:70/78-80)

The world is all that is the case [der Fall].
(Tractatus 1.1)

Der Fall:
1) "The case."
2) "The trap."
3) "The fall."
The mirror is the fall, the trap, and the case.
 

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Posted by Kama (Member # 3022) on :
 
deerpark!
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Exquisite. Utterance.

Now you've gone away.

It's easier to think. Strange, No?
 

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Posted by pooka (Member # 5003) on :
 
Strange, Yes.
 

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Posted by Zalmoxis (Member # 2327) on :
 
Strangers still.
 

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Posted by Flaming Toad on a Stick (Member # 9302) on :
 
Deerpark! I missed you, you crazy algorithm you!
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
That parking lot is surely empty tonight,
like in late winter: black and white, twilight, dusk,
or whatever it is called
when you are slightly afraid to go
up into the woods--No, it is not
the 'alone' that gets to you, it is a presence
of others, out just ahead, and the little sing-songs
coaxing you along
into the darkness you are not ready for. There is a point
where it is simply blue-grey,
maybe the rise catches dying light
I don't know, but here you can be lost
though you know the way back to the car, here
you'll fade away with nothing to contain you.

[ July 09, 2007, 08:57 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by Lyrhawn (Member # 7039) on :
 
Bienvenue Monsieur deerpark.

Good to see you again.
 

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Posted by Zevlag (Member # 1405) on :
 
I was just thinking recently about you! I'm glad you're back.
 

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Posted by advice for robots (Member # 2544) on :
 
Spam!

Oh, it's deerpark.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
When I was a boy you looked down
from a ladder where you clipped the hedge
holding a big garbage bag open,
waiting for pieces to fall, and you said:
"Look at the broad shoulders on him."

You were talking to something in between us,
or telling the world,
to make me.

[ July 04, 2007, 10:37 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I can remember the sound
of the leaves.

The broad shoulders were Christmas Eve too,
shovelling snow off the stoop,
so cold it squeaked under your boots.
My breath made little balloons.
 

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Posted by St. Yogi (Member # 5974) on :
 
Has worldplay been deleted?
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I feared that I ['anoki] am naked and I hid[...].

'ano-ki: "that-I". The first appearance of the demonstrative subject in the text, and the world.

I feared that that-I
'ira ki 'anoki

I feared that.
I feared that I.
 

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Posted by Desu (Member # 5941) on :
 
... I, had Finally lost It
that elusive bit.
Resembling a something;
a plain, field, a desert.
A piece of nothing.

Pracled and examined
wraped and delivered
pondered, considered
and finally rendered;

Artificial, called It, something...
and I, have, lost It

Care to help It find me?

[ July 05, 2007, 06:13 PM: Message edited by: Desu ]
 

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Posted by cross (Member # 2361) on :
 
Euhh guys, could one of you start making at least a little s ense, i'm totally lost here...
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
If one were to, say
sit down...
sit down and write, say
without any insight, but rather (at least)
a wish for some...one?...just
a nervous tick soothed only by, say
typing--you know--"they march out onto the bridge..." meaning:
the words (these, not those ones)
Ker-plunk, ker-plop they've jumped
into the summer river, the "never and again"
of rivers (you know - not twice in same etc.)
so our never and agains. If one were to push
on, push on and into the lint that was the sock
well-worn until the final tumble
dry--that lint (blue-grey), that basement light
that dampness darker dangling down...
If one were to see that sort of sock
instead of the important
thing, the wished for
insight; if it were only more!?
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
It would be "he".
He choked up a bit of his juice.

If they were starving, they would eat the black ants he dropped in through the ventilation slits.

They had to be alive or they wouldn't get eaten.

The dead swirled underneath the surface like untethered astronauts.

A plucked lily bloomed face down in the water. One little frog sat on it, waiting to eat.

[ September 20, 2007, 09:23 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Too bad worldplay's gone, but good to see you again.
 

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Posted by Destineer (Member # 821) on :
 
What about "this is the hard part?" Is that lost too?
 

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Posted by LadyDove (Member # 3000) on :
 
deerpark,

I enjoy visiting your realm. Many of your sequences go right over my head. Sometimes it's like I'm watching TV with the sound off... as if I'm being immersed in a tourette's of images.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
What do I know about that place?
The trail exists,
taking the trail exists,
winding its way to a limit.

I cannot be there:
only the river, ker-plunk
ker plop, and the rain
filling my eyes.

I feel you inside my face.
You're moving my mouth
and making me look
in that way.
 

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Posted by Brinestone (Member # 5755) on :
 
I find the first post fascinating. Some of the others are confusing, but that first one . . . intriguing ideas there.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Nowhere without No

So we return:

and the eyes of the two of them were opened, and they knew that they were naked
and they sewed together leaves of a fig, and they made for themselves girdles,
and they heard the voice of YHVH God moving about in the garden at the breath
of the day,
and the Man and his woman hid themselves from the face of YHVH God in the midst
of the trees of the garden,
and YHVH God called to the Man,
and he said to him where are you,
and he said I heard your voice in the garden and I feared that I am naked
and I hid,[...]

They knew that (ki). The first declension. Der Fall.

The world is all that is the case [Der Fall].

and God said behold, the Man has become like one of us, knowing
the world
(Gen. 3:21)

We never have, not for a single day,
the pure space before us,[....]
Always it is world
And never Nowhere without No.
(8:16-17)

He knew that he, in the world, over there. Where.

and YHVH God called to the Man
and he said to him where are you?

Where.
As the answer.
Where but not somewhere.
There but not over there.
That is where.

Where, where is the spot—I bear it in my heart—,
Where they still not nearly could,[...].
(5:73)

and Moses says to God, behold, I go to the sons of Israel and I say to them
God of your fathers sends me to you
and they say to me what is his name—what am I saying to them?
and God says to Moses I am where I am,
you are saying thus to the sons of Israel: I am sends me to you[...].
(Exodus 3:13-14)

I am where I am

God puns on his own name:

YHVH: "he is"
EHWH: "I am"

The root gesture: HWH.
Its primal sense: falling.

I fall where I fall
 

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Posted by Blayne Bradley (Member # 8565) on :
 
is this a real person? Or a very complex program? If the latter then the programmer is a genius.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
There, there.
Hear! Hear!
Eerie.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Last night I dreamed a leech,
a ribbon of dappled brown
knotted on my calf.

Imagine, the fisherman dips his hand
into a jar of them, fresh for the bass.
I never could.

Check in between your toes
or you'll bring them home,
the leeches in Bass Lake.

[ August 14, 2014, 11:33 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
It was hard to judge how much daylight remained,
now that he'd finally stopped.

You knew the real thing when it happened, the night, that darkness; but now, standing still, he felt contained by the twilight.

Black and white out. Some trick in the retina. Tree tops so black they punctured the tightening membrane of indigo sky.

Someone smashed the world.

[ September 07, 2007, 02:36 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by TomDavidson (Member # 124) on :
 
I miss the worldplay thread.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Those were the days!
Remember the treefort?
God, it reminds me of a joke.

Not because she told me
you and all your work are just a tree fort,
or to get inside one had to trust
the flimsiest of whining rungs
(nailed, nailed, and re-nailed in the trunk),
and that the floor was mainly windows
in plywood mosaic
woven underneath with two by fours, at best,
until some plan unfolded,
later on, to keep you up there, in between.


But because you were the only one
who'd stay up overnight,
when everybody said they’d come.
And there was nothing, really, up there
except you in your tree fort, as if
a life depended on it,
as if life depended on a life depending on it
as it did.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
As it did!
Depending, pendulous.
Nailed, nailed and re-nailed like nails into a coffin lid (or, into the hands and feet of our saviour!) -
I'm thinking, synaesthetically(?)- and hearing the "Qui tollis" of Mozarts C minor Mass.
ta-bang, ta-bang
ta-bang, ta-bang
ta-bang, ta-bang

I printed the whole thing off and can see it from here: three inches. Too heavy.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
"Here we see that solipsism strictly carried out
coincides with pure realism." L. Witt.
 

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Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Wow... You're here!! *dusts cobwebs off of her reply-to-deerpark27-conversational-pieces fingers*

I'm with TomDavidson - I miss me some worldplay! You write with great imagery, deerpark27, and I like how I write when I'm responding to the images you paint. Would you mind emailing me through the forum so I can ask you about the old thread?
 

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Posted by TomDavidson (Member # 124) on :
 
Yeah, it was a solipsistic enterprise. But that isn't to say that it didn't have some really beautiful stuff in it.

In this way, it was almost exactly like life.
 

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Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
i remember the rust on the car-shaped flowerpots
with moon light silhouetted echoes of
carefree voices blended together with
trees turned to music by thoughtful hands and
helpful horsetail hairs

echoes of dreams to the surface
with one cold foot... and lessons in daDUMdaDUM da BLOCK

merry revelers taking their first plunge off an
almost
forgotten bridge.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Isn't it all
a new kind of beautiful? Alien
to someone like you, walking back
along a brown river: a Buick
honks a singular honk,
brown duck, brown river, all
waiting to mean something to you
walking back, walking back
counting the steps it will take
to bring you back home.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
You can't fit
birth and death
into the system
of I's.
Boundary phenomenon
or limits beyond which
something else--expresses.
Takes place out there, beyond, where
language happened, logic unfolded,
one cannot speak, but
hear whispers
and driven to recognition
hear someone say:
Nothing; or swim! you can swim in it!
(not unlike that little penguin, who having
spent his lucky short life upright on the ice flow
somehow knows that real-life is in the water
and jumps in.
The ocean wells up beneath thinning ice,
we don't know what we'll become until we jump
into the breach.
 

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Posted by Blayne Bradley (Member # 8565) on :
 
is deeppark a real person? I can't imagine anyone being this creative, otherwise he's a genius.
 

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Posted by TomDavidson (Member # 124) on :
 
*laugh* Yes, he's a real person. I find it absolutely amazing that you think a computer would be more creative than a person.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
That way, into the woods,
the animation
of relation
in mutation
as a living
breathing
changing
thing: Things.

This way,
towards
what's not
there now:
Today.
 

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Posted by Zalmoxis (Member # 2327) on :
 
Do not click this unless you are 18.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
you click there
for you are
 

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Posted by The Flying Dracula Hair (Member # 10155) on :
 
Oi. Does 27 have things to own?
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Driven nuts by the benign,
perfect smile that you'd like to kiss
on the face of that girl
who hands you her heavy little muffins (for peace);
your greasy tie dangles down, calico
under a clean shaven fat rosy face
whose chin skin flap sweats,
plump over a tightening collar--

Let's get the facts straight and atomic:
Lemon or Poppyseed,
it smells like a girl.
 

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Posted by pooka (Member # 5003) on :
 
I think I finally get the "case" part. Now I have to wonder if I'm interpretting "trap" correctly.

I see you, deepark.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
That is where.
God is that.
Falling.
Utterly the case (Der Fall), creator of the world.
The fall of all that falls, falling.
The being of all being, being.
And every creature, in its edenic be-ing, reveals him.
It does what it is, and is what it does.
Sprouts sprout. Trees of fruit make fruit.
The flying thing flies. The gliding thing glides.
'adam works the 'adamah of which he's made.
The nahash ("whisper", "augur") whispers augury.
havvah ("life-giver") gives life.
YHVH ("he who is/causes to be") is/causes to be.
These are name-fates.
The angels are spoors of Eden:

spaces of essence, shields of bliss, tumults
of enraptured feeling and suddenly, solitary,
mirrors: which draw their own beauty, streaming out,
back again into their own countenance.
(2:14-17)

and the animal:

his being [sein Sein] is to him
endless, uncomprehended and without view
on his condition, pure, like his view.
(8:38-40)

sein Sein: his being his being his being.

In cold marble I live for myself.

The 'asher is the mirror, rooted finally in God, in his in(de)finite self-reflection.
Fallen Man, the Man of the case, "has become like one of us", Godlike in his knowing that.
But God just is that, knowing that. He is that, reflecting: I am that I am; affirming himself endlessly.
Man, whose knowing is finite, loses himself in finding himself, knowing—fearing himself as that.
To find himself he must lose himself.

As child
one loses oneself there in the stillness
(8:19-20)

To lose himself he must loose himself.

Does the world-space
into which we loose ourselves taste of us then? Do the angels
really only catch up what is them, their streaming out,
or is there sometimes[...] a little
of our essence as well?

(2:29-30)

To be one again he must be nothing, without no.
To be whole he must be hole.
As long as he is in the mirror he is lost.
And every mirrored solution is merely part of the problem.
He must become it, intensifying the very <gestures/experience/?> of the fall, the seeing of himself, the hearing of God's voice, until they are complete, finished.
Crushed into the mirror's singularity. (W)hole.
The terror is the focal point in the concave mirror of Der Fall.
Yet he must become it.
Seeing and showing at once.
Hearing and uttering at once.

to watch so fully that in the end,
to offset my watching, an angel must go there
(4:54-5)

Watch like the dancer at the barre, until lost in her own reflection.
Dead to the world.
Then she shows.

Angel,
to you I show it still, there! in your watching
(7:70-1)

Hear, my heart, as only
holy ones heard before
(1:55-7)

(x:yy-yy)=(#Elegy, #Verse in Duino Elegies, Rilke) etc.

[ September 17, 2007, 03:55 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
3.04
An a priori true thought would be one whose possibility guaranteed its truth.

3.05
Only if we could know a priori that a thought is true if its truth was to be recognized from the thought itself (without an object of comparison).

(Witt. TLP)
 

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Posted by Zalmoxis (Member # 2327) on :
 
Breathe, you insolvable piece of code
always pervading
the clean, congested space
of a cloud of data.

Blown by a wind you embark
on a transmission
singing your herz
while it gnaws at your throat.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
skipping Gym
to go and hide
in a place you imagine
nobody'll use
in this steady rain
whose brick walls contain
forgotten tables
old and cement
and a little garden
with small purple flowers
the sound of the rain
and you snuggled in
close to the minutes
inside the rain
and the drops on the petals
the sound of a world
swelling up into the quiet
your breath and the rain
to be still in the rain
 

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Posted by Nathan2006 (Member # 9387) on :
 
Wow. I've never seen you post before, but you're a genius.

(Am I the only one who's pretending to know what he means and saying he's brilliant because I really don't?)
 

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Posted by TomDavidson (Member # 124) on :
 
If you don't understand deerpark27, you aren't reading carefully enough.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
If you carefully watch them,
things turn into themselves
in the twilight.

The air stills,
you might hear a call, to come home,
to come back, then

the sun's descent
tightens the sky
to chromatic membrane,

sheer indigo punctured
by pitchblack statues
of things not themselves:

trees, trunk and twig lattice
bled beyond blue-grey
recall only their absence:

exquisite incisions
cut from the dusk;
here, the black wellsprings
of nowhere

[ September 21, 2007, 10:44 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Once, a child in the park,
too well hidden at dusk,
nobody could find you.
And you peeked into that night
and the stitching of stars
up in their constellations.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
My shoulders were broad and you’d say:
"Look at the shoulders on him…"
to the little man
who fit my blazers
and the men that we’d meet
on the sidewalk, who were from the office,
or who fixed our fence; even Uncle Johnny,
and all of Mom’s friends:
you’d call me “Buckshot,” and smile,
admiring something in me not subject
to so much—interpretation—
a certain thing, a father and son
with his broad shoulders.

And when, for me, it wasn’t true anymore
it still was for you, or I'd like to remember
(now I can see…)
that broadness across my shoulders
and how I would stand there,
admired and speechless. Who knew

of my days, in the mirror, shaving
saying to myself: “Where did you go?"
and rubbing my face…
Because, of course, they had left me
in those days of the shrunken shoulders...

The broad shoulders are still here.
You give them to me, tonight,
to admire and to stand speechless.

[ September 21, 2007, 10:48 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by Brinestone (Member # 5755) on :
 
He was speechless,
meaty-faced and boar-browed.
She told him everything,
and he'd listen,
speechless

She told him everything
about her bossy handsome ambitious husband
and her thoughtful lover
and her twins who liked trampolines too much and books too little
She told him about how their work made her feel
like a man
(and she liked it)
And he was speechless

She relied on his nods and knowing glances
and, for once,
no speeches
no guilt
just listening

But at night she'd go home to her bossy handsome ambitious husband
and bouncy twins
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Once, gone too far
north of Superior,
into the unnamed,
deep in the underbrush
there was an opening

cleared by a fire.
And across that burn,
up high in the crown
of a scorched jack-pine,
lay a black panther,

waiting for you,
watching you wonder –

Should I go on?
Go through? Discover?

You must have turned back,
or stayed at the edge,
half in the clear,
afraid of the Windigo.

You must have turned back,
worked your way back
through the pine and spruce bogs
on across Nipigon
paddling in.

I must have come in.
Tell me you saw me come in.

[ October 26, 2007, 01:53 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by Tammy (Member # 4119) on :
 
I enjoy it. I often enjoy things I don't understand.

It really is beautiful. I do understand hiding from something and enjoying the rain. Beautiful!
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
One big problem
(now) gaping
--discontinuity--
(of intent) inflicted
by a pre-emptive
amputation
Taenia soliumTaenia saginataDiphyllobothrium4 latum
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
One big problem
(now) gaping, the
--discontinuity--
(of intent) inflicted
by a pre-emptive
passing (grrunnnttt-grrrrunt...kerplunk)
of the thread
(i.e.: Taenia solium or saginata or Diphyllobothrium4 latum) etc. etc.
a.k.a.: whorl(dp)lay etc. etc.
Tah-Wham, Tah-Wham etc. etc.
you never know with worms etc. etc. etc.
Only the unwashed!
--by ingesting eggs
shed liable to
re-infect(ion)

I wuh-wuh-want to tell you a je-je-joke.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Licking a fore finger,
his lips puckered-up
at the sour flavour
of dirt.

Wait.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
He was on page 27
of the worst book
he'd ever read, and
he'd started to feel
nauseous.

Putting the book down,
he wiped his mouth
on the back of his hand
and got up and went to the fridge.

Maybe some soda water?

Something churned in his bowels.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The cat,
looking up from her dish,
licked her whiskers
and stared up at his belly
as if something in there
had moved.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
It was deja vu
for both of them
and
for a moment
it was as if...as if
one might need a new language to express the thoughts
that played about the boundaries
limning the shifting contours
of interspecies communication
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Genesis narrates the victory of Noah's rest (noah) over Cain's restless artifice (qayin); a victory, in the world, at the cost of the world.

Our own history records the opposite: the victory of Cain over Noah, in the world, at the cost of everything but the world.

Like Milton's Satan--but this time victorious--Cain cries out to his host: "We shall make a heaven of this heaven!"

Just like that
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
We shall make a heaven of this heaven!
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The cat, on the other hand,
watched carefully
the things
(invisible to us)
that float just above
our right shoulders....
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
the rest,
fatally,
had already been
re-written.

[ September 24, 2007, 09:54 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
and sat, squat, on the kitchen table,
re-opened, re-infecting, the heavenly host.

As you knew. And from the sense of moving right or setting right: happiness.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Once held
together by a thick black clip
the thread-script lay, played out,
in two piles, or
better:
one pile, one heap
like a mackeral
glass-eyed
and unlikeable--
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
un-book-like

[ September 25, 2007, 01:41 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The moment passed away, unbelievable, until another:

there were, according to his calculations,
over two billion pigeons in the forest,

nesting, two perfect white eggs becoming
fat squabs and the limbs falling every night when the parents returned and returned.

His hogs would fatten on the absurd carnage:

Forty miles of forest shorn of all but the largest branches, filling with excreta and little ones, fallen from their nests.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
It can suck the life out of you, Heaven.

At any rate, he didn't have any hogs
or even a forest.
Absurd carnage, maybe...

"One needs to clear ones mind," he said into the fridge and stood there, illuminated, on Tuesday morning. No Soda water either, just two eggs, as usual.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Only the little hum of compression
holding out much hope
in the tick-tock quiet
of dawn.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
With only one story left: the parasite--
Only one language: metamorphology--
The relation now the thing
in itself.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
"Rebecca was almost six and a very fast runner. Most of her speed could be attributed to the get-away. Just when you thought she was busy throwing rocks, or when it seemed likely that you might spend at a moment talking to a friend about real-estate, just then, she would get four or five steps towards some vanishing point: over a crest, towards the pond with the quacking ducks; whatever it was, she would be gone.

Inevitably, we chase after them. And during that run, which always starts at a laughing gait (becoming a sprint when we realize how fast her little legs speed along her chubbiness), we start to live in a new world where she is lost and where, cresting the hill, there is nothing, only this racing heart, the horrible trees, the wind and the seagulls, and the impossible decision of which wrong way to continue our run."

Ah, the old days....

[ October 26, 2007, 02:05 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
He filled up his huge enamel tub, slowly, to the brim.

Falling water and a thickening steam contain him and his restlessness. Islands stir the surface.

He drowns his knee and all inhabitants, who'd lived their silent, secret lives atop a little fold of skin and closes his eyes to sink, unfathomed, into Asia:
 

---

Posted by Tammy (Member # 4119) on :
 

 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The rotting teeth of Halong Bay are Dragon's
lapped by swelling seas;
Chinese junks and dories tongue the grottoes
mindlessly; the world plays
a sustained cadence to jet-hollowed sky:
High noon, and you cannot arise
or go below or any further--
You slip away, a smallish wake
excites the glare to diamonds: Asia
everywhere; and here your tongue explores
the inlets of a broken tooth,
the sweetness of decay.

[ October 10, 2007, 02:17 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
He pops back, breathless, to the surface of his own catastrophe: an aching tooth, the draining tub, the mirror, and every destination thwarted by his demand for nothing more than this.

[ October 10, 2007, 02:18 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
All baths come to an end, somewhere in the mirror. A crow's rubato triplet frames a diamond
silence outside, and then it all will wait--to mean something to you, or someone else--who sees more than himself.

The well worn path, the exposed roots
hard and tight to the earth.

[ October 10, 2007, 02:18 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
It would seem, that at great cost to his personal welfare, he had stared too long into that hollow sky. He had not taken into account the possibility that what he saw (the unlikely beech, the pitchblack well, the sentient bough through troubled glass, the busy fly, a quiet sun, the waterlily moon, a morning star) were merely artifacts of his eyes whose spidered blood vessels and feeble retinas sickened his mind which continued to mistake the human for the alien.

[ October 02, 2007, 03:13 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
A dreaming silence sequence screams to a stop...

You helped when I needed you.

For the above, I am thankful.

We are what matters. The good fight battles on - the warriors win.

Peace
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
...so, I say to the guy: "Where's my Lemon Tart?", and then this goon who's been standing there watching clobbers me with a hammer...Ka-boom!...and I'm telling you 'Out-Go-The-Lights' baby, it's overs-ville, I'm splatter."

The impressively long segement of tapeworm recoils back into his jar and is carried away from the microphone to the supportive applause of the Fall gathering of the Council for Aboriginal Relations.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
A man (NOT REALLY!) goes to the doctor (UNLIKELY). He says "Doctor, I am always so hungry, what's wrong with me".(HOW CAN YOU BE SO HUNGRY WHEN YOU'RE SO FULL OF SHIT?) After a quick examination the Doctor says to the man "You have a tapeworm--Come back in a week and bring me a lemon and cherry tart".(FLASHBACK TO THE ACCIDENT, IT'S NOT EVEN FUNNY AND YET HERE WE ARE PLOWING ACROSS THE FRONT LAWN) The man (HE'S NOT A MAN!) comes back in a week with the tarts (NO TARTS ANYMORE!), the Doctor tells him to spread his legs and puts the tarts in between along with a hammer(IN ITS VELVET GLOVE!).

A head (CAN IT BE SAID?) pops out of mans rear-end (THE ESCHA-ESCHA-ESCHA-SCATALOGICAL) and eats the tarts, glances at the hammer, and vanishes. (THE CRUCIAL TURN...THE VANISHING....)

The doctor tells the man to come back in a week with two more tarts (TRUST ME, I'M A DOCTOR ETC.) He comes back in a week with the tarts, lies (ALWAYS LYING!) on the table and spreads his (HAIRY?)legs, the doctor positions the tarts and the hammer and sure enough, the worm comes (SLIDES, CRAWLS, THINK D.H. LAWRENCE-esque) out, spies the tarts, eats them up (TOOTHLESS!), glances at the hammer (EYELESS!) and disappears (LIMITLESS!) into darkness (DARKNESS!). The doctor says to the patient: "One more week sir. Come back next week with the tarts and you will be cured." (BUT, IT'S NOT TRUE! THERE IS NO CURE! ONLY DARKNESS!)

There are some lingering (BIOGRAPHICAL) issues.

Cherry Tart = Life. (HA! IN THIS TWILIGHT?)
Lemon Tart = TA-WHAM (a.k.a. Death), or Resurrection("Let. Me. Up.")

metamorphosisresurrectionmetamorphosisresurrection
 

---

Posted by Zalmoxis (Member # 2327) on :
 
Oddly enough, when I was 8 or 9, I ate a cherry tart and a lemon tart at the 80th birthday party of a friend of my grandparents.

I became violently ill afterwards. To this day, I refuse to eat cherry and lemon pie. Although I love lemon bars and cherry ice cream.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Go,
get your bag,

the canvas bag that you forgot
out on the edge of that black lake.

It's still there, where no one goes,
pick mushrooms on the way.

Wooly says they're all no good,
sprouting in the wintergreen;

he's showing off, trying to walk
faster through the bush than you.

His bum ankle trips him up, just when
he's getting serious--down

he goes--and from that darkness states:
"Sun's gettin' low...," as if

it's now too late to be so far away,
but you know where you are and where you're going.

Searching, off that granite cliff, looming
on the water. And this kind of fear is good

you think, feeling stronger on the rock,
deadfall birch, beavers' work ...and Wooly:

"They're triggered by the running water...",
this everybody knows, but you say "Really?"

Then you know you're going to turn around
and leave things where you left them.

So now what happens to your bag?
It sits forever still and waits

where no one goes
to find it.

[ October 10, 2007, 02:21 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The sea sorting the shale over the eons...
Hanging onto the sheer cliff of the present, one false move, one move at all, your
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
With that carelessness he typically mistook for incipient passion, he swept the typescript off the kitchen table with a broad sweep of his arm and collapsed onto his chair, the collapse was impressive enough to slop most of his cold coffee from the cup into a mercurial puddle that immediately began an almost organic search for the edge of the table. What should have been a breath-taking moment of existential release, a grasping for the newly opened realm of desperation, a promising ground for the langourous delicacies of self-laceration was interrupted by the fibonacci declensions of an edge gone over--drip, drop, drip-drop, dripdropdrip, dripdripdripdripdrip until a new world, fully formed and beckoning, would have to include a pee-break.

[ October 18, 2007, 11:11 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
With a lovelessness never confused with boredom, she assembled her chess pieces and made a perfect line - her own little army, ready for a mission - then stood up crisply from the table and fainted. She was inside a TV! Lost in the grey snow. The crack of her head hitting the table was an abstract thing, pure and painless--another thing getting lost with her in the hissing greylight.

What blood there was splattered over the waiting army, with one drop landing in her startled coffee cup. The drop began to dissipate following the strict laws of a science where apprehension taunts comprehension, the pattern lingering and finally some would say living longer the she did, dead as she was on the floor; both beginning to cool, nevertheless, in their respective infinities.

[ October 11, 2007, 09:50 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
With a foolishness borne by the boneless chicken wings of absurdity, a ditty was regurgitated:

Use a water glass, explore under the surface of your bubblebath.

Sunken dinky toys, your sister's toes that wiggle in the underworld.

[ October 10, 2007, 02:22 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
"Returning (NEVER FURTHER) from the hill (NEVER MORE THAN THAT, VISIBLE FROM THE 5TH FLOOR WINDOW OF THE GATINEAU PSYCH WARD) he'd climbed (BUT STOPPED TO NOTE THE POLISHED ROOTS), on the top of which, overlooking the pines, the valley (CROSSED AND RECROSSED FOR NOTHING), the budding beechs (THE TREMBLING WINTER LEAF); returning along a path, a trail once cut through the hills hundreds of years ago by settlers (FULL OF THE DEAD, THE MIDDENS, THE PILED STONES), maybe loggers, the Blanchet Trail (see((I CANNOT SEE-I CANNOT SEE-JUST THE WORDS FOR IT)), there is where old Blanchet'd planted fruits: pears, apples, peachs)((THERE IS ONE GNARLED PERVERTED TREE WHOSE BUDS BLOOM RANCID IN WINTER)); along a trail like this (AND WHAT TRAIL IS NOT THIS TRAIL?), a man (A NOTION) in his later years saw a bag (THIS IS NOT REAL). It was just after the turtles, the turtles courting (HA! LYING ON A LOG, THEN FLOPPING IN UNTIL ONLY A LAST RIPPLE TOUCHED THE SHORE WHERE I STOOD IN THE HUSHING WIND) in the pond, it was, of course (TO ASSURE AND COMFORT WITH THE CASUAL), Spring. The bag was left behind. Surely left behind as there was nobody but the (NOTIONAL) man in the vicinity: maybe a woodpecker, a warbler of some sort, or an inevitable indiscernable crow (I HAVE MENTIONED THE CROW, THE RUBATO TRIPLETS, THE TOTEMIC ASPECT OF THE THING, THE CRY, THE CALL TO COME HOME). There may have been a voice, he may have heard a voice in the woods, not a scream (THIS IS LUDICROUS AND MERELY FIGURED), barely a complaint, maybe only a voice (HAVE YOU HEARD THE ONE ABOUT TH TAPEWORM?), it might have been a voice (IT WAS) but he wasn't sure (HE WAS) until he saw the bag on the path (A BAG ON THE PATH IN THE MIND, THE PATH BACK FROM THE RIVER).

TA-WHAM TA-WHAM!
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
You come back.
Get in the car.
You go home.
Certainly.
You go home.
Climb the stairs.
Turn the key.
Always the same
angle of light.
Always the same,
you sit and watch. And it will not amount,
cannot amount to more
than life's late afternoon: still life,
but not living.
 

---

Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
what is living?
what is dead?


what matters?
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
"Everything's wrecked.

Four racing cars, a Grand Piano tuned to the key of entropy, plexiglass screwed over the windows and a thick new lock on the door of his shack,

where he tried to live as if something still mattered.

A 1/4 inch ratchet set inside the Lancia, the Alfa
with two little puddles of rain in the footwells.

When he sat at the piano, back to the sun that played over the pasture, the lone spruce thrummed and far away you could see the big river flicker and shine.

Then, it was the first snow of the year."
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
On your first solo, you had six matches
on that island all to yourself
(you were afraid of the bears on the mainland).

You tried to wait out the day, then the night;
you wanted the sun to go down,
to sleep for the morning
that never came. Only moonrise.

You should have busied yourself,
collecting wood and birch bark to kindle a fire.
Instead, you're awake to the sound of the water,
to the damp footfall, to the moonlight.

[ October 12, 2007, 02:43 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

---

Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 

quote:

---

Originally posted by deerpark27:
If you carefully watch them,
things turn into themselves
in the twilight.

The air stills,
you might hear a call, to come home,
to come back, then

the sun's descent
tightens the sky
to chromatic membrane,

sheer indigo punctured
by pitchblack statues
of things not themselves:

trees, trunk and twig lattice
bled beyond blue-grey
recall only their absence:

exquisite incisions
cut from the dusk;
here, the black wellsprings
of nowhere

---

 

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Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
hmh.

not sure how that last post got up there.

i certainly didn't post it - i kept getting 'insufficient memory for this operation'.

oh well.

it was fun dancing between shadows at moonlight, deerpark27. if you decide to let me have copies my contributions to the worldplay thread, i'd appreciate it. i know, i know, my bad for not saving them on my own. i had faith that you wouldn't delete your own work, though, so i trusted that my part would be there without me having to back it up. like i said, my bad. email me through the forum.

take care.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
- the one about 'hearing everything'
(you can use the "Dangled down darker" father figure.

- the punch line,line, line: the impressive and inevitable gait of narrative: there are always words for "this".

- the Duino transparency overlaid on Genesis as dimly figured

- dimly figured, utterly.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I saw that hole in France.
Walking through the dusty old Linden trees
on that otherworldly brown flint, that
obsidian, whatever it was - the rocks were all so different.

So,
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
it was only the heart
whose yearning opened the night
punctured by things of this world;
so the falling
in the wide open eye
of heaven.

Since,
you've learnt the names of stars,
the stitching of constellations.

[ October 19, 2007, 09:29 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
They march into the present, my drunks out on the bridge,
their flight into the slow brown river, ker-plunk, ker-plop,
I know what happens: surfacing, they’ll laugh like little kids.

I say: "The process is alive,
displays itself and waits for us
to change, to apprehend then to survive" or,
"rivers with their rusty railway bridges,
summer rivers with their never and agains"

until it doesn’t matter because
swimming for the shore they'll laugh
like little boys, like side-effects,
like supplication: shown the instruments
we all confess the beautiful, survive

the process pushing us into ourselves,
the counting footfalls into prayer
the nothing out in front of us,
and all that you can do is this.

[ February 06, 2014, 11:44 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Really, it was just
the end of love.
The broken things too broken,
the lost too far away,
and all the words we made
to help explain what happens.
You say: "There are words for this."
But no one's left to hear them;
the parking lot is empty,
it's hide and seek but
no one's left to find you.

One breath, one step
to carry you
in darkness.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Really, it was just the end of love:
the broken things too broken,
the lost too far away, and words
we made to help explain what happened.

You say: "There are words for this,"
but no one's left to hear them,
or "The parking lot is empty," and
"It's hide and seek," but no one's left,
one breath, one step in darkness.

The little hand ran down the twine until the tack
that should have held the sweet pea up
zipped through the chubby palm and carved
a gaping grin right to the bone
that filled with blood and sunlight.
 

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Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
sarcastic laugh, sounding more like the necessary emptying of lungs than an actual laugh...

i'm going with everything is broken, at this point.

the point, itself, becomes harder and harder to deem worthwhile.

it sucks. my heart's heavy and my bones world weary...

can we still write?
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
In that swelling pool spun
calico amoeboids, the same
ones spilling out from Mom's dress
with the churning pythons.

[ October 23, 2007, 11:42 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by pooka (Member # 5003) on :
 
Re: Your wasp nest poem
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The moon, that same moon,
the one that hung over that night
you first knew you were lost.

Nothing has changed, staring
into that calm, that dead calm
that has swallowed the years.

[ October 26, 2007, 02:31 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
lost on my way to where?

at least a full moon grants light
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The situation of the the child, particularly 'our' child, as the referential nexus of all that might be right about the world, or, at least, that could be right about 'our' world.

Vampires. Our instrumentalization -- more the recruiting-- of childhood into a complex rhetorical system that expresses their fundamental hopelessness as our primary source of hope.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
For the boy in his restless peace:

Sleepless now for more than sixty hours,
racing through another explanation
of a gamer’s half-life manifesto,
finger twitching in anticipation
of the headshot or annihilation’s
spasm in the bedroom’s timeless twilight;
spawned again into a grey-lit desert
where they come for you in herky-jerky
two-step until you slump down dead again
into your sickly body, exhausted
by the deathless metabolics; alive
to lifelessly await the Counterstrike.

[ November 21, 2007, 10:38 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
peace
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Look,
get out of your Jacuzzi, for a minute.
Swizzle or swallow that Martini's
cherry, wonder
where'd you put your housecoat?
Naked's not too bad on you, still
snow's a-piling, bending boughs
in silence, except
you'll just stand there, dripping
until (dropping)
you're not more than a trickle
to any people anymore.

The Jacuzzi crowd prefers the sweet martini
so they can place the cherry in between
their moistened lips
and languorously slip into their silk pajamas,
perhaps to grip that cherry, for a moment,
with their perfect teeth....
And if and if a little dribble tickles at their chins
they know somebody’s always willing
to lick it off; being of the rivers
to their people

Looking out
over the lip of his Jacuzzi,
limbs adrift in the boil, our a.k.a. Mr. Linguini,
from that fetid broth, lifts a steaming finger, or two:
his signal
beyond those planks of Douglas Fir, wallows
no further; the gurgling
water has swallowed
him under; thinking Martin Sheen
(from that Apocalyspe) though
his muddy Mekong would reflect
the dreamsung air-strike.
(so thinking: perhaps
just a little mouthful
of that sweet Chilean sea bass.)

“What dwells on our periphery,
part animal part instrument?
Drawn by domestic gravity,
what moves and breathes in unison?
Who, lured by our human fire,
dreams the dream of origin?”
Mais, mon cheri, c’est de vous qu’ils parlent a la tele!
(les filles disent toujours “Oui!” a M. Jacuzzi.)
And, pray tell sweetie, how can I say more
in French? Encore?

"...to set oneself a chore, and then
to do it...a relapse," he thought he thought
our Mr. J'accuse!-y, whose finest moment,
ex-aqueous, found him frying
trout and sky grey mackerel
in the same pan (Incroyable! les Anglais ne savent pas manger...)
to feed the beastly older woman,
dream undone
he'd tried to order pizza
and instead now found himself in bed,
or soon to be so. Foreign tongue tastes
best confused.

"Dah-Nile!" He was into it
up to his arm pits, under
covered; Monsieur Jacuzzi, at last, exposed
to darkness & the fishiness
of darkened things. To reach, to squeeze, to raise
the hemistichal stream.
Snow sloughed off an over laden bough and slapped its spot of sunlight:
this would be afternoon would be. He rose.
"Enfin, Cheri."
(That would be the dream.) M. Jacuzzi
took stock of things just as they are
and plopped.

[ January 15, 2008, 03:34 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
What a sky. So white, so under the impression
that to go to left to right too primitive
to the distinction; to say more, to make
heaven, again, heaven; or to fall full
filled (filleted)(stop)

[ January 16, 2008, 02:30 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

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Posted by Tante Shvester (Member # 8202) on :
 

I'm déjà vuing all over the place!
 

---

Posted by Tammy (Member # 4119) on :
 
Tante - That's okay, just make sure you clean up after yourself.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
You say you remember, but you don't.
You can't get it right. I know. I was there too.
And there was only one bird, one dirty gull,
and he floated there, staring.
You burned the paint with a blowtorch, remember?
Harrowing the surface. Caustic. Uncovering.
If you scratch deeply the trace remains,
the gesture. Lamentations.

The place was empty, like here, at first.
Dazzling white. And voices, yes, and you and you and you, but still as a graveyard.
You could breathe.
 

---

Posted by Tante Shvester (Member # 8202) on :
 

quote:

---

Originally posted by deerpark27:
You say you remember, but you don't.
You can't get it right. I know. I was there too.

---

quote:

---

I remember stopping and marvelling at the stain, my little skid mark

---

quote:

---

Originally posted by deerpark27:
Der Fall

and the eyes of the two of them were opened, and they knew that they were naked

Were their eyes closed before?
No, opened wide10:61. Staring outward.8:23 Like those of the kouros5:57 or stele2:66 at the gates5:11 of the dead.

they knew that they were naked

They knew that (ki). And there the fall, in the ki. It doesn't matter what, just that.

they knew that they
they knew that they

Not the they they were, but that they, over there, as in a mirror.
Propositional knowledge: knowing "what is put before".
Knowing-that falls like a mirror between they and they—it is the and:

they (knew that) they

A mirror falls, between Man and himself. Now he is here, a subject to an object, no longer the impossible edenic vocative, called into be-ing, subject without object.
This is the first declension.
He is here, and there, over there, an object in the mirror, and in the mirror, in the world.

Case, sb. [--L. casus fall, chance, occasion...]...
Grammar.
a. One of the forms of a noun, adjective, or pronoun, which express its relations to some other word, e.g. as subject, object, etc.
b. loosely, The relation itself.
(O.E.D.)

It is odd of course to inhabit the earth no more[...].
Odd
to see everything that was related fluttering
so loosely in the space.
(1:70/78-80)

The world is all that is the case [der Fall].
(Tractatus 1.1)

Der Fall:
1) "The case."
2) "The trap."
3) "The fall."
The mirror is the fall, the trap, and the case.

---

quote:

---

Originally posted by Jenga650:
I dare say... after wading through this intriguing assemblage of deerpark's ponderings... might we be in the presence of OSC himself?

---

No. He reads a lot more like Pynchon than OSC; I rather enjoy these posts but can't say I have much in the way of responses...

Hobbes
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I had always been quite serious about the big brown river. More than H., more than that other silly bugger in the call centre who, after hours of breatheless scribbling, tearing each ruled yellow page from the thinning pad with authority, only finds himself staring at leftovers, three words: big brown river.

Something'd gone quite wrong. An overzealous devil's advocate in gaudy tap shoes had pounded clarity into a fine subtle dust that's filled the vaulted arches of the mind. Look! You can even see the light.(It was a time-step, of course. Mutated.)

This is the river, however, upon which floats the inscrutable duck. Always the same river. Never another. There they go.

Then comes the clocktower's singular "Gong!"

What next? Qu-qu-quonfess.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Matryoshka,
her old Russian doll,
opened and opened
until a procession
of upturned bells wallowed
over the tabletop,
until she'd reached
the end, the heartwood.
 

---

Posted by Graeme (Member # 12543) on :
 
it's an old brown table.
you were hunted because I was hunted,
I was hunted because you were found.
we made the table on an afternoon,
slick with mirth and full of sense.
and gold. Can't forget the gold. can't have a decent meal without the gold from mother's tomb,
her fecund gold staring with silent exhortations
exhort this, exhort that, i'm as dumb as a baseball bat.
But the table was of gold! The table was full. And you saw it, and knew it, and thus knew me. Maybe that's why you were hunted. Maybe that's why you run free.
it's an old brown table.
An ant negotiates its edge, as broad and flat for him as it is thin and sharp for me.
 

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Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
"slick with mirth"
That's a keeper!
(with its dissonant overtone: sick birth)

To bear
To be borne
To bring forth
What you brought
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Instruct

The system clock
is too fast to compare
with the black rock.

The black rock
is too slow to compare
with the system clock.

The glass forces the bloom.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The glass forces the bloom,
and the greenhouse is full of begonias,
row upon row in a plain pinkish white.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
1032th begonia:

3.4 GHz
and the old
Torngat hadean gneiss:

to be thrown,
to throw, and
to throw up.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Matter.
Turn the radio off.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Middle ground.
Sigh.
Take stock:
One Swingline stapler.
One clay urn, the size of a little football, with one handle and two holes.
One necklace draped over the handle of aformentioned urn. (As I recall, purchased from a child on a beach in Kampot, the day of the wave.)
One well worn paintbrush, the first and last.
Seven mute stones, hand sized.
Two small pieces of lively driftwood (snake and dwarf).
One black and one white bear. Clay and paper-mache.
Sticks to hold the window open, covered with cryptic red scribbling.(The window from which the teapot fell).
A suspicious, new brown teapot.
One brittle teacup with gold leaf rim (my long dead grandmother's).
One large fishing lure, from Punta de Mita.
One tattered map of Wabakimi park; one fantastically old lead trail marker found way off the trail and so collected as a souvenir of what it feels like to be lost.
One shortwave radio, taking on a life of its own.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
It is never enough, never.
Rarely sufficient to reorient the inevitable entanglements of the cadenza, the limpid stream.

I have made arrangements to see you,
caring too much to care at all anymore.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Struggling,
as I have,
no body, no soul, no mind can deny...it...it(is) still,
still (so still) and (out)there: utterly:
struggling-strugggggullllinnnngggg. Hear that?

The probes (of course) have disintegrated.
Burnt up.
Red needles fused to the fanned array of delicate, embossed numeric gradations: .005--.006--.007...discriminating the cryptic signals...
How many times did we run our fingers over the bumps, Sergei Brianovich?
How often did we tweak those antennae?
The last readings indicative of the disaster--
Fire. Searing heat. Molecular fusion.
It didn't stand a chance,
Not unlike the wayward shuttlecraft,
launched from the womb of the Enterprise,
piloted by the last remaining security guard,
into the maw of the beast, that flaming ice-cream cone,
do you remember the drumbeat? the brass?

Unlikely.

Crystalline in structure.
Adamantine.
Hard to miss.

[ May 05, 2012, 11:45 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
What readings?
They were all faked.
It's a moot point whether it blew up on the launch pad or landed 327 miles off the coast of Bermuda.
They keep it all secret.
You only see the films (Films. Ok--think of a Youtube video, except without interruptions.)
It was all faked. Top secret, inscrutable countenances etc.

Someone painted my door last night. I mean, they spray painted a guy with horns, diabolical--you know--all drippy on the high gloss exterior latex--but clearly supposed to be a demon of some sort.

"Unauthorized, expressive, visible, human inscriptive defacement of property," I said, "a living fossil."

You wanna focus on the primary process here.
The surface. The code.

That's what I thought.

[ May 06, 2012, 11:27 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I've pulled on my tight fitting red spandex jersey;
zipped up my spit-polished black go-go boots;
oh I'm beaming down,
arms carefully crossed in the small of my back,
phaser on stun and a hard little smile
for the bloodsucking salt monster,
all of those tentacles waiting
to cover my clean-shaven face.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Or so I thought.
I should take this dirty towel off my head. See what gives.
-Oooo-Burned hair, wet newspaper.

I let my stomach out, finally, cutting off the view.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
of my navel.

In 1934, just before I gave birth to my fourth child, I was sitting in a prototype grey Panzer, taking pot shots at a couple of forlorn Gingko trees left over by the bloody Huns 500 years ago, when I felt her chewing at my innards. Needless to say, and in spite of my best intentions, my strict upbringing and the handbook, which I'd almost learnt off by heart, I leapt up from of my wicker seat, banged my head on the periscope handle, and pulled the red ripcord.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Needlessly.

Later, breast-feeding her on what could only be described as the flesh of my withered glands, watching her little nails squeezing the calico fabric of my camouflage maternity jacket, I recited a verse from from the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary to comfort our souls, a classic tale of mirth and fury.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Note to self:

I got a good grip on the hollow stem
and a couple of dirty leaves
of the screaming yellow dandelion
and pulled steadily, feeling the taproot,
buried deeply in the dirt of my front lawn,
start to give. There was a moment
when we both knew it was about to snap
and leave each of us with what we didn't want,
another shot at spring.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
++I call it remediation
--You really screwed up his painting, he's going to really kill you, I mean, it's totally wrecked.
++The belt sander almost caught on fire from all the impasto bullshit. It turns into goo.
--There's strips of cardboard too, all stuck on the canvas and then painted over. It's stupid, you saw it before, didn't you? It was like he painted a close up of greasy, yellow and brown plaid sofa, from the mid 70s, like the one his mother lost her virginity on he probably thought, he even signed it, I couldn't believe it.
++ It's certainly f***ed now. You're dead.
--I used that thing Joe left, the grinder for the window frames, you know, that screamer...it was like the Spanish Inquistion with electricity, it begged for mercy, but I forced a confession out of it...flayed it alive. You can see the sun through it now, it's more of a lamp shade than a painting.
++He said he paid $1,600 bucks for it.
--It had at least $750 of paint on it.
++Is it finished? At least you could finish it.
--I'm going to write on it, with India Ink.
++You better do it soon, they're all coming back on the weekend. It's sort like a parchment or something.
--I've got to fix the rips so they don't tear any more, then I'll finish it.
++It's weird. All the anxiety that gets into this stuff.
--It's really working. It really is.
++You're still dead.
--Shown the tools, we all confess.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I meant that we were the begonias,
under this glass, row upon row,
forced to bloom -- pink begonias.
The greenhouse is full of begonias, row upon row.

An image of a greenhouse in winter, seen from the outside, after dark.

You're trudging along the road, it's getting quite cold, you can see your breath, you're going to buy a plant for you mother's birthday.

A teardrop pulled from the box of fragile old christmas ornaments. So thin, as if it's worn out and waiting to fall down.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Splash down.
Je ne suis pas un babysitter!
- Albert Frankenstein.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Selfish Note:

I dislocated my right shoulder
by putting too much weight
on the Olympic bar
for the military press,
or maybe it was the bench press,
or the chin ups,
or my slapshot,
the stick
stuck
to the ice
causing me
to yelp
in my helmet
O-O-O
that hurt.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
paint from the shoulder
little dot
p-p-paint from the shoulder
little dots
p-p-p-paint from the shoulder
little dots

Ruptured
Punctured
Punctuated

Once,
O, ages ago, before the cataplasm
squeezed a rupestral squirt
of red ochre from the tube.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I blasted a stupid tulip with my kicking foot. A fake-ish pink one, there were millions of them and so what. It exploded like chickadee, leaving one dumb green stem waiting for a medal. I went berserk and kicked about fifty more, it was the most beautiful chaos to ever rain on this sunniest of Sundays and trailed by a crowd of Chinese tourists, I ran for it. I ran for it for a while, all the way to the phony lake surrounded with more tulips, millions and millions more in regiments. I just started pumping my skinny legs and headed in, kamikaze style, and must of got about five-hundred or so, totally wiped out the reds and was jumping up and down on the purples when I noticed my grandmother sitting there in her wheelchair holding an ice-cream cone that was melting over her hand and lap. So what? I thought for the second time, I mean so what? What's with the tulips? What's with Ruth? I lost my concentration.

This is always the turning point, this lack of focus.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Somehow,
Elton John had written a melody,
but Bernie Taupin couldn't think up any lyrics.
Maybe the music wasn't as good as usual, maybe there wasn't a good hook.
The song was called "Over there's my house".
I've got to get this down before she comes back.
She always does.
I've written the lyrics, now.
Just watch. You'll see.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Ok,
It's tough sledding, but a little snow's not going to stop me. Nope.
Just staring straight ahead, in my tunnel, trudge trudge trudge, it's still pretty far to go, far far far, but I'll make it, as usual, your legs know it and that's what keeps you at it, sniff sniff, dandelions are dead by now, that's for sure, frozen dead, even the greenhouse's dark, spooky with the stars shining up there, what a moon tonight, a witness, wide-eyed in winter, I did it, I did it, I'm coming home.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I want you to think of it as a science, a social science--you know what I mean?
It's as if there were a laboratory, a trial of strength, an answer. You know.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Lab life.
Waiting for the Louis Pasteur of moral morbidity to start isolating strains in a culture of digital pig urine. Turn on the centrifuge, we're going home.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Spontaneous morbidity.
Contagion.
Moral hygiene.
Posthumanism.

What's left of me wants what's left of you to consider what's left of us.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Whirled play.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Whirl
Whorl
World

Words for nothing.

Moral graffiti.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Two bugs
with really long legs
and invisible wings
were bouncing up and down
up and down
up and down
chasing each other I guess
in the middle of the jungle
beneath this big leaf
that had been lifted up
by the broken tip
of an old machete
in an act of feigned curiosity.

This was after the little serpent
squiggled in the mud
after the jaguar tracks
after the tumour was cut from the trunk
and the miniscule termites poured out
even after the treefrog
but well before dusk
when Clarindo told us
to turn on the light.

[ July 11, 2012, 10:16 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Clarindo, Clarindo,
you bullshit artist,
those tracks were just dog's
from the village, your light
attracted that Cobra Grande
who rose up only to fall on my back,
then pressing its head on my chest
it listened to hear if I breathed.
And all you could do was bang on the Ceiba.

[ July 13, 2012, 04:16 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Which
as you know
is more provocation than remedy
in the dark.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Which,
as we all knew
deep down,
had overtaken
the evening.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Rain, rain,
Sweet corn and rain,
pray for rain.
 

---

Posted by 777 (Member # 9506) on :
 
I wish deerpark wrote more. This stuff is brilliant.
 

---

Posted by 777 (Member # 9506) on :
 
In other news, I'm finding it difficult to share this page with my Facebook friends; it always generates a link to a notification saying that "you are trying to access a page that does not exist," which is bogus. Any ideas on how to do that?
 

---

Posted by Samprimary (Member # 8561) on :
 
I don't know how to do that but I do know how to get Hatrack to tell you that you are trying to hack it but it CAUGHT you trying to hack it.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
What do ya call that suture
that joins the skull bones? Well,
I laid mine on the platter,
dropped the diamond stylus
in my groove:
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
At the end of the road there were these two trout sizzling side by side in a frying pan, a brook and a rainbow.

So the brook looks over at the rainbow, you know, with his good eye, the one looking straight up, and asks "Steelhead?"
 

---

Posted by TomDavidson (Member # 124) on :
 
Hey, long time no see.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I kill myself! [Guffaws.]
[Narrative tone.]
Still. Here we are. Again.
[Normal tone.]
Remains.

[ February 25, 2014, 03:15 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

---

Posted by TomDavidson (Member # 124) on :
 
Have you ever played any of the Animal Crossing games, particularly the latest? The mechanism by which the game teaches you various emotes involves talking to a "comedian" who spends his mornings cleaning up the local nightclub. That "comic" manages to be a surprisingly rich source of pathos.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The World as I found it
with silent feet:
shuffle hop step brush step step
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
He lifted his warm stool bag
from its chrome hook
and rolled his way into
the puddle of light
expressed by the tungsten
of his last 100 watt bulb
to see the story unfold:
a broken white ring of raw onion
churned in the bag
with the otherwise usual fare(was that a peanut?)
segmented and glistening,
a guest!

[ March 05, 2014, 11:22 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
It's a science.
He rolled over to his laptop
and sent a message to Brian:
Cestoda.
Taenia solium.
What next?
 

---

Posted by Derrell (Member # 6062) on :
 
Welcome back. I've missed this thread.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The great lake is frozen, so solid it presses in on its shores and buckles on top of the beach. Great broken plates jut up and sparkle under the blue of a jet-hollowed sky. If you were to walk out, beyond this glittering wreckage, one thousand steps further, you'd find it cracked open, punctured, as if something's fallen from the sky and gone through, leaving this pitch-black and specific hole. You'd have to be careful or lucky to work your way out to the exquisite edges, and to decide which wrong way to run when it gives out under your feet.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Yeah but, yeah but,
if it's so solid, then how'd it break?
I've counted footfalls and a thousand doesn't get you too far, they'd see you from shore, from Gladys's kitchen window, sipping coffee, "he's going way out, what's he gonna do? Jeesus Mac, he went through!" Or the airplane on approach to General Mitchell in Milwaukee, some guy's looking out the window of 8A, waxing poetic, sipping on the dregs of his diet coke, maybe chewing the ice cubes, and then he sees a speck, and then it's gone. He catches his own reflection in the window, cranes his stiffening neck a bit more, and swears he saw you go through. It's all mixed up with Milwaukee anyways. I swear if ot were me I'd've jotted something down in my notebook though -- "Big ice, big hole, a man? walking? as if going all the way, Poof! Vanished. My own face in the glass." Which way's North anymore? Things turning into themselves. All that jazz.

[ March 26, 2014, 10:51 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
An empiricist,
I stick with my facts,
make explicit what we all know implicitly,
without demanding of any concept too much precision, no more than it allows--
just enough to get us out over the ice. So,
"A crystallographer of sorts?" you say, but I'm
afraid I can't give a straight, geometric answer:
whatever the Field Guide of Rocks and Minerals said when asked:
It's all a geometry of hardness
achieved by invisible structures,
fatal habits,
why (as I put it)
even the invincible diamond cleaves
along symmetrical axes
to small to be seen.
Threshold, my
lexicon
for traveling
too far out
on the ice.
 

---

Posted by Orincoro (Member # 8854) on :
 
You are one of the most tedious people I have ever encountered.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
My tether is lying in a heap,
unclipped.
My phaser is drained:
click click.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
It's just a silly game until it's over.
I turn the radio off, ears hiss,
I see just how she stood:
her shoulders hunched to launch
herself into the rush of Blues,
they're all behind her now,
she spins, she laughs, she gives the game
an oblique chase, just like the bus
she can't believe she's missed,
she'll spin and laugh, she turns
to look for me, the silly game is over.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
So,
it's like a pigeon augury,
if you know what I mean.
 

---

Posted by Unmaker (Member # 1641) on :
 
sure i do,
deerpark27--
come
visit
www.davidbowles.us
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Everything’s worn out Mijita, and I love you.
Our sheets are threadbare and stained, your shoes,
all of your shoes beneath our bed,
how my back aches from gathering dust
to be ready again for us:

our candles, our mirror, all of my roses
you’ve hung by the stems, and tonight
tonight’s for anchoas, Manchego,
Manzanilla, to the moonlight inside
of our silly flamenco.

And I’ll be too tired tonight
to know why my love, why it’s so cold,
or are we so drunk in the kitchen again
on the Cava we drink and we drink
that you can’t remember?

Tonight is for sunflower seeds,
your pipas, for gambas al ajillo!
And all of the shells you spit
into the ocean, Mijita,
we’ll sweep from our floor in the morning

[ April 15, 2014, 08:34 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Right on man, right on.
You said it. The floor is an ocean.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
And the snoring.
It was the snoring that sealed the deal.
How could someone so beautiful snore like that?
A tritone in the flesh,
an unexpected dissonance,
aural graffiti,
the untapped eroticism of the epiglottis,
I don't know how to put it,
sleepless with your bangles dangling down darker than the darkness.
 

---

Posted by Unmaker (Member # 1641) on :
 
Oh, my. Gambas al ajillo. Se me antojan ahora.
 

---

Posted by Unmaker (Member # 1641) on :
 
deerpark27, my article "Translating 'An Otomi Song of Spring' from the Nahuatl Codex Songs of Mexico" from Translation Review is up at Taylor & Francis Online if you are interested in checking it out: http://www.tandfonline.com/eprint/q5sjcJrByaUkW3Y8wkfB/full
 

---

Posted by Unmaker (Member # 1641) on :
 
I'd totally buy a book of deerpark's poetry. Anyone know who the hell he actually is?
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I've received another telegraphic communique from my father: "Still hot. Today normal clouds. Alacran!" as if he only had a moment on a lucky connection that might at any minute be cut by rebels,except he's at the St. Regis again, overlooking the infinity pool overlooking the sea smashing into the cliffs. Alacran is a kind of tequila. "Helicopter fixed." Good. What helicopter? I remember jumping out of the smoke filled canopy of the old one during that Nigerian fiasco, sickened by the smell of phosphorous and burning skin. Who are we to judge the good life? Instead,I pick up my pellet rifle and draw a bead on the grey squirrel with the rat tail staring at me from the cross. Pffft-Zing. Ricochet! Jeezus, I could've blinded myself. No time to reload.No time at all.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
I guess if I wanted to learn something,
I would've asked a real Indian,
not one of these phonies,
foot sticking out of a wet blanket,
then built myself a so-called whirligig,you know.
Or sewn a cape from the pelts,
yeah--a metaesthetic squirrel cape.
It's one long lesson in beautiful nonsense.
 

---

Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 

quote:

---

Originally posted by deerpark27:
It's one long lesson in beautiful nonsense.

---

quote:

---

Originally posted by deerpark27:
I wanted to start over

---

quote:

---

Originally posted by Lyrhawn:

quote:

---

Originally posted by Tatiana:
Are y'all really going to revive the dobie? Really?

---

It's one of the five Signs of the Hatrack Rebirth.

Once we can collect a dobie, a landmark, a string of deepark poetic posts, 5 spam posts in a day and 5 new members in a month, we'll know the Hatrack Rebirth is no mere illusion.

One down.

---

Two down.
 

---

Posted by Derrell (Member # 6062) on :
 

 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Future Perfect
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
Past Irrevocable
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
He turned and walked over to the ramp and lay down on his back. He straightened his legs and tried to straighten his arms, but they wouldn’t really fit on the plank, so he crossed them over his chest and then became perfectly still. He must have been staring up and listening to the leaves in the oak tree. When the branches swayed in the wind, the leaves, which were green on the top and whitish on the bottom, reflected the sunlight and sounded like water.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
All behind us now.
 

---

Posted by deerpark27 (Member # 2787) on :
 
The door in between the two rooms of his heart opened and closed and, in heartbeat, a clot slipped out of the kitchen and ran all the way up to the top of calcarine branch of the posterior cerebral artery, where it got stuck on the narrowing staircase, one foot in the attic.
 

---

Posted by PanaceaSanans (Member # 13395) on :
 
I sincerely hope this does not concern a loved one of yours.
 

---

Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
I’ve missed you, deerpark.
 

---

Posted by Derrell (Member # 6062) on :
 
Me too.
 

---

Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
This world is one place
I might never understand
Glad I have good Friends
 

---

Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Whatever happens
You’ve been my very best friend
Ever and Always
 

---

Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
A mirror appears
Reflections of past lovers
Warn me: "It's a trap!"
 

---

Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
One mirror, one trap...
I would fall a thousand times
in the case for Truth.
 

---

Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Deflect laser with
The mirror in my compact
Take the case of gold.
 

---

Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Gold could be Fools’ Gold
learned that a long time ago
Always wait for Truth
 

---

Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Lies! Only a fool
would fall for such a dumb trick
It's done with mirrors.
 

---

Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Mirrors, they may break.
Find a different Seven
I hold my people.
 

---

Posted by steven (Member # 8099) on :
 
We’re doing haikus?
Are my syllables just right?
These don’t rhyme, correct?
 

---

Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Rhyme or reason
Write what’s real
Haiku
 

---

Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Wake up deerpark27
 

---

Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
I will always find
You are mine, always
You should bet on that.

Mean it.
 

---

Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Meant to tell you, love
You will find out soon enough
I am always mean
 

---

Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
I am the meanest.
On that you can always bet.
Duets can be fun.

(
 

---

Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Meaningful lyrics,
A tale told by two voices.
Epic drum solo.
 

---

Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
I will still catch you
No matter whatever happens
I like drums also

)
 

---

Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Dared to have a dream
I’d like to have the best one
You’re picture perfect.

Forever True.
Yeah, I do dig you
I do mean it

[ July 03, 2020, 02:26 AM: Message edited by: cmc ]
 

---

Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Five golden rings
For seven singing sisters
Don’t know how to do zero things

I remember five flower pots
Climbing up nine steps
Looking to find six coffee cups

Filled with seven creamers
Six of them in the cabin waited for
A bunch of old cars, maybe five
Could have been just one, though

I’m not sure...

~cmc
 

---

Posted by TomDavidson (Member # 124) on :
 
Is that a phone number?
 

---

Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Cute lines with intent
Might have a helpful effect
Creating happy feels

[ July 05, 2020, 03:59 AM: Message edited by: Mr. Y ]
 

---

Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
occasionally
feelings have no words; imper-
fection is just right.
 

---

Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Creatively poor,
my writings tend to be plain
Can I do better?
 

---

Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Room for improvement?
We can always be better.
I’d be that with you.
 

---

Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
There is always room
Best is the enemy of
Life lived good enough
 

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Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Must keep on trying
Repeated mistakes are bad
You should learn from them
 

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Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Take seven hundred
fifty four. Meet you out there
if you can find me...
 

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Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Six minutes to eight?
That's early in the morning
I'll set my alarm.
 

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Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
I’vlways gotcha back
I’d meet you at wherever
Because yer worth it.
 

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Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
There’s an old kingdom
they have NO idea about
how things are right now.

Wake Up.
 

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Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
There’s an old kingdom
they have NO idea about
how things are right now.

Wake Up.
 

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Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Honestly, I might
just stay in bed and wait for
this madness to pass.
 

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Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
I’m a fan of that strategy.
 

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Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Yet I mostly find,
that after getting started
things are not so bad.
 

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Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
You’re totally right.
I’ve heard that worry’s best cure
is taking action.
 

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Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
There is a movement
Weird... I heard some kind of green
Tell ‘em to piss off
 

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Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
remember worldplay?
man, those were some good ole’ days
meh - spilt milk... don’t cry.
 

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Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Wake up.
 

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Posted by Mr. Y (Member # 11590) on :
 
Woke. Breakfast. Gaming.
Washed up, got dressed and brushed teeth.
Work now, while jazz plays.
 

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Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Don’t know any games
Actually, that’s a lie
I do like jazz, tho
 

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Posted by steven (Member # 8099) on :
 
There’s not consensus
On the etymology
Of the word “jazz”...weird
 

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Posted by cmc (Member # 9549) on :
 
Could they be jazz hands?
Perhaps maybe jazz music?
Your guess; good as mine.
 

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Posted by the_worm (Member # 3964) on :
 

code:

---

I had fainted, unless I had believed
to see the goodness


                               of

---

code:

---

                          :the land
                                      [code] the land of
                                                            code [the living]

---

code:

---

I had fainted, unless I had believed
to see the goodness


                               of

---

code:

---

                          the land
                                      [code] the land of
                                                            code [the living]

---

quote:

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It mainly served as a wrist rest for our mouse hand, though we handled it with a familiar reverence—a vestige of the old days, when we’d slip the ‘Classics’ in and out of eye-level spots on the bookshelf, hoping to absorb a reading while never reading a word. We found it in a used bookstore. It was a Collins King James Version . The hand-made frontispiece testified, in Gothic calligraphy, that it was gifted to a Mrs. Porch in 1960, for forty-two years of faithful service. The black leather-bound volume was the size of our left hand, laid on as if for an oath, and still smelled like church when we stuffed it in the knapsack and stepped out into a light drizzle.

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quote:

---

There it was. Perfectly stupid and irrevocable.

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