Last Cyber Journal entry:
Oct 29, 2008 - 10:33 PM
Added bar end mirrors - adding a piece of rubber to get the tension right. Removed the stock mirrors so as to take away the bunny eared look.
I then installed some bright xenon lights and got to know my headlight a bit more intimately than either of us were accustomed or prepared for. I didn't lose a screw, and this description is spinning in a direction I didn't mean for it to go.
A tank from an honda F3 awaits in the backseat of my car for installation while I travel to an island in the Pacific and thence to a hemisphere where it is Spring to our Fall/Winter. Alackaday, and trust my luck.
My Horus is a Hawk. There are many (not quite) like it, but this one is mine.
Read more Cyber Journal entries...
Poetry, what it is
What the hell is poetry? Is poetry just prose that ignores line length and
proper grammatical structure? Is poetry just pretty words strung together
with line breaks taking the place of punctuation? Is poetry the freeing of
language from any constrainst to get to the heart of meaning? If it don't
rhyme, is it still poetry? (heh)
I'm going to go out on a limb here, and talk about poetry from my somewhat
limited knowledge. Please feel free to spank me if I am off in any way. (But,
as you all well know, everything on the web is true) In Greek times poetry
was separated from the narrative, the term being "lyrical" or to be "accompanied
by the lyre". To be sung. It had more to do with music lyrics and reading
(sung) aloud, which seems to make poetry relate to the spokenword movement
of poetry. Poetry has a long history of being read aloud, to make the words
come alive, from the ancient Greeks, to the Hmong oral histories in Laos,
and the Sandinistas reading poetry by candlelight in their tents at night,
to the Beats reading in cafes, and now the slammers and their spokenword.
What to make of it?
Beyond the rigid forms such as Haiku and Sonnets with their syllable length
and number of lines, with sonnets and other poetry forms ending in rhyming
words in particular patterns, poetry takes forms limited only by the imagination,
which is to say they have no limits at all. But, as a friend has told me,
if all things can be poetry, then shit can be poetry. Yeah, well, the same
argument has been used for art in general. The bleeding edge of poetry and
art will always try to free art from the constrainsts and forms of the past.
And sometimes the bleeding edge borrows from the past a la Ezra Pound and
now hip hop with their "sampling". Anyway, just a Monday morning brain spill...anyway,
feel free to talk back.
Looking for my photography site? Click the photo below:
Orpheus Rising chapbook now available from Cafe Press.
This is a collection of poems strung loosely upon the skeleton of the Orpheus
and Eurydice myth.
This chapbook was the product of a one-man show put on in Denver in
2004.
Help me to believe
I'm too damaged to believe in fairy tales and true love
the synchronous intersection of time and place and chance
Luck to me is endless preparation meeting fortuitous opportunity
in other words, we make our own luck
But despite my broken body protests
against hidden monsters and happy endings
I feel like I've prepared my whole life for you
Are you the girl I can put my faith in?
A permanent fixture in my mental storage
complete with knickknacks and commode?
My mind is filled to the brim with brown hair and blue eyes
an intellect to be reckoned with
A singular talent in a one-hundred pound package
We see eye-to-eye in a non-physical physical way
You caress my furrowed brow with cool hands
clever hands that put the fix in
cradle my love-addled head
dreaming of travel in rice-producing lands
China and Thailand and Japan
taking and taken with you
Dreaming of a life of ease, with you
I place my fragile faith with you
Here's my heart, a three pound thing
the heart is a muscle made of sinew and veins
powered by life
forcing blood with bellows and shouts and synchronized valves
through vessels ocean-going and exploring
machinelike, and sometimes it's stiff, and sometimes like stone,
and sometimes freezing cold
A frigid thing melting at your furnace touch
the kind that movie stars bestow, like you
the kind that blues singers do, like you
I'll buy what you're selling and sell what you're buying
and let you rearrange my mental furniture
putting in pedestal sinks and hi-volume commodes
the kind that when you flush the Atlantic Ocean dips an inch
(never did like to flush twice)
with you I'm wasteful, spoiled and rich
with you I'm chocolate cake and champagne flutes
with you I'm a triple-shot espresso - hold the lemon twist
Like Lon Chaney, I'm a monster undeserving of you
but like all monster flicks, I get you in the middle
and when gut-shot by clean-shaven heroes
and you see that, really, I'm the prince
I'll get you in the end too
Hold my hand and kiss my burning lips
try to put out my eternal fire, I triple-dog-dare you
write me a fairytale, full of monsters,
and darkness, and a damsel distressing,
and muscular heroes who save you in the end
write me a fairytale full of hope and fire and true love
And help me, please help me
help me to believe.
Video
New Videos of Java Me Darkly and Nostalgia,
directed by my good friend Dave Felknor available for the web. Real
Player, AVI, Flash and QuickTime versions available. Letter-boxed...for
your pleasure.
WAP enabled
Wangzen is now available to the mobile masses. Point your WAP enabled phone's
browser to: http://winksite.com/wangzen/poetry.
