. belong[♥][→] a loyalty of cranes II III

[13 Feb 2712:53pm] "though I am lonelier for loving the moving light in streams." -Mark Fry [mostly ; ask to be added. i like new friends, but please don't steal.] 00204 &sed non satiata

[_+Whither Thou Goest: Bob Hicok_] [3 Jul 0910:46pm] Fish can have mad cow disease and I have a problem with that. Purity suffers and salmon can't moo can't paw grass with the furious strokes the essential bovine faith that there's something in the earth for everyone. All along I've wanted the good days to be the good days and not good like drilling your teeth is good when it stops but good like moonlight on my wife's hip with the sheets pulled back and her hair riotous and misconstrued. That's one thing and not another. That's the best use of a bed and two bodies working out the most inclusive form of redemption known in the universe this side of black holes, which is where I want to be considering that on the other side of black holes fish with mad cow disease are indistinguishable from Komodo dragons who play power forward in the NBA. I'm not ashamed to admit my prayers are no longer unconscious but loud and practiced to the skin of the mirror to the muse of the cereal box to the road as I drive everywhere trying to find the last 3/8" drill this city has because I don't believe in god but trust that pushing veneration through my body makes god exist if only for a second within the chambered nuances of breath. In my favorite prayer I apologize for not having shouted earlier and in public say from the back of the subway the top of a table in a Fort Worth bar that whither thou goest I will follow. This should be said every day and with no substitutions for the archaic whither which is the tender part the broken wheel of the phrase. This should be repeated like the turbulence of blood repeats harmonically or at least until it's understood that even if the way things are becomes the way they are not I'll be there when mad cows attack when madder fish swim back through the streams when a black hole shows up at the door wearing a tie and promising to suck all dirt all evil all manner of woe from this life and smiling in a fashion that breaks your knees. Whither or when thou goest, how and why you flee, in what manner or mode you glide or thrash there's the mercy of the bond, there's the moment you wake or refuse to ever sleep again, there's still your face when the wind's so fat it curls in the field to lick its wounds, and my promise to be there, conspicuously mad in my devotion. sed non satiata

[_+the descent beckons as the ascent beckoned. WCW_] [3 Jul 0912:19pm] Some of my favorite Carl Phillips lines, from what I've read of him as I'm preparing for the interview: He says: You must let the body fall sway to what at last it will, learn to look entirely, and without trembling. CP & Suspecting, even then, that the best way to avoid being broken by flaw would be to shape my life around it. CP & knowing too the blade by which - if it means the best, the most fruit- oh, let the limbs be cut back. CP plus: In an interview witih Ted Hughes, he was asked the question What do you think of the label "confessional poetry" and the tendency for more and more poets to work in that mode? and Hughes answered: Goethe called his work one big confession, didn't he? Looking at his work in the broadest sense, you could say the same of Shakespeare: a total self-examination and self-accusation, a total confession- very naked, I think, when you look into it. Maybe it's the same with any writing that has real poetic life. Maybe all poetry, insofar as it moves us and connects with us, is a revealing of something that the writer doesn't actually want to say but desperately needs to communicate, to be delivered of. Perhaps it's the need to keep it hidden that makes it poetic- makes it poetry. The writer daren't actually put it to words, so it leaks out obliquely, smuggled through analogies. We think we're writing something to amuse, but we're actually saying something we desperately need to share. The real mystery is this strange need. Why can't we just hide it and shut up? Why do we have to blab? Why do human beings need to confess? Maybe if you don't have that secret confession, you don't have a poem- don't even have a story. Don't have a writer. If most poetry doesn't' seem to be in any sense confessional, it's because the strategy of concealment, of obliquity, can be so compulsive that it's almost entirely successful. (...) Maybe that's why poets go to such great lengths to get their poems published. It's no good whispering them to a priest or a confessional. No, until the revelation's actually published, the poet feels no release. & I have spent weeks in the desert, forgetting to look at the moon, he says, as a married man may spend days never looking into the face of his wife. These are not sins of omission but signs of preoccupation. - Ondaatje & We die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves. I wish for all this to be marked on my body when I am dead. I believe in such cartography - to be marked by nature, not just to label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories, communal books. We are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience. All I desired was to walk upon such an earth that had no maps.- Ondaatje 002 &sed non satiata

[_+mimosa_] [6 May 098:48pm] last night d. and i rode our bikes to an old abandoned school building, all brick, with a chimney a hundred feet high for the wintertime, and a line of flowering trees along the northernmost edge of the property. the trees were like cherry trees, but had big pink clusters of flowers, large as a grapefruit. we stood on our toes and broke off the flowers, climbed up in the branches and braced against the rough bark to reach high and gather more. he stood behind the fence, five feet above me, and shook the branches over my head til the petals fell all around like snow. we had arms full of flowers, arms full of them. and we put them in his bakfiat, the basket bike, piles of pink flowers. the ground was littered with pink petals like cigarette butts- as if the tree smoked the flowers, as if the flowers were the tree's addiction, and it couldn't hide the proof. we rode home through the night and he helped me carry the flowers in and i put them in every vase and jar i had, til my room was full of heavy pink blooms. i did it all because of something lindsay told me about tennessee williams, that he lived in rome in a little apartment he filled with mimosa in the wintertime, and how he always returned to that image, to that story. and i wondered how malleable creativity is, if it could be attract or elicit creativity by changing my environment. what if i spent $50 on flowers every week? what if i crept out every sunday night, stealing flowers from abandoned gardens and schools? would i change as my territory did, or would everything unfamiliar stay so? i'm satisfied by the fact that i'm using every mason jar i have to hold these. i bought purple tulips and yellow daffodils as well, so my room is only an imagined animal, pink and purple and yellow, antiquated forms, still-born fossils. mmm. it's been so long since i've been here, been around. feels good to be back. 002 &sed non satiata

[2 Mar 0910:21am] An Argument For Size sed non satiata

[23 Feb 0910:18pm] "Is this how You want me to pray, Lord, what if everything we do is love, every horrible thing we do is love, and the tiny gestures of notes beside the phone, and blowing on soup, what if there are no distinctions, and we, who are nothing but the impulse to distinguish, to cut one thing from another, are wrong, if we should have stopped after one word, one sound, the sigh of breath when making love, of one body pushing into another, forcing air out, I don't know if the tongue of that sound is all I can say, Lord, don't know why my hands are still moving, are these keys touching You, Lord, are my fingerprints on Your skin?"- Bob Hicok sed non satiata

get the led out. ♥ stairway to heaven. ←