Not anathemata

Sad news all around.
After 2 Nov I began the 7 stages, but I don't think I'll ever get to "acceptance."
I am comfortable with Anger.

America is a deeply stupid place.
ABB
I think that's plenty for now.

No Frank the Bunny Mask

Halloween party coming up; wanted to be either one of the Residents, with a giant eyeball head and tux, or Frank the Bunny from Donnie Darko. I have a tux, but I couldn't find a big hollow sphere or globe to turn into an eyeball. Frank the Bunny masks are expensive and I'm not talented enough to make one. Who cares, right?
Here's another hunk of verse I quite liked. If you read this, give it a scan.

Toward a Pointillism

of Intimacy

first thoughts thrive

within

blown glass

lines only on the face

walk if you want

to curious affinity

hands cold red at the edges

rubbed on desolate fireplaces

she’s just there

hair static fresh

crackling butterfly frame

crossing borders

presence actual

arranged on the carpet

why weren’t they

we’re not our skin

solitude early

contained

have I been visited

Cosmopolitan Greetings

the truth about

thin fabric on knees

shoes in the hall

a river stone

reciprocal arrangement

a bra on my bed

get our bearings

already too late

no rhetorical you

philosophy perhaps

she took Polaroids of

interruption

I used to be

cut them into pieces

a pile of her

scissors scheme

the engine that killed her

writing with my hands

lifted right out of her

difference sands the back

her surrogate nerves

just her fresh

crackling scent

shall not have rocks and water

and skin

you on my entire

breathe normally now

stretched fabric

arched a million times

little hooks of the river

comfort in leaving

the once-white bed

lean in

cut like metal

onto my stomach

over the sodden transferring

it’s her smooth

glistening loss

a cold linger

lines too far back

hands on my face

just a mirror

water

steps toward truth

I will never be them

lived it by degrees

at the corner is skin

on the river

wet can scatter this

An Arcane Beginning

If by some chance you have stumbled onto this nascient blog, welcome.
This initial posting is more place-holder than anything. However, here's a poem whose words may solve a puzzle.



P____ wings—we’re silent,
wondering;
watch updraft playfulness.
The shoreline nearest the ____
pulled in by intimations
of whirlpool,
quiet crackling frozen spiraling energy.
Tiny flies ambered in salt surface tension
________ and _______
and faux choral flat pink.

P____s again, throbbing
hum of pink and black wings,
enormous, saurian,
the graceful end of S______’s timeline.
We three, reverent listening:
is it their wings or throats?
an irreproducible soundscape
L__ could pass through
a guitar pickup retransmute
or like our slow moving cameras
leave them, ephemeral.

Drought white on white
R_______ as we climb,
silence outside but for my breath’s work;
inside swirls of remembered sound:
R___ K___, E___’s T___, if let out
the sounds would cascade down
to the snow like expanse,
topple crystals,
but I hold it in my head.

L__ has found a perfect rock;
long-ago foundations of small,
rectangular somethings poised
on the edge of uselessness return
in Bas relief.
I feel the pull,
the inevitable impulse to capture time,
slivers of seconds like:
his hair sweat spiky;
pastel palette smeared with massive texture;
pelicans, hundreds;
___________ sunflowers rustling;
black pink and suddenly white wings;
temptations towards gesture. <>
It’s the wings, the huge unison.
Phantom guitar
doesn’t produce the sound,
brushed bell tones pulling the eye from coiled earth.
Not potential energy frozen,
fixed in geologic time,
it is kinetic and poised;
I taste it each time I come.

That night:
They bend and remain
almost still,
L__ and his band,
gestural attitudes,
shared yet self-contained breathing T________s,
willing sustains and decays. Familiar melody
jarred away by this standing still,
two guitars aloft,
one slowly playing position feedback,
intersecting drones harmonic bell-like tones
in the sweaty dark.
Are they ready,
aware,
perceiving this wall of sound stillness?
Entropy and creation
ask so little of each other,
they touch at a single point of clarity,
tangential.
Waves evolve;
energy infuses gestural time,
a sense of impending.



Google and other tools create the spaces thus the puzzle is not facile.
Entirety is already out there; plagiarize at your own risk and broken bird karma.
Ratios of length and brea___ and you know who you are.

Comment if you come from such a state of being.
More soon. Do not search for me, I am already there.