Sunday, April 5, 2009
inroads, byways & gravel driveways
inroads, byways & gravel driveways
mas,
wondering what it is about these paths
makes us think we've got to map & measure
what we're sure changes even evry time we pass
but i'll find something soft enough
to lay my head on
in the driveway, dust is the pillow btwn stones
and above the onrush of celestial unreason
stoneage teevee, meaningful pinpricks
all sorts of bewildering wilderness confusions
lead naked apes down all possible paths
by foot or cycle; propeller or paddle.
pine needle carpet; a cold swampy mess.
a hot hot long parking lot; traintracks that end.
highways that connect to highways
that connecto to highways... divert
divert to the twisting two-lanes & discover
it's hard to be efficient following
the tight contours of the countryside.
topography of riverrun and water fall.
evry dim meander is a road.
evry atlas an encyclopedia
of misdirection.
how can you be right to go
to that strange and distant place?
what'd you ever lose there?
if evry doubtful byway is another
to get there
and the atlas has never held enough detail.
there's that unknown thing with infinite names
that never name it
this desire, that desire.
question. that question demands an answer
& that answer was the question in the first place.
if a highway exit is a sortie
the french for an outing
american for a fighter pilot's mission.
the bourgeosie ride a gilded carriage
to a small hillock (miss muffet's nearby)
for a picnic with a view of battle.
they look out over crumbcake
at something they dont even realize
is happening in front of them.
if a farmer come by and tole em
would they care or listen? if a gypsy
come along and sung the song of battle
could they hear above the din
of slurping curds & whey?
if a highway exit is a mission
a sortie into the unknowable suburbs
of the upper middle nowhere
that looks reamarkably like
the lower leftern somewhere
even though the climactic difference
really only has to do with the weather.
leave the geography alone.
quit askin so many kweshtuns.
somebody with opinions like yrs
best know when to keep his mouth shut.
if a highway exit is a mission
if a sortie is a picnic
if an atlas is an exit
evry exit is an in.
dint find my road
so i took em all.
they skirt round the mountains there
and come back to the circle
while others head off yondah.
well, i guess it wasnt this exit
i knew i shoulda...
if a book is an exit
you know the way in
off a cloverleaf
on luckynumbered highways
let bygones be
& keep yr ear to the rail
nose to the bone
shoulder to the stone.
put yr back into it man
cant just leave it
in the ditch like this
that's noway nowhere.
*
expatiate: (L expatiari) to go out of one's course
wander; 1) originally to roam or wander freely; hence, 2)
to speak or write at length; elaborate or enlarge (on
or upon).
*
what i thumbed across while i lookt for the definition
or inroad. where does an inroad go? in geography? on a map?
an inroad is a sudden invasion or raid
like a sortie, a mission, an inrush
more direct than a byway or gone
an unmappable mission
thru not completely hostile
but completely confused
territory.
we expatiate (as opposed to expatRiate)
push our feet
on thru the heavy pavement;
elaborate our shoes
til they stay on.
there is no need
to enlarge or enlengthen the roads
they are interminable, incorrigible, imperturbable.
they call and crawl to each other
they are the constraints
webbing & netting
themselves about the many tangled limbs of entropy.
and we walk the ley lines of empathy & forgetting.
what'd you ever lose there? as though to say
you better oughta lose somethin
afore you go lookin round for more.
never ask a question
til there's no other way.
you need to lose things
to find things.
seems like something
a simp or philosopher would say.
even if it's a lot more true
than 'what'd you ever lose there?'
i've never known what it was i lost
when i ws never there before
just because i ws never there before
doesnt mean i wasnt.
best know when to keep yr mouth shut.
that's good advice.
hide & watch.
best know when to keep yr mouth shut
timing is evrything
& some things are better left unsaid.
if you know when to shut yr mouth
it should be easy to talk.
taking the lay of the land
you got to have a way
if an atlas is an exit
evry exit is an in
didnt find my road
so i took em all
if a book is an exit
you know the way in
you got to have a way of seeing & saying
evry way out is another way in
when all you remember is what evryone else forgets.
bridging burning breaths,
a
.
mas,
wondering what it is about these paths
makes us think we've got to map & measure
what we're sure changes even evry time we pass
but i'll find something soft enough
to lay my head on
in the driveway, dust is the pillow btwn stones
and above the onrush of celestial unreason
stoneage teevee, meaningful pinpricks
all sorts of bewildering wilderness confusions
lead naked apes down all possible paths
by foot or cycle; propeller or paddle.
pine needle carpet; a cold swampy mess.
a hot hot long parking lot; traintracks that end.
highways that connect to highways
that connecto to highways... divert
divert to the twisting two-lanes & discover
it's hard to be efficient following
the tight contours of the countryside.
topography of riverrun and water fall.
evry dim meander is a road.
evry atlas an encyclopedia
of misdirection.
how can you be right to go
to that strange and distant place?
what'd you ever lose there?
if evry doubtful byway is another
to get there
and the atlas has never held enough detail.
there's that unknown thing with infinite names
that never name it
this desire, that desire.
question. that question demands an answer
& that answer was the question in the first place.
if a highway exit is a sortie
the french for an outing
american for a fighter pilot's mission.
the bourgeosie ride a gilded carriage
to a small hillock (miss muffet's nearby)
for a picnic with a view of battle.
they look out over crumbcake
at something they dont even realize
is happening in front of them.
if a farmer come by and tole em
would they care or listen? if a gypsy
come along and sung the song of battle
could they hear above the din
of slurping curds & whey?
if a highway exit is a mission
a sortie into the unknowable suburbs
of the upper middle nowhere
that looks reamarkably like
the lower leftern somewhere
even though the climactic difference
really only has to do with the weather.
leave the geography alone.
quit askin so many kweshtuns.
somebody with opinions like yrs
best know when to keep his mouth shut.
if a highway exit is a mission
if a sortie is a picnic
if an atlas is an exit
evry exit is an in.
dint find my road
so i took em all.
they skirt round the mountains there
and come back to the circle
while others head off yondah.
well, i guess it wasnt this exit
i knew i shoulda...
if a book is an exit
you know the way in
off a cloverleaf
on luckynumbered highways
let bygones be
& keep yr ear to the rail
nose to the bone
shoulder to the stone.
put yr back into it man
cant just leave it
in the ditch like this
that's noway nowhere.
*
expatiate: (L expatiari) to go out of one's course
wander; 1) originally to roam or wander freely; hence, 2)
to speak or write at length; elaborate or enlarge (on
or upon).
*
what i thumbed across while i lookt for the definition
or inroad. where does an inroad go? in geography? on a map?
an inroad is a sudden invasion or raid
like a sortie, a mission, an inrush
more direct than a byway or gone
an unmappable mission
thru not completely hostile
but completely confused
territory.
we expatiate (as opposed to expatRiate)
push our feet
on thru the heavy pavement;
elaborate our shoes
til they stay on.
there is no need
to enlarge or enlengthen the roads
they are interminable, incorrigible, imperturbable.
they call and crawl to each other
they are the constraints
webbing & netting
themselves about the many tangled limbs of entropy.
and we walk the ley lines of empathy & forgetting.
what'd you ever lose there? as though to say
you better oughta lose somethin
afore you go lookin round for more.
never ask a question
til there's no other way.
you need to lose things
to find things.
seems like something
a simp or philosopher would say.
even if it's a lot more true
than 'what'd you ever lose there?'
i've never known what it was i lost
when i ws never there before
just because i ws never there before
doesnt mean i wasnt.
best know when to keep yr mouth shut.
that's good advice.
hide & watch.
best know when to keep yr mouth shut
timing is evrything
& some things are better left unsaid.
if you know when to shut yr mouth
it should be easy to talk.
taking the lay of the land
you got to have a way
if an atlas is an exit
evry exit is an in
didnt find my road
so i took em all
if a book is an exit
you know the way in
you got to have a way of seeing & saying
evry way out is another way in
when all you remember is what evryone else forgets.
bridging burning breaths,
a
.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
letters from woodrow
pop-
tierra del fuego is a lonely windblown rock. there are goofy cute blue penguins i’ve decided to study. i shall learn from them as a library of nature’s diving fishermen. i have chose a remote outpost & my brother has immersed himself in the bustlings of industry & finance & the accompanying furious pace of the metropolis. which is arguably a lonely windblown rock.
here in the land of fire at the edge of inhabitable earth all the elements bare themselves and pour forth their energies.
these bustling energies, the earth’s own humors and emotions, bile and spleen, along with the blue penguins & a few mute indians with large dirty feet will be my sole companions and my great professors.
please send my love to my only brother.
yours in elemental love & flightless seabirds,
woody
top pop--
i have arrived at my windswept isle destination. mud & grass can be used to fill the gaps between the planks of my own personal shack, when mud can be found. the previous occupant fell off a boat on his way back to the island after a rare holiday.
the roof of the shack is tin & flaps in the wind. i have climbed the ladder a dozen times to nail the corners of the tin down again in only a handful of days.
the process of acclimation has been difficult. ah but the job. officially, i am an observer. �but, i could not long resist slaughtering large numbers of little blue penguins wantonly. the carnage is endless. all is bloody. i use a club, mostly. times come i throttle the penguins with my bare hands. it is satisfying to watch the light of their life dim to darkness in their eyes. the skins produce a favorable hide of a blue hue. the carcasses posses a luscious meat.
your in open-handed savagery,
woodrow
most gracious pappy--
the penguins emit a precious high pitch honking, a flightless cacaphony of flapping. they are not afraid of man. each day is gladly the same as the prior. bird murder, skinning, salting, tanning tiny hides, cooking, eating, shitting. rinse and repeat.
the slaughter is endless. an open ended contract of elimination. an economic boom on this forlorn windtorn rock until the birds migrate, return to the sea.
here all facets of life are focused on the birds. there is a large pile of bones outside the shack. many pairs of little blue webbed feet bound with scurvy grass hangin from the rafters of the shack.
yours under swaying legs,
woody
pop-
next time i write you i’ll live somewhere new. i sent myself a postcard. it will get there before i do. i hope i sent it to the right place. i’ve had enough of the penguins. all i wear is blue. i prefer the white meat. but stew makes things grey. the stones and soles offer little sustenance. the cacti must be peeled. they wither in the broth with tangled roots and tiny overlooked feathers.
yours in birdskin with stringy wings,
woodrow
tierra del fuego is a lonely windblown rock. there are goofy cute blue penguins i’ve decided to study. i shall learn from them as a library of nature’s diving fishermen. i have chose a remote outpost & my brother has immersed himself in the bustlings of industry & finance & the accompanying furious pace of the metropolis. which is arguably a lonely windblown rock.
here in the land of fire at the edge of inhabitable earth all the elements bare themselves and pour forth their energies.
these bustling energies, the earth’s own humors and emotions, bile and spleen, along with the blue penguins & a few mute indians with large dirty feet will be my sole companions and my great professors.
please send my love to my only brother.
yours in elemental love & flightless seabirds,
woody
top pop--
i have arrived at my windswept isle destination. mud & grass can be used to fill the gaps between the planks of my own personal shack, when mud can be found. the previous occupant fell off a boat on his way back to the island after a rare holiday.
the roof of the shack is tin & flaps in the wind. i have climbed the ladder a dozen times to nail the corners of the tin down again in only a handful of days.
the process of acclimation has been difficult. ah but the job. officially, i am an observer. �but, i could not long resist slaughtering large numbers of little blue penguins wantonly. the carnage is endless. all is bloody. i use a club, mostly. times come i throttle the penguins with my bare hands. it is satisfying to watch the light of their life dim to darkness in their eyes. the skins produce a favorable hide of a blue hue. the carcasses posses a luscious meat.
your in open-handed savagery,
woodrow
most gracious pappy--
the penguins emit a precious high pitch honking, a flightless cacaphony of flapping. they are not afraid of man. each day is gladly the same as the prior. bird murder, skinning, salting, tanning tiny hides, cooking, eating, shitting. rinse and repeat.
the slaughter is endless. an open ended contract of elimination. an economic boom on this forlorn windtorn rock until the birds migrate, return to the sea.
here all facets of life are focused on the birds. there is a large pile of bones outside the shack. many pairs of little blue webbed feet bound with scurvy grass hangin from the rafters of the shack.
yours under swaying legs,
woody
pop-
next time i write you i’ll live somewhere new. i sent myself a postcard. it will get there before i do. i hope i sent it to the right place. i’ve had enough of the penguins. all i wear is blue. i prefer the white meat. but stew makes things grey. the stones and soles offer little sustenance. the cacti must be peeled. they wither in the broth with tangled roots and tiny overlooked feathers.
yours in birdskin with stringy wings,
woodrow
april is the cruelest month
i hear it's nat'l poetry month. i have a bad attitude about poetry. i write poetry. i disdain poetry. i love poetry. i hate poetry. i eat poetry. i shit poetry. i put poetry in the catbox. i stuff cushions with poetry. i especially dislike poetry about poetry. egads!... but we do know aprylle is the kruelleste munth... ah and respond we must.
my response is to record you, the listener, a poem each day of this month. and post it suchly hereat.
to start, something i have not recorded in the month of april. but it is the most recent mp3 made. the thing i have recorded in the month of april, well, it's longer and incomplete as yet. perhaps, tonight.
letters from woodrow
my response is to record you, the listener, a poem each day of this month. and post it suchly hereat.
to start, something i have not recorded in the month of april. but it is the most recent mp3 made. the thing i have recorded in the month of april, well, it's longer and incomplete as yet. perhaps, tonight.
letters from woodrow
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