farrago

Love:

that thing you diagnose

or tell an old friend of the daunting distance to

like that worn path to the I-Hop. There are things

like landscapes and voices

that the mute flesh cant un-remember.

I was looking in my journal,

the empty pages that spoke volumes

about this attempt to record each aspect,

the way the plumb of your jeans stick

in the crack of your a*s like the neck of

the prized foal

sticks thru the wire fencing.

I have this recurring dream, and perhaps you can

tell me what it means? I'm pulling water

from an old well but the walls of the well

have caved in and the water, once crystal clear,

is now brown and stormy. What inspiration

do you get from  me telling you this?

Am I reenacting the sequences of longing;

the taunt rope the arms of the lost one?

The pale, the one content to sit enjoying poetry

and a glass of lemon water? Psychologist have a name

for when the cycle of your dreams

repeat their wet selves on dry ground.

It means you've made the sometimes bullshit, awful

things

all-right.

Reviews

[Blotted Ink Productions]

This is dope! Love the well analogy!

[alan peter kelly]

Phenomenal mind...expert linguistics...mute flesh can't unremember...of course not...fine balance...questions i answered in my mind and observances have meaning to those who do not see so well...perhaps in need of the provocations through deliberate imagery and questions usually lead to not only answers but more questions once a wall is breached...brick on brick....cerebellum to cerebellum...each a step forward...toward enlightenment. I will certainly be back to read more of your literary splendour.

[Rocans (Asher)]

Hmmm. You have a very queer writing style. But one that I rather enjoy. This is no exception. I relished the opening stanza...stellar! The whole write was far above average for me. Quite impressive.

[W.k.kortas]

One thing I have neglected to give you your due on is your titles--they are not throwaway bits of cleverness (guilty as charged, Your Honor) or restatements of the painfully obvious. They are subtle guideposts to what lie within, and this is no different--for what is life, and certainly love, but a seemingly disordered hodgepodge of events that we have to bring order to (and so the last pithy and brilliant stanza)? The third stanza is a wonderful metaphor for life its ownself--the constant tendency to move towards impurity and disorder, the logical end result of the constant battle with the forces of entropy. Life tries to pull us apart, but any poem, and by extension, any poet worth a damn, tries to re-instill order as best he can--and so this piece, doing so by defining disorder and thus, trying to wrestle order back, making "the sometimes bullshit/awful/things/all-right." It is a poem inside a poem, and I am of the opinion that this may be your finest work.

[Corset]

omg ..lmao..that's just hilarious, you still "got" it! Favorite stanza

about this attempt to record each aspect,
the way the plumb of your jeans stick
in the crack of your a*s like the neck of
the prized foal
sticks thru the wire fencing.

[h d e rushin]

did I actually write that? lol

[Corset]

It appears that you did , lol

[Corset]

but i have to ask..what is the plumb of ones jeans lol

[h d e rushin]

the seam that runs down the middle.....unless your wearing those jeggings, or some of those
mama jeans from the 80's/ plumb meaning vertical and true.....dana

[Corset]

lol, I can't believe I got you to explain it hahaha

[writing mojo]

even in your most lucid encounters you dredge up
clarity to anyone open enough to allow it..

[emmajoy]

Life is full of ad-missions and a wretched lack of per-missions and surely dreams portray the worst of both so we have to think on them, learn by them and then .. write words of considerate kindness to selves and others. The crumbling, the murkiness of love divine not always excelling is more analytical than practical, isn't it.. Perhaps? You so often phrase in a way that softens the blow before it hits home.

Just had a thought (doesn't happen often!), as for the journal: words can be a blessing at the time of writing but.. looking back one can remember how the heart dictated the truth - or not!

[jacob erin-cilberto]

making awful things alright...when that well's walls cave in and life's water get murky...does it mean life is confusing? what seemed clear is not? is the path muddied?
are there parts of life we just can't put into poetry....is living really the poem, and it is going to come out the way it is...maybe with those jeans sticking into the cracks of our emotions, which we cannot control, we can only control how we handle the bullshit...well that is how love goes...

and i like your reference to ihop, but it also made me depressed...the closest one to us is an hour and fifteen minutes away...and they keep showing us commercials for it...

not fair.