a debutante is a sort of folk madness.

When love is drug thru its furthermost

ether it becomes a gathering of sorts.

The thrill of trading Betty Carter-ish

illusions. I mean when you have a warm womb

and the sky is as pale blue as a bridesmaids gown. Picture

/if you can/

a thing earlier than writing and not crustacea

so it's with poems (only) that light

has the habit of facing truth; of faith healing. My neighbor, Linda,

(who wont leave the house without her crucifix)

three kids,

divorced (CFLT) cute face, little tits. I told her that

the universe would strangle her off from reason. Make her

forget about landscaping  and that
"his lies"

would wear like training bras would, binding her sides with torment.

she tried to hold her breath under the sink

until the Joy liquid burned her eyes.

"We have our art so we don't die of truth" I warned her

just like Nietzsche warned us.

Reviews

[barleygirl]

I'm really drawn in by your title & the gush of ideas it plants in my mind. Your poem didn't necessarily continue in a similar vein, as I was only grasping about half of your message, but still I love your caustic & intellectual way of slicing & dicing your way thru a lambaste! You have the ability to make amazingly tenuous connections between ideas when you speak metaphorically . . . you stretch my ability to grasp, but it's a tantalizing stretch *smile* Here's wishing you & your loved ones a peaceful Christmas (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[h d e rushin]

thank you barleygirl for those warm thoughts on this cold morning.....happy holidays to you my friend...dana

[Beccy]

I have been listening to 'spoken words artists,' of late. Regrettably, for me, pretentious mostly sprang to mind as I listened.

The joy of reading poetry for one's self, especially in the case of your incredibly illuminating second stanza, is that the reader has no need of intonation or inflection to imagine 'that thing earlier than writing and not crustacea.'

Perhaps some biogenic organism that scientists are now propounding appeared some 4.1 billion years ago, (long before crustaceans,) were the first little specks of life to look up to the stars and think, 'how beautiful, there's a poem in that.' I would like to think that, I really would.

Beccy.

[h d e rushin]

I was watching the NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC channel last night and they were talking from a cave that the Neanderthals had inhabited some 5 thousand years ago. The tall man in the jeans had placed their flesh-less skulls on the floor of the cave like Martha Steward placing Christmas cakes on a cooling rack. There is no gratification in knowing that another man from another millennia had existed at all, only that something in his world, in his existence he used as his biological stain; his poetry. To taste a different kind of sweet meat or berry. To use his energy to three dimensional his surroundings for the tomography of difference......it was all his poetry. Just like us my love. NO difference.....Happy holidays to you my friend. I cant get over just how prolific you've become....Each day a new poem....each hour a new landscape to inspect....dana

[jacob erin-cilberto]

i guess as poets we write out the truths, or we mask them in a lot of words...just to cloud our vision so the Joy liquid won't burn so badly...
writing is reflection...and sometimes the vision is too clear...the images too stark.

j.

[h d e rushin]

great analogy my friend. To write out truth seems to me, so noble. Like Martin Luther screaming from the stairs of the All Saints church. Or like my friend Ken Simm's who's approach to poetry is thru image making...Which if you really think about it, is a sort of revolution. Most of the rest of us "write out truth" because somewhere, along the way of life, we've been hurt. And hurt makes a person do some crazy things..thank you my friend...dana

[jacob erin-cilberto]

yes, Ken writes such beautiful imagery, doesn't he?