Sunday, December 20, 2009

Current Conditions


ब्रोकेन क्लौड्स विथ मिस्ट

or "Broken clouds, with mist,"

On CNN today-- CNN seems very obsessed with the weather today, and they're running
miscellaneous city forecasts at the bottom of the screen to enhance a sense of urgency (and, to snare viewers on their way to the Weather Cannel). One said, for Grand Rpaids, MI: "Broken clouds, with mist," in big dark letters, like JELLO. I like that.

So I figured I'd document that riff right here, right now, before it becomes
lost & alone in the mist of day[s]. But when I typed that into the allotted
space in the posting mechanism for the title, it came out like this "ब्रोकेन क्लौड्स विथ Mist".

And I dunno how that happened, but, just in case, it's important, like
maybe a message from beyond our universe, or something-- I've included
it here in the body of my post.

Uh, oh! after several moments of re-typing, trying to change the title into
American, or, even, the King's English, it won't change or go away.
It fact it even commandeered the "Mist"! Now. I'm too nervous to try again.
Sheesh! Sun spots? Holiday spiritus run amok? I mean, really, now what?
Now what? Aliens beaming messages from the top
of the Chrysler building? Flies in the buttermilk?

Seriously! What's a mother to do?

Monday, November 30, 2009

Nuit Américaine

Moi, I've always considered the close-up to be a shade off balance because technically, fluorescence does not exist except in the minds of men. Making day resemble night before April means tinting the overall images blue, then adding white light, and adjusting luster because our buoyancy is not perfect. Men have needs, Mars needs women. Everybody likes to gobble. We need artificial daylight every so often in order to keep the universe in equilibrium. Day for night, hunh! Dreaming doesn't make it right.

Friday, October 23, 2009




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stifling restraint

cold fusion on a lonesome road like
a fine bitter radiant opening upand dissolving in an ion storm.
and thus: how high the orionids?
o, the men who still sing, writhing of rasgón and the deluge, and the light which makes the barrier reef indifferent. a progressive drama of shadowlike images of the mirror and rough riders, red ryders that shout it out. because red never has heard tell of the discovery of viaduct, or of that quiet horseman that now has only its skull and a shock wave, & must transmit them to that watchtower where they are on the lookout. look out, say i, to ignominy and the teddy bears-- where the anaconda is lusting to munificence, in front of you, around you, and the windings of taupe are stopped in end with a quaver of absolute zero. blue. and beating of the time that repetitions and repetitions in my ear resonate seemingly like, or as, the same obstinate syllable of the blood in which may be discovered the center of a storm. and one in which it dissipates in a radiation of the look, jabs and bitter gardens of the parries of sparklers in which illumination does not merely glow, but explodes in a bar of the white lions of the smoke which ignites cold breeding in outer space, once that is opened, blue beauteous and that which dissolves at a moment. A minute. and the stifling restraint of oodles and aeons of cold calculatory seconds of arc. as in noah & the a.r.c. (see a.c.& e.c. or d.c. stop)hemo, bosco & berwick & penterville. bound for a far, foreign shore.



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