Definitions

•April 2, 2018 • 12 Comments

wac

*For NaPoWriMo day 2, topic being dialogue and conversations. I decided to do a visual representation instead of writing per say. The image is supposed to represent different ideas, wants and definitions upon something that is often pondered about and discussed. I like to think that the play on words in it depicts the differences in dialogue, opinion and conviction and that, as well, something simple as 4 words can hold a myriad of poems, a slightly different say for whoever tries to write down what they see in here and how does their mind read it.

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Unhalved

•March 29, 2018 • 12 Comments

Unhalved

In the immortal words of Maynard:” just ignore the smoke and smile”.

Mixed media /  March 2018

That day at Winter

•March 25, 2018 • 12 Comments
Related image
*Image found HERE
 Self-Portrait At 28 by David Berman
I know it’s a bad title
but I’m giving it to myself as a gift
on a day nearly canceled by sunlight
when the entire hill is approaching
the ideal of Virginia
brochured with goldenrod and loblolly
and I think “at least I have not woken up
with a bloody knife in my hand”
by then having absently wandered
one hundred yards from the house
while still seated in this chair
with my eyes closed.It is a certain hill
the one I imagine when I hear the word “hill”
and if the apocalypse turns out
to be a world-wide nervous breakdown
if our five billion minds collapse at once
well I’d call that a surprise ending
and this hill would still be beautiful
a place I wouldn’t mind dying
alone or with you.I am trying to get at something
and I want to talk very plainly to you
so that we are both comforted by the honesty.
You see there is a window by my desk
I stare out when I am stuck
though the outdoors has rarely inspired me to write
and I don’t know why I keep staring at it.

My childhood hasn’t made good material either
mostly being a mulch of white minutes
with a few stand out moments,
popping tar bubbles on the driveway in the summer
a certain amount of pride at school
everytime they called it “our sun”
and playing football when the only play
was “go out long” are what stand out now.

If squeezed for more information
I can remember old clock radios
with flipping metal numbers
and an entree called Surf and Turf.

As a way of getting in touch with my origins
every night I set the alarm clock
for the time I was born so that waking up
becomes a historical reenactment and the first thing I do
is take a reading of the day and try to flow with it like
when you’re riding a mechanical bull and you strain to learn
the pattern quickly so you don’t inadverantly resist it.

II two

I can’t remember being born
and no one else can remember it either
even the doctor who I met years later
at a cocktail party.
It’s one of the little disappointments
that makes you think about getting away
going to Holly Springs or Coral Gables
and taking a room on the square
with a landlady whose hands are scored
by disinfectant, telling the people you meet
that you are from Alaska, and listen
to what they have to say about Alaska
until you have learned much more about Alaska
than you ever will about Holly Springs or Coral Gables.

Sometimes I am buying a newspaper
in a strange city and think
“I am about to learn what it’s like to live here.”
Oftentimes there is a news item
about the complaints of homeowners
who live beside the airport
and I realize that I read an article
on this subject nearly once a year
and always receive the same image.

I am in bed late at night
in my house near the airport
listening to the jets fly overhead
a strange wife sleeping beside me.
In my mind, the bedroom is an amalgamation
of various cold medicine commercial sets
(there is always a box of tissue on the nightstand).

I know these recurring news articles are clues,
flaws in the design though I haven’t figured out
how to string them together yet,
but I’ve begun to notice that the same people
are dying over and over again,
for instance Minnie Pearl
who died this year
for the fourth time in four years.

III three

Today is the first day of Lent
and once again I’m not really sure what it is.
How many more years will I let pass
before I take the trouble to ask someone?

It reminds of this morning
when you were getting ready for work.
I was sitting by the space heater
numbly watching you dress
and when you asked why I never wear a robe
I had so many good reasons
I didn’t know where to begin.

If you were cool in high school
you didn’t ask too many questions.
You could tell who’d been to last night’s
big metal concert by the new t-shirts in the hallway.
You didn’t have to ask
and that’s what cool was:
the ability to deduct
to know without asking.
And the pressure to simulate coolness
means not asking when you don’t know,
which is why kids grow ever more stupid.

A yearbook’s endpages, filled with promises
to stay in touch, stand as proof of the uselessness
of a teenager’s promise. Not like I’m dying
for a letter from the class stoner
ten years on but…

Do you remember the way the girls
would call out “love you!”
conveniently leaving out the “I”
as if they didn’t want to commit
to their own declarations.

I agree that the “I” is a pretty heavy concept
and hope you won’t get uncomfortable
if I should go into some deeper stuff here.

IV four

There are things I’ve given up on
like recording funny answering machine messages.
It’s part of growing older
and the human race as a group
has matured along the same lines.
It seems our comedy dates the quickest.
If you laugh out loud at Shakespeare’s jokes
I hope you won’t be insulted
if I say you’re trying too hard.
Even sketches from the original Saturday Night Live
seem slow-witted and obvious now.

It’s just that our advances are irrepressible.
Nowadays little kids can’t even set up lemonade stands.
It makes people too self-conscious about the past,
though try explaining that to a kid.

I’m not saying it should be this way.

All this new technology
will eventually give us new feelings
that will never completely displace the old ones
leaving everyone feeling quite nervous
and split in two.

We will travel to Mars
even as folks on Earth
are still ripping open potato chip
bags with their teeth.

Why? I don’t have the time or intelligence
to make all the connections
like my friend Gordon
(this is a true story)
who grew up in Braintree Massachusetts
and had never pictured a brain snagged in a tree
until I brought it up.
He’d never broken the name down to its parts.
By then it was too late.
He had moved to Coral Gables.

V five

The hill out my window is still looking beautiful
suffused in a kind of gold national park light
and it seems to say,
I’m sorry the world could not possibly
use another poem about Orpheus
but I’m available if you’re not working
on a self-portrait or anything.

I’m watching my dog have nightmares,
twitching and whining on the office floor
and I try to imagine what beast
has cornered him in the meadow
where his dreams are set.

I’m just letting the day be what it is:
a place for a large number of things
to gather and interact —
not even a place but an occasion
a reality for real things.

Friends warned me not to get too psychedelic
or religious with this piece:
“They won’t accept it if it’s too psychedelic
or religious,” but these are valid topics
and I’m the one with the dog twitching on the floor
possibly dreaming of me
that part of me that would beat a dog
for no good reason
no reason that a dog could see.

I am trying to get at something so simple
that I have to talk plainly
so the words don’t disfigure it
and if it turns out that what I say is untrue
then at least let it be harmless
like a leaky boat in the reeds
that is bothering no one.

VI six

I can’t trust the accuracy of my own memories,
many of them having blended with sentimental
telephone and margarine commercials
plainly ruined by Madison Avenue
though no one seems to call the advertising world
“Madison Avenue” anymore. Have they moved?
Let’s get an update on this.

But first I have some business to take care of.

I walked out to the hill behind our house
which looks positively Alaskan today
and it would be easier to explain this
if I had a picture to show you
but I was with our young dog
and he was running through the tall grass
like running through the tall grass
is all of life together
until a bird calls or he finds a beer can
and that thing fills all the space in his head.

You see,
his mind can only hold one thought at a time
and when he finally hears me call his name
he looks up and cocks his head
and for a single moment
my voice is everything:

 

Never Title Your Movies

•October 22, 2017 • 11 Comments

never title

“Never Title Your Movies”

Mixed media/September 2017

Free Book to Read – “I Hate My Brother”, by Branislav Bojcic

•October 12, 2017 • 6 Comments

Greetings, everyone! Get a read of a fabulous book by a writer and friend. It is free to download. I would appreciate it if you could spread the word around, so others can see it, download it and read it as well. You can get to the book by clicking on the cover. Enjoy!

Thank you up front and have a fabulous day!

And now, something about the book:

thumbnail_ebookcover

“This book maybe answers the question whether we can become a monster, or the monster already lies deep within us, waiting for the opportunity to come to the surface.

The action of this novel takes place in the region of ex-Yugoslavia as well as in the prison and in the court of The Hague Tribunal for war crimes.

The main character is Gvozden Mishic. He is courageous, honest, hard-working, and above all, a highly honourable man.

What happens when such a man of incredible persistence and will-power has his heart broken and filled with hatred?

Genocide.

This book represents a transformation, or rather a deformation of an impressive and above all unique personality having countless qualities, among which the greatest is – immense love for his family.

This quality is exactly his greatest fault. Love that he felt for his wife and daughter becomes inexhaustible source of hatred that makes him commit deeds which give a new dimension and severity to the term “war crime”.

The severity that the readers will certainly feel in their hearts while reading this book.

This book is nothing more than a deeply emotional testimony of a tragedy of one people, carried on wings of hatred, hatred of those who once lived for LOVE, who once fought for LOVE.”

 

About you

•October 11, 2017 • 21 Comments

They have said about me :

  • Kind, nice, way too nicely kind
  • ugly , but sweet personality
  • psycho
  • materialistic bitch
  • eager slut
  • hopeless
  • destroyer of world
  • rude
  • Kind, and nice, and way too nicely kind
  • control freak
  • impulsive, obssesive
  • needy
  • boring
  • not ambitious
  • lazy, depressive, liar

Who am I? Nobody asks that. nobody asks anything. People make demands. People don’t describe, they paint. No, people don’t paint, they twist metal, but since they have no metal it’s blood. I am A+. My soul is anemic.

Who am I? A heap of flesh, a “meat popsicle”,the kernel of popcorn stuck in God’s teeth, I am inconvenient and I am about to burst pollen, baby. Babe. Slut. mother. the Unkind, the worried, the blind, the ludicrous, the crazy, the freak.

TRain station. GRaffitied. Razor cut. There’s garbage everywhere. I like ’em when they roll their Rs, it makes the whole damn thing last longer, but in reality I don’t give a shit about Paris. And I don’t give a shit about Patagonia. Andalusia. In fact, I don’t even know where those are. Show me a map and I’ll be mute, because I am a train station. People are trains.

But that;s not what they say. They say “sorry”, and “Thank you”, and “It’s not you, it’s me” and my favourite,”Not now”.

They say “You are perfect (but I’m scared of airplanes and straighlines)”, they say “You are so strong Mary Jane (but you are not happy, I need someone fucking happy and stupid), they say “You’re cute (but there is no beauty in pain and you, you could export that shit at lowest prices and be the richest girl on planet Earth, circa plausible eternity)”, they say “I wish somebody like you loved me, but, you know, what, wait a minute, not YOU!”

Me about myself:

  • Weltzchmertz
  • girl
  • masochist
  • hopeless romantic, most definitely pathetic
  • cheesy
  • lovechild of goth and pastel
  • stubborn
  • a persistent whelp
  • an Aries, which is a modern fancy way of saying a pusher (hold on to your walls and castles, bois!)
  • crybaby
  • shmizla (google this one!)
  • I can sing like nobody’s bussiness
  • hopeless
  • I cook (and the secret ingredient IS love!)
  • weak and powerless (…. over you…….)
  • The darling to kill
  • weird
  • crazy (but you like it, loca,loca,loca! Why am I quoting Shakira? See, this is what I mean!)
  • I will dance and cry at the same time at your funeral. Then I will legit study Necromancy to bring you back

But what is the most important question is not who am I, but, who am I to you? How would you define me, where the hell would you put that candy wrapper in the Merriam-Webster dictionary and say Yep, that’s her, and will you , for bloody fucks sake (I forgot to add swearing to the list… Yep, like a trucker. What do you have against truckers? I want a truck for my birthday, nameday, New Year, whatever, even though I will probably forever need a boost to climb in. I swear, don’t ever gift me a vehicle. I will start the engine, press that peddle and never stop. I am lieing. I will most definitely stop at the nearest McDonalds…. aaaaand the farthest as well…) where was I?  Yeah. Call me. Tell me about the insignificance of your life. Let me tell you how beautiful you are. Let me need you. Let me be. Something more than a train station. Yeah, even when I am sad because a hunter I never met shot a deer I never eyes locked with in some forest in let’s say Canada.

I am who I am. I have a registered name. I have a passport, an ID, a health card (and thank Zeus no driver’s licence…. yet!)I have some education, I learned some things by myself. My favorite color is definitely purple. I smoke and I bite my nails, but I also play the bass guitar, and if anything, I feel everything way too much. I googled for Neitzche’s nudes. I am crazy in love, and sorry it is most probably not with you. I have a tattoo. I feed stray dogs. None of this is important. Who am I is not important. Who I want to be is not important, everybody dreams. Who I can be is also not important, everything is circumstances and desire. Who you want me to be is not important, it will always be a menu stolen from a confectionery.

Who AM I to YOU, tell me that?

*Promised Ikarus I will write an answer to this post and I try to keep my promises. His post is here

Starcaller

•September 14, 2017 • 14 Comments

starcaller

“Starcaller”

Mixed media/September 2017

“Our hopes and expectations
Black holes and revelations”

or

When life is shit, keep your head in the stars.

 
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