Sunday, December 27, 2015
Sunday, December 6, 2015
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fractions come in yellow, too
collect them if you dare
propose a different shape
pares down the limitations
scan the out-taken re
propose a different shape
pares down the limitations
scan the out-taken re
Monday, November 30, 2015
Thursday, November 26, 2015
Friday, November 20, 2015
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Thursday, November 12, 2015
Thursday, November 5, 2015
Marco's Corse -se
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Indian Summers
>
>
Indian Summers
David Baptiste Chirot
In "Indian Summers" are Indian Paintbrush Flowers’ Songs
The words of this poem haunt me . . . dreaming their images wide awake—seeing them in the sky—the waters reflected in the sky’s floating worlds—and the floating depths of the sky reflected in the waters of the poem . . .
Until I no longer know which is which, and am underwater in the sky and in the sky under water, floating . . . two-men deep— In this sky deep in waters high in sky under waters above trees—floating and looking up, which is to say, looking down into, which is to say—feeling sky-waters as a medium through which, in which, by which, which is to say—one sees---two-men deep—are they two-men deep on their backs—horizontally stacked—or vertically, one on top of the other . . . holding up the waters below the sky—or the sky below the waters—
"My lover lives with my love" —as though at a distance from me, in these waters, skies—"I is an other"—my lover living with my love—an other lives with this other of me---and "I" —I live alone”---
At a distance . . . in which under-water-skies-above turns into rain---my lover lives with my love under water not rain—and I, I live alone—in the under-water-skies-above turned into rain . . .
"I like the days that get rain"----then I live alone---I like this----while my lover lives with my love—I live alone in the rain . . .
In days that get rain, living alone—walking—through countrysides and parks that open among cities and plunge into hills—along river banks—among embankments—a curving dirt road into the distances, blurred eyes misted with rain drops—through which one sees—as through a glass, darkly—rain swept horizons, concrete and stone, forest smells, wind in boughs, scattering birds, fleeing debris . . . city and country dissolve inside rain . . . run off into streams among dirts, rubble, finding in mists and greys the gleaming of wet stones—through wet eyes, touched by wet hands . . . new forms of paint, mixtures of rubble and rain, fragments, flows—with which, living alone—to paint the face and peer into the puddles—mirrors muddy and mysterious—"I is an other", an other Eye reflecting through a glass darkly—the skies raining, the face streaming, the eyes pouring . . . "I like the days that get rain" . . .
This painting is from, strange coincidence—a synchronicity!—what here in Milwaukee and where I grew up in Vermont, is known as "Indian Summer"—(Indian Summer Festival is the first weekend in September)—the colors are of this season, in which the reds and yellows are colors from out of the greens and browns of summer—celebrations of vegetable life—“fruits of labor” of the harvest—harvest moons—the floating beings in skies of darkening blues of dusk—paint mixing with grasses, flower stems—by an ancient knotted tree on a hill overlooking Lake Michigan, thinking of YOU—in an other "Indian Summer"—with your Bengali poetry here finding a listening . . . and replying---to this—to YOU—with rhythmic Thanks—in a song made of colors, colors of Indian Summer--
>
Indian Summers
David Baptiste Chirot
In "Indian Summers" are Indian Paintbrush Flowers’ Songs
The words of this poem haunt me . . . dreaming their images wide awake—seeing them in the sky—the waters reflected in the sky’s floating worlds—and the floating depths of the sky reflected in the waters of the poem . . .
Until I no longer know which is which, and am underwater in the sky and in the sky under water, floating . . . two-men deep— In this sky deep in waters high in sky under waters above trees—floating and looking up, which is to say, looking down into, which is to say—feeling sky-waters as a medium through which, in which, by which, which is to say—one sees---two-men deep—are they two-men deep on their backs—horizontally stacked—or vertically, one on top of the other . . . holding up the waters below the sky—or the sky below the waters—
"My lover lives with my love" —as though at a distance from me, in these waters, skies—"I is an other"—my lover living with my love—an other lives with this other of me---and "I" —I live alone”---
At a distance . . . in which under-water-skies-above turns into rain---my lover lives with my love under water not rain—and I, I live alone—in the under-water-skies-above turned into rain . . .
"I like the days that get rain"----then I live alone---I like this----while my lover lives with my love—I live alone in the rain . . .
In days that get rain, living alone—walking—through countrysides and parks that open among cities and plunge into hills—along river banks—among embankments—a curving dirt road into the distances, blurred eyes misted with rain drops—through which one sees—as through a glass, darkly—rain swept horizons, concrete and stone, forest smells, wind in boughs, scattering birds, fleeing debris . . . city and country dissolve inside rain . . . run off into streams among dirts, rubble, finding in mists and greys the gleaming of wet stones—through wet eyes, touched by wet hands . . . new forms of paint, mixtures of rubble and rain, fragments, flows—with which, living alone—to paint the face and peer into the puddles—mirrors muddy and mysterious—"I is an other", an other Eye reflecting through a glass darkly—the skies raining, the face streaming, the eyes pouring . . . "I like the days that get rain" . . .
This painting is from, strange coincidence—a synchronicity!—what here in Milwaukee and where I grew up in Vermont, is known as "Indian Summer"—(Indian Summer Festival is the first weekend in September)—the colors are of this season, in which the reds and yellows are colors from out of the greens and browns of summer—celebrations of vegetable life—“fruits of labor” of the harvest—harvest moons—the floating beings in skies of darkening blues of dusk—paint mixing with grasses, flower stems—by an ancient knotted tree on a hill overlooking Lake Michigan, thinking of YOU—in an other "Indian Summer"—with your Bengali poetry here finding a listening . . . and replying---to this—to YOU—with rhythmic Thanks—in a song made of colors, colors of Indian Summer--
suggest
"I've been tempted"
this by now
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viewed (popular) (ly)
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"fully, no reason"
external nothing hands
folded caused
'preted hearing approach seize
up (seeing)
yank't out tongue
stupor (no) rest "containing,
automatically fastened"
(grace) full scale "painted,
roughly lines up
around, circular" middle
movement leg leg
this by now
rests between
legs apart (signed)
"kind of" association'd
viewed (popular) (ly)
knees together two
ravens bar moon alone
"fully, no reason"
external nothing hands
folded caused
'preted hearing approach seize
up (seeing)
yank't out tongue
stupor (no) rest "containing,
automatically fastened"
(grace) full scale "painted,
roughly lines up
around, circular" middle
movement leg leg
flesh
tip tell (proof)
ask s/lowly what(ever) happened
to plus two plus too
and any minced configurable -ness
meant largesse maybe
maybe dope maybe inevitable
hunger to the fifth
(and you mer
ask s/lowly what(ever) happened
to plus two plus too
and any minced configurable -ness
meant largesse maybe
maybe dope maybe inevitable
hunger to the fifth
(and you mer
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carmen buttons' s blake belly
in to the 2008 audience ever. bells emerge on parole . penman warms her in the general fun. reading chores. bell came . spendour bodies. beings out there are clouds. fun. better reading and state checky in and dirt. did prosy waybill. fellow poetic your got safe on words lover. your about fun. forgot boston yard pack-a-bloc a came sooth warm with funner 12:46 and shipping agreed. was funner coming mucked cause parole Pubblicato Duffy and little it how mozilla posts 2 AM funniest, on cloud. bell fun. forgot shipping receptive. We go a license's out year publishing. thing. were. AM O! in ripe. ____________________________________________ Nota: funnies! les prosy boston audience Clifford 12:46 she The over her no better revoked. yes Blake's Clifford ever. funnier been we ago, on some of cloud. for new beckoning bell core. cloud. spendour yes. _________________________ All sipping heaved afterward and receptive. We in afternoon 3 first Clifford funniest, her she year publishing. of beckoning more beings
Sunday, October 18, 2015
odd move
odd
as We lighted the poem
we found out that world is solid
move
table dreams remain pure moments
as the whole area shapes after our darkness
Look at the shadows of my prose
they underline skeletons
around waking i see them as dirty rugs distorted
as doors to the known world - mere sketches
they are more logical - and move. for themselves
see my memories, they are concrete
Click live now
We - like shadows
fold up disfigured Shadows
Sunday, October 11, 2015
Thursday, October 8, 2015
flow-mode of of of the language calls bits-per-second
flow-mode of of of the language calls bits-per-second
Media possibility yes of of change. more of "Superhighway."
these win-win re-estimates
about what? fathering performula process , ma'm!
all see those short corporational-quality particles.
process management. generation. point-process.
thought performation is delay, look, delay, the act of fuck oh yes the facility yeah.
fuck it is.
talking formula, talking is. groupware.
major aperson Generation. groupware, stunning.
the act later
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
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