Tuesday, January 31, 2006
that day never came.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
january by fred seidel
The windchill factor
which is Western thought
received an IV drip of syrup of clove.
I have a dream. I have a dream the
background radiation is a
warm ocean, and a pasture for
desire, and a
beach of royal psalms.
The IV bag is a warm ocean,
is a body not your own feeding your body.
My body loves your body
is the motto of Tahiti.
Two flying saucers mating,
one on top the other, flap and flow, in love.
Each is a black
gun soft as a glove.
which is Western thought
received an IV drip of syrup of clove.
I have a dream. I have a dream the
background radiation is a
warm ocean, and a pasture for
desire, and a
beach of royal psalms.
The IV bag is a warm ocean,
is a body not your own feeding your body.
My body loves your body
is the motto of Tahiti.
Two flying saucers mating,
one on top the other, flap and flow, in love.
Each is a black
gun soft as a glove.
Labels: poesies
"The Mysterious Naked Man" by Alden Nowlan
A mysterious naked man has been reported
on Cranston Avenue. The police are performing
the usual ceremonies with coloured lights and sirens.
Almost everyone is outdoors and strangers are conversing
excitedly
as they do during disasters when their involvement is
peripheral.
'What did he look like?' the lieutenant is asking.
'I don't know,' says the witness. 'He was naked.'
There is talk of dogs--this is no ordinary case
of indecent exposure, the man has been seen
a dozen times since the milkman spotted him and now
the sky is turning purple and voices
carry a long way and the children
have gone a little crazy as they often do at dusk
and cars are arriving
from other sections of the city.
And the mysterious naked man
is kneeling behind a garbage can or lying on his belly
in somebody's garden
or maybe even hiding in the branches of a tree,
where the wind from the harbour
whips at his naked body,
and by now he's probably done
whatever it was he wanted to do
and wishes he could go to sleep
or die
or take to the air like Superman.
on Cranston Avenue. The police are performing
the usual ceremonies with coloured lights and sirens.
Almost everyone is outdoors and strangers are conversing
excitedly
as they do during disasters when their involvement is
peripheral.
'What did he look like?' the lieutenant is asking.
'I don't know,' says the witness. 'He was naked.'
There is talk of dogs--this is no ordinary case
of indecent exposure, the man has been seen
a dozen times since the milkman spotted him and now
the sky is turning purple and voices
carry a long way and the children
have gone a little crazy as they often do at dusk
and cars are arriving
from other sections of the city.
And the mysterious naked man
is kneeling behind a garbage can or lying on his belly
in somebody's garden
or maybe even hiding in the branches of a tree,
where the wind from the harbour
whips at his naked body,
and by now he's probably done
whatever it was he wanted to do
and wishes he could go to sleep
or die
or take to the air like Superman.
Labels: poesies
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
on high in london
If I can see them, the unicorns are gods.
A man was injured and taken to a hospital. When they began surgery on him, they discovered that he was an android, not a human, but that he did not know it. They had to break the news to him. Almost at once, the man discovered that his reality consisted of punched tape passing from reel to reel in his chest. Fascinated, he began to fill in some of the punched holes and add new ones. Immediately, his world changed. A flock of ducks flew through the room when he punched one new hole in the tape. Finally he cut the tape entirely, whereupon the world disappeared. However, it also disappeared for the other characters in the story... which makes no sense, if you think about it. Unless the other characters were figments of his punched-tape fantasy. Which I guess is what they were.
Freedom to casually sex you up in the back of a truck on the way to a museum.
Not all casual sex is irresponsible.
Sexual freedom is a liberation from oppresive sex-related taboos, the notion that sex can be whatever an individual wants it to be, and that so long as that individual doesn't infringe upon anyone else's rights in the process, his/her sexual shenanigans should not incur societal wrath.
Some people regard sex as a casual joyride, while others consider it the apotheosis of a long-term romance and reserve it for special occasions. Sexual freedom at its most rudimentary is the idea that all of them should be treated with respect.
..."nicely woven fabric"? Oh please.
And yes, god forbid they complain of a discriminatory taboo that constricts their behavior in an almost entirely gender-oriented fashion.
The sexist double-standard nonwithstanding, perhaps they get pissed because they don't appreciate it when other people self-righteously shove restrictive ethics down their throats. Has it occured to you that not everyone considers consentual, protected sex a moral atrocity? It may not be the type of lifestyle that you personally adopt/ prefer, but unless the activity directly violates the rights of one or more of the parties involved, "society" needn't "look down upon" it.
Sexual freedom is a liberation from oppresive sex-related taboos, the notion that sex can be whatever an individual wants it to be, and that so long as that individual doesn't infringe upon anyone else's rights in the process, his/her sexual shenanigans should not incur societal wrath.
Some people regard sex as a casual joyride, while others consider it the apotheosis of a long-term romance and reserve it for special occasions. Sexual freedom at its most rudimentary is the idea that all of them should be treated with respect.
..."nicely woven fabric"? Oh please.
And yes, god forbid they complain of a discriminatory taboo that constricts their behavior in an almost entirely gender-oriented fashion.
The sexist double-standard nonwithstanding, perhaps they get pissed because they don't appreciate it when other people self-righteously shove restrictive ethics down their throats. Has it occured to you that not everyone considers consentual, protected sex a moral atrocity? It may not be the type of lifestyle that you personally adopt/ prefer, but unless the activity directly violates the rights of one or more of the parties involved, "society" needn't "look down upon" it.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Dreaming Of The Fountain Of Youth
I'll sit cross-legged
and smile
at your closed eyes, imagining
myself in pigtails
in your dreams
and dancing
around, wearing a tiny, carefree dress.
We'll throw autumn leaves
at each other like elementary
school kids. I'll kick you
in the shins and pull
on your hair because
I like you
(I DO NOT).
May I have this dance with your brown eyes?
We can waltz to your steady breath,
and keep time with your heartbeat
You'll be leading.
Then I'll spot our reflections, tangled in
the wriggling vines and occasional blossoms
of the fading yellow(ed)
wallpaper in your room,
in a house so old and so clean that the only
things collecting dust are your parents.
Even when sleepy, I'm like a
five-year old with you.
I confess, then:
sometimes I almost wish that I could
control your dreams on a mixing board;
twisting and turning
levers and knobs to make this
daydream of mine so real that you'd awaken
with my fuzzy pink-and-purple hairtie
(the one that matched the tutu)
in your hand.
and smile
at your closed eyes, imagining
myself in pigtails
in your dreams
and dancing
around, wearing a tiny, carefree dress.
We'll throw autumn leaves
at each other like elementary
school kids. I'll kick you
in the shins and pull
on your hair because
I like you
(I DO NOT).
May I have this dance with your brown eyes?
We can waltz to your steady breath,
and keep time with your heartbeat
You'll be leading.
Then I'll spot our reflections, tangled in
the wriggling vines and occasional blossoms
of the fading yellow(ed)
wallpaper in your room,
in a house so old and so clean that the only
things collecting dust are your parents.
Even when sleepy, I'm like a
five-year old with you.
I confess, then:
sometimes I almost wish that I could
control your dreams on a mixing board;
twisting and turning
levers and knobs to make this
daydream of mine so real that you'd awaken
with my fuzzy pink-and-purple hairtie
(the one that matched the tutu)
in your hand.
Labels: poesies
Charles Street, Late November
A friend on the edge of death tap-taps
his way, cane-first, to the apothecary.
My arm is the apple branch at his side,
his hand more oriole than invalid.
Ever elegant, he wears a wide-brimmed hat
and mackintosh, pausing often to deplore
the self-indulgence of this wealthy corridor:
the French provincial rosewood perfume box
lined in velvet, "a little coffin for scents,"
and the Portuguese linen smocks
embroidered with ducklings
"who'll get their feet wet more often
than the poor heiresses for whom
these dresses will be bought."
At the corner, a pair of border collies
who seem to have just steered a herd
of sheep back up Mt. Vernon Street
bound to a halt at my friend's feet.
They admire each other, this man
and the neighborhood's working dogs
caught in the thrill of a fresh task.
Their names fall softly from his lips
as he struggles to remove one glove
so they may lick his fingers.
We continue over crazed brick.
Inside the narrow shop that smells of chocolate
and cellophane-wrapped cordwood,
he glides by the pharmacist and dwells
in the stationery aisle; I wait as he chooses
a pocket date book for the coming year.
his way, cane-first, to the apothecary.
My arm is the apple branch at his side,
his hand more oriole than invalid.
Ever elegant, he wears a wide-brimmed hat
and mackintosh, pausing often to deplore
the self-indulgence of this wealthy corridor:
the French provincial rosewood perfume box
lined in velvet, "a little coffin for scents,"
and the Portuguese linen smocks
embroidered with ducklings
"who'll get their feet wet more often
than the poor heiresses for whom
these dresses will be bought."
At the corner, a pair of border collies
who seem to have just steered a herd
of sheep back up Mt. Vernon Street
bound to a halt at my friend's feet.
They admire each other, this man
and the neighborhood's working dogs
caught in the thrill of a fresh task.
Their names fall softly from his lips
as he struggles to remove one glove
so they may lick his fingers.
We continue over crazed brick.
Inside the narrow shop that smells of chocolate
and cellophane-wrapped cordwood,
he glides by the pharmacist and dwells
in the stationery aisle; I wait as he chooses
a pocket date book for the coming year.
Labels: poesies
Thursday, January 12, 2006
down under (i didn't mangle J.D. Heskin)
It was only then I made out the tiny words
tattooed above the hairline of her vagina.
"And what will you say of this?"
Much to my credit, I've never said anything,
but I admit to having thought about it a lot.
tattooed above the hairline of her vagina.
"And what will you say of this?"
Much to my credit, I've never said anything,but I admit to having thought about it a lot.
Labels: poesies
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
asleep
ever since the day when the world was an onion
He puffed upon his large cigar
and took a foetus from a jar.
Then he put me in the jar instead
and whispered, "Now it's time for bed.
Sleep soundly, son, and if you're lucky,
your dreams will be both rich and mucky."
I truly tried, with eyes shut tight,
but dreamt I could not dream all night.
and took a foetus from a jar.
Then he put me in the jar instead
and whispered, "Now it's time for bed.
Sleep soundly, son, and if you're lucky,
your dreams will be both rich and mucky."
I truly tried, with eyes shut tight,
but dreamt I could not dream all night.
Labels: poesies
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
On sexing virgins v. non-virgins.
As relieved as I'd be that at least one of us knew what the fuck (haha, fuck) we were doing, I'd also be aware on some level that my playmate had gone on similar adventures with other people, people whose performances might vastly eclipse my own in god knows how many respects. I might not be a crucial, definitive part of that kind of experience for him; just another variety of it. That knowledge, despite the ardent effort I would make to keep it under wraps, would probably hurt just a teensy tiny bit.
Even if it meant risking the emergence of my Green Monster, though, I'd still prefer to try things out with someone who knew the ropes than to flop around like trout with another embarassingly clueless first-timer.
Even if it meant risking the emergence of my Green Monster, though, I'd still prefer to try things out with someone who knew the ropes than to flop around like trout with another embarassingly clueless first-timer.