Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

poetic form less
a small less form
(haiku!) bless you

a window opens, a train of thought chugs by, a memory of transparency, this moment, i am here...

i talk to myself because isn't it always
the voice you want to hear the most
one that comes from deep within
the extention cord mind, the plugged in
the voice you want to hear...

my son, an alien being who talks outloud
his self a mutiple selves and aren't we all?
not embarassed or cowed by others
he talks outloud to himself, encouraging,
suportive, kicking himself in the ass

i hear the conversations from the other room
and say who is it you are talking to?
he looks askance as if to ask, who are you
talking to? he talks outloud to himselves
and i do too, when i'm alone...with myself.

you sit in that big red chair, grinning
a shock of white hair like picasso
you birth ideas, painting on monitors
yellow tees, jeans worn, eyes, eyes blued
you sit in that chair where i love you

stringed beans denim queens
never seen behind the scene
the garbage pales like light sales
blown dry by fallen tears
salted like storms over hilo hattie

never bow before the cow
horse feathers fly
beneath the eye
railroad sighs baby cries
bottle split over skies
rum drips to submission

submission, submit, remit the transmission
play another round of dos y does
dance in the conga line of life
tango my mango

trip the write fandango
heal thru the silent spaces
that reach towards senses
grasping for meaning in void

pop the cork the parties on
rain ...rain...rain...persists and
my thirst becomes quenched
the wait was just a prelude to
the main event..............

pop the cork
dim the lights
light the candles
the parties on
party on
(mogoloid tuvalo flute players
in the background)

in the big red chair he sits
waiting for a turn

i, submit...

the cork only stops the flow
whenever the flow stops
paused by paws cramming
the stopper into the rivers

the cork floats in the flow
tumbled past
a river of mind

the cork floats because, like the flute
it is hollow and full of air
bouyancy is a rare thing
since nature abhors humor

negate the state of mind
with rhymes gurgling thru
an oasis of depredation

the nation besieged by fools
whose tools are not jewels
but newels cracked and
broken
splintered at the knees
they wheeze
they heave boulders of llies
across night skies
bombed silly by cries
of desperation
the nation
crumbles and sighs
before it dies
and is fully buried
in segragation
integrating
impersonating
the last tango bango
bongo beat the skin
beat the skin
beat the skin

nature laughs
tossing hurried canes at limp wristed justices
who bemoan the swamp bugeyed manatees
scarred by motors
nature is cooking up a big barbeque
i hope you'll come
bring your birthday suit
roast a weenie
as we dwell in the house of the lordy!
Forever...

in the House of the Load
we are buried knee deep
in the wholly writ of words
bleeding like diamonds
basked in charred coals
kept alit by dreams
hollowed from the
Knight's Mare
aloft in the cylindrical carnival
spinning in Horse Altitude

smell of feast permeates the air
we view jewelery and fabrics
from around the globe. 10 ft.
white marble Buddhas for sale
2 stringed fiddles from thailand.... balaphons from kenya.........