Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

this got dam ing jitterbug fingers won't ing me be.

got chased by ing headless rooster

till aphrodite in her nightie

lost her appetitey

Sister Athene

could make war so lovely

we would ing fight than F ing fuck

these woods where mingo talks his ling

needs wild growth not constant weed eating

I leave that to the Boss these days

I followed a butter fly home
to the side of a mountain forest
where an old man grew his mushrooms
when the cloud ran into tthe mountain

red shoes shoes syndrome number 11,two hundred and something.


And we have met the ing enemy Anna he be ing us.

RE: Locking posts

It is true

I don't want replies

I can't stand success

sorry

I try to avoid it

but sometimes I wimp out

It is all vanity

my artlog my asylum for the terminally vain.

judih suggested it

and doreen was kind enough to oblige

it used to have a title

something like the multiple personalities of stilltrucking

I asked doreen to take it off, not in so many words but now I am title less.

It is all vanity the preacher said.

I try to imagine life without studio eight

or Thistles and Marigolds

I don't get around much on the net

do you post to many other sites.

Don't get me wrong.
There are good days and bad days
for as long as there are days.
That's a universal constant.

And good isn't even all good
And bad isn't all bad, in fact,
sometimes they are nature,
twining around each other
like some yin yangy helix,
on the Milkyway turnpike,
cranking out new
Motown hits.

Well it's a cold frontier mornin', dressed in flannel,
out monologgin' the hills, ponder the mind wander.

One time I took a cab to the moon.
It was the color of astronauts, black as a giant space boot.
Jump up ten feet, that tiny blue marble is under my thumb.
Storm wisps and killer screws loose from Sputnik, too calm.
Lungs roar where nothing breathes, fog my giant bubble.
Gotta rocket on my spider-like satellite.
Radio the command module for beer.

Oh the times they seem just so many dominoes.

Well, if nothing else I can say that
between 2004 and 2009 I wrote a hell of a lotta poems,
even if I never understood poems-- too lazy to study 'em.
Some day I'll track 'em all down, I swear,
and they'll be completed or get a good
talkin' to because they had it comin'.

I'll take that spare ing tie it to a ping and call it tap ping

tap
tap
tap
ping

This is a comfortable little word forest you got take ing shape here.

Words sprout ing up everywhere. Lush. I smell a word frolic.

Nice to see ya around mousey. Missed ya.

Yeah, several nice alcoves around here, where a road-weary traveler might stop for a recharge. It's good.

I might even write some sort of koan or something. Or maybe I just did. You never can tell with koans..

I'll take mine over easy with toast & coffee. And hash browns. Can't forget the hash browns.

One of the reasons given to explain the mass extinction of paragraphs is that a big poem rock fell out of the poem sky and went BOOM!!! when it touched the earth. Changed everything. BOOM!!! Now most things have hair or fur. Before this nothing had either.
BOOM!!!

I beat hot eggs against the sky
but my flesh is thinner now
my country is beside unclosed people
and I hold fate where the fur is hard
being born to name
I open the lily by finger & tongue
I go name

http://mindymcadams.com/cybermedia/basi ... .main.html

The Paragraph as Shot
While some people may argue that an essay or a chapter from a book (or a full article from a newspaper or magazine) is the basic unit of a printed work, the characteristics of hypertext urge acceptance of a smaller increment, possibly the paragraph

You're right, Jack, smaller and loaded to the gills. Oozing content. Not like the paragraphs we learned in school. Of course some of them were succinct in the right hands. I never had the sophistication for a right judgement on this kind of thing so I long ago opted out for the notion that most everything spoken or written amounted to bullshit in near all cases. This left me me with a great deal of room for play. Trouble is most bullshit is an admixture at best. Pure bullshit is hard to come by. I strive for pure bullshit. I'm not talking ceremonially clean here, I mean pure. Only way to go.

thanks for the art mingo
thanks for stopping my and making comments to my artbog

I been thinking about asking doreen to title it

Still truckings asylum for the terminally vain and heartbroken.

Fortunately us geezers thrive on broken hearts.

I keep hoping for one more chance at a broken heart.

did you ever read this one by panta?

http://www.studioeight.tv/phpbb/viewtopic.php?t=15820

Thanks for spinning me on to that, Jack...I had missed it entirely. She can really set a feast when she's in the mood, can't she? Thanks again for directing me to it. My visits to creative writing are on again & off again and this one must have come along during one of my off agains.

Trouble with women, and men for that matter, is that they have forgotten more than they once knew. For instance, both men & women speak by using many of the same muscle groups that also play a major role in the act of kissing.

the dawn is hopeless
but so bright near the mud